The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (12 page)

The bald man looked up at them, his beady eyes twinkling from the shadows. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” he said, with a toothy grin. He raised his right hand and beckoned them forward. The golden Ω on his silver ring glinted in the faint living room light. “How wonderful it is to finally meet you.”

• • •

CARAWAY STOOD atop the roof of his apartment building, thoughtfully puffing at his cigarette as the city twinkled to life. He shivered despite himself. It was getting colder, like every last bit of warmth in the world was getting sucked out of the air.

“It’s good to have you back, John,” a familiar voice said from the behind him.

A smirk formed in the corner of Caraway’s mouth, but he didn’t look back. “You’d be the first to say so, Jethro. Seems like I’m New York’s least favorite son at the moment. Though I’ll admit I was wondering when you’d stop by. I’ve been in town, what, maybe two days? Figured you’d be waiting for me at the crash site.”

“Ah, so that
was
you,” the Green Lama mused pleasantly. “I suppose I owe Jean ten dollars. Flying across the Atlantic in a damaged plane. Very impressive, John.”

“Hey, if that racist jerk Lindbergh can do it in that tiny little plane, I can do it in a big, broken one,” Caraway said proudly, even though his hands were shaking. He prayed the Lama didn’t see. “Nice to hear you and Jean are still an item. Bet the tabloids are loving that.”

The Green Lama gave him a thin smile. “Apparently, they think we’re engaged, a thought which I admit isn’t in any way displeasing. But, as to my absence: Problems in Washington. Beyond the usual bickering.”

“More monsters?” Caraway asked, stubbing his cigarette with the toe of his boot. “What was it this time? Werewolves?”

“Fifth Columnists.”

“And here I thought I left all the fascists across the ocean,” he said with a sardonic laugh. He turned around to find the Green Lama floating in the air above the alleyway. There was once a time when such things would have shocked him. “I see you’re still using your special batch.”

“I no longer need them,” the Green Lama admitted without bravado or pride. “My exposure to Cthulhu… somehow enhanced my abilities…”

Caraway cocked an eyebrow. “Ain’t that something… and a little concerning?”

“Were you able to find them, Gan’s family?” the Green Lama asked, changing the subject.

“Hahn,” Caraway corrected, nodding in affirmation.

“
Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha!
” the Green Lama gasped in relief, his feet finally touching the rooftop. “There is some light in the darkness. Are they with the Rabbi?”

Caraway shook his head. “I’ve got them someplace safe. No offense to your friend but after what his golem did to me—and my office for that matter—I don’t exactly trust him. Not yet at least.” His gaze drifted off to infinity.

“What is it, John?”

Caraway blinked back to reality. “It was just something Helen said… That we’re in uncharted waters, so to speak. The Rabbi foresaw everything up until Cthulhu, but now…” He shrugged. “No one knows what’s next.”

The Green Lama silently considered this, placing his hands into his broad fur-cuffed sleeves as he paced the rooftop. He seemed taller, Caraway observed, bigger, in fact, his body tense with muscle. And though it was mostly hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, Jethro’s face seemed to have grown paler over the last few months, bordering on sickly.

“So, what is it, Jethro?” Caraway asked. “Much as I appreciate the visit, you’ve never been one for simple social calls, especially when you’re dressed like that.”

The Green Lama frowned. “There was an… incident tonight. I need your assistance.”

“I’m not going on another globe trotting adventure, Jethro,” Caraway said sharply. “I’m done with that.”

“There was a homicide in Brooklyn,” the Green Lama replied. “Unlike any I’ve seen before. I was hoping to get your professional opinion.”

“You should know that I’m officially no longer a member of the New York City Police Department as of today, so this would have to be purely unofficial.”

“When has anything we ever done been official, John?”

“Huh, well, you’ve got me there. But you askin’ me for help…” Caraway observed. “That doesn’t bode well.”

The Green Lama shook his head mournfully. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

• • •

ANOTHER SHOW, another explosion of applause, another throng of fans holding out playbills to be signed backstage. Ken watched the proceedings with muted glee, sitting back in the shadows of the theatre as Jean wowed the crowd with her raw talent; her unparalleled voice echoing around them. The audience leapt out of their seats, their ovation drowning out their own calls for more. And the best part? Ken knew Jean wasn’t even trying. She could take on the world with talent like that, but he knew she would never want it. This, like his stint in Oz, was all just an act—silly as that sounded—a mask she had once worn that no longer fit.

He waited for her backstage after the show was over, smoked three cigarettes while he watched her sign every autograph, thirty-seven in all. When she was done, she hooked her arm with his and walked down the street and through an alleyway. She was silent the whole way, her lips pressed firmly shut, her eyes locked forward until they stopped midway through. Ken didn’t notice anything exceptional, at least not at first glance. Bricks, shadows and the scamper of rats running back to their dens, but as Ken’s eyes adjusted he could see the bullet hole, the splatter marks and a scrap of fabric torn from a dress.

“So, this is where it happened?” he asked, kneeling down to pick up the torn cloth. Dark blue, so soggy from the rain it was almost black.

“Yup, blood, black and bullets,” Jean replied, the first words she had spoken since the end of the show. “All here.”

“Huh. Creepy.” Ken folded the fabric in half and slipped in his pocket. It felt wrong to leave it there. “It took you how many shots to take him down?”

Jean closed her eyes, trying to remember. “Two… Maybe three. It wasn’t until I shot him in the head that he went down.”

“And what happened to the body?”

She shrugged. “That’s where it gets weird.”

Ken gave Jean an incredulous look. “
That’s
where it gets weird?”

“Shut up, you know what I meant,” she shot back, a laugh touching the edge of her voice. “I went to go get the police and when I came back, the body was gone.”

“Creepier and creepier,” Ken said. He crossed his arms and walked over to the other side of the alleyway to examine the bullet hole. There was only one, Jean’s first shot must have gotten lodged inside the man’s abdomen. “Did you tell the Green—I mean… Jethro that you killed him?”

Jean looked away and shook her head. “Told him everything but that,” she said quietly.

“Already keeping secrets? Tsk! And I had such high hopes for you two.”

Jean frowned. “You know how he feels about killing, not that I really had a choice. Besides, I didn’t want to worry him.”

“Ah, of course,” Ken said sardonically. “Last I remember, the guy took on a giant winged squid god and you think he’d be worried about a disappearing corpse?” He leaned in closer to the bullet hole when something suddenly caught his eye. “Look at this.”

“What is it?”

Ken indicated the area around the bullet hole. At first he thought it was just wet from the last night’s downpour, but it was something else. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pen, wiped it across the brick, and brought it back covered with an oil-like substance. “The black blood,” he said, showing Jean.

“It must have splattered there when I shot the bastard last night,” Jean said eyeing the bullet hole.

“Then why is it still wet?” Ken asked. “Or not washed away with the rain?”

Jean’s jaw clenched. “More importantly… why is it dripping up?”

• • •

THERE WAS a steady, droning sound of a dozen massive fans whirring overhead, blowing fresh air down through the hillside and into the facility. Murdoch brought Valco through the central area, a wide, open space surrounded by several broad squat structures. Valco did his best to follow, constantly fidgeting with his hat in his hands as he tried not to stare at everything he saw. Windows lined the subterranean buildings, probably more for appearances than anything else. Men and women of every race walked past, dressed in a variety of lab coats and uniforms. Various forms of machinery, large and small, littered the area; technology Valco never thought possible in this day and age. It was all so
impossible
; though Valco had done his best to strike the word from his lexicon. He had seen the “impossible” done enough times during his travels with the Green Lama, that this facility shouldn’t stupefy him, and yet… The amount of money, organization and time put into something like this was simply incalculable. And that
no one
knew of this was simply—

“I said, what do you think, Harrison?” Murdoch patiently asked again.

Valco quickly blinked several times and returned to the here and now. “I’m sorry, my mind must have wandered, Doctor. This place is… amazing. Is the whole facility inside the mountain?”

“Just the North face,” Murdoch replied with a shake of his head. “We’re impressive, Harrison, not miracle workers. Not yet, at least.” He placed a hand on Valco’s shoulder and indicated the squat building to their left. “Come, let me show you where you’ll be working.”

“How many people work here?” Valco asked as they walked over.

Murdoch pursed his lips in thought. “About five hundred, give or take. I’ll be honest, I never did a head count. Besides, it’s way above my pay grade.”

“And you worked here how long?”

“Christ Almighty, you ask a lot of questions,” Murdoch said with a mixture of aggravation and amusement. He walked up to the building’s main door. Lacking a doorknob, it instead had a complex keypad filled with sixteen different numbers, letters and symbols. Murdoch stood in front of Valco, blocking his view, as he dialed in four keys. “For security purposes, all the doors are locked with a specific code—every door has a different set of sixteen keys,” Murdoch said, answering Valco’s unspoken question. There was an audible metallic
click
from within and the door slid open. Murdoch waved Valco forward and they stepped into the building’s narrow hallway. “That way no one is where they shouldn’t be. Though I’ll admit it does make things difficult sometimes. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve locked myself out. But a place like this in a time like now, can’t say I blame them… War and all.”

Valco stopped and turned to face Murdoch. “Do you really think it’s going to come to that?”

“If not today, then tomorrow,” Murdoch replied with his customary shrug. “And if not then, the day after next. Germans, Italians, Japanese, or maybe the Russians and the Australians. Who knows? You can say our unofficial motto around here is ‘better safe than sorry.’”

Valco nodded in understanding as they began walking again. The building proved to be larger than Valco had anticipated, dropping another couple of stories below the ground. Navigating a number of stairwells and hallways, Murdoch eventually brought Valco to a large laboratory. Large metallic vats lined one side of the room, each with a designation running from “OBS-001” to “OBS-239” printed on the side. Laboratory tables covered in test tubes, beakers, Bunsen burners, condensers, funnels and more filled the center of the room. Valco walked over and laid his hand on one of the containers, finding it cool to the touch.

“I never answered you before,” Murdoch said from across the room. “I’ve only been here a few months. Four, in fact; shortly after I discovered the Substance. You could say I’m here because of the Substance.”

Valco dropped his hand from the container and looked back at his host. “I take it you’re in charge of this specific operation. Should I start calling you boss?”

“Me?” Murdoch smiled bashfully despite himself and shook his head. “No, just one of the lackeys, I’m afraid. I discovered the Substance,
yes
, but like you, I was recruited. The guy they got in charge is a big wig; been with the Collective since the beginning—or as far back as they’ll tell me. I’ve only met him once and I wasn’t even told his name. Intense little fellow.”

“Hm,” Valco frowned in thought. He gestured at the array of vats. “Is this all of the Substance?”

Murdoch walked over and clapped one of the vats with his palm, eliciting an echoing
bong-bong
. “They’re experiments. We’re trying to see how the Substance’s properties will react with a number of different chemicals, with varying success.”

“Two-hundred-and-thirty-nine attempts I take it?” Valco asked, indicating the vat numbered OBS-239.

“So far,” Murdoch smiled.

“All in four months?”

“What can I say? We’re efficient. The hope is we can augment the Substance’s inherent properties toward our own goals—whatever those goals might be.”

“There has to be a limit though,” Valco submitted. “This Substance… Something like that can’t just be found anywhere. If it could, we would’ve known about it for years.”