The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (17 page)

I had briefly met Dumont at his homecoming. A brief bit of handshaking and how-do-you-dos before he was pulled away by Senator Hoey and Congressman Zenner. Dumont had been affable if not a little thick—everything you expected him to be—which was why when I finally did meet Jethro Dumont properly I found myself stunned by how quiet he was.

There were many theories bouncing around as to the Green Lama’s identity at the time, all of varying plausibility. Joshua Mills of the Times believed several different people were acting as the Green Lama. Kevin Howard at the New York World used to say that the Green Lama was really Harry Houdini, having faked his death to ensure justice would be served. Perhaps the most ridiculous theory was that of Fred Allen, who claimed—on more than one occasion—he really was the Green Lama.

Gary had had his own theories when he first started working for the Lama, and had done a little investigating on his own, but quickly gave up the pursuit when he decided it was an effort bordering on suicidal. What he determined, and for that matter, what we learned to be true, was that the Green Lama disguised himself using theatrical greasepaint, more often than not transforming himself into the vaguely Oriental Dr. Charles—or sometimes James—Pali. However, that wasn’t the only countenance he took on; Gary lost count at eighty-six. There were so many, in fact, that outside Dr. Pali, Gary rarely ever saw the same face twice.

Suffice to say, the search for the Green Lama’s true identity was standard conversation at most social functions, even becoming the parlour game “Lama Lama.” Usually after one too many cocktails, everyone would throw their name into a hat. The first name picked would be “the Police;” the second would be the “Green Lama.” If you were picked as “the Police,” you were immediately thrown into another room while the second name was picked. Then, they would tie a cloth around your eyes, spin you around three times left, three times right and then push you back into the crowded room, where everyone was chanting “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” You’d have to blindly chase after the “Green Lama”—who was given a green handkerchief—asking yes or no questions as to his or her identity. All the players would respond “yes” if the question was true to the “Green Lama,” and “no” if it wasn’t. This would go on until you narrowed it down to the last, and hopefully, right person. The trick was trying to ask the right questions before you fell to the floor, a dizzy mess.

I played the game more times than I can recall, but one particular game stands out in my mind. We were in the Hamptons, at my grandfather’s summer home, after some tennis or polo or golf tournament. I had just been introduced to rum and the room—my grandfather’s library, if my memory serves—was already beginning to spin when my name was drawn as “the Police.” I was trucked out of the room, blindfolded, spun around, and shoved back into the library, my feet feeling more like liquid than bone and muscle. I stumbled around, my hands held out in front of me, more out of instinct than to aid in my search.

“Are you rich?” I called out, to which I received a resounding, “Yes!”

“Are you a girl?” I asked, the continued chanting my only reply. “Are you a man?” A thunderous “yes.” I stumbled this way and that, asking question after question, culling down the players one by one. They spun me about and I could feel my dinner dancing at the back of my throat, threatening to make its reappearance, but I stayed standing, determined to capture my quarry.

I whittled down the players until I was left with a lone voice responding through chanting. Blindly chasing after him through the maze of players in a bumbling gait, I finally grabbed onto him, his shoulders like stone, and shouted: “Lama, Lama! I caught the Green Lama!”

The room erupted into laughter and I pulled off my blindfold, finding myself face-to-face with the bust of my great-grandfather, Ernest Stewart.

“Better luck next time, Miss Stewart,” someone chuckled behind me. He patted me playfully on the shoulder and the green handkerchief fluttered into my hand. I spun around just in time to watch Jethro Dumont walk away, Marion du Pont on his arm.

Sometime, and several drinks, later I found Dumont staring out the big bay windows looking over the grounds. Feeling emboldened, I sauntered over to the millionaire playboy with lustful abandon.

“You’re Mrs. Stewart’s daughter,” he said as I approached, turning to give me a warm smile. His blue-grey eyes sparkled. “Evangl, right?”

My face felt warm and I nodded. We shook hands, and I noticed the rainbow ring of hair wrapped around his middle finger. “A gift from the lamas at the Buddhist temple I stayed at while in Tibet. For luck,” he said without my having to ask. “Your mother’s been telling me about you for a little while now, Miss Stewart. I think she wants to marry you off.”

I chuckled and replied that definitely sounded like my mother. I was a bit sharper tongued than I’ll care to admit, but Dumont laughed anyway. We chatted for a little while; the normal sort of gossip one fills their time with at events like that. He let me prattle on about anything and everything, always listening intently. It was easy to see why women fell for him so quickly. He kept his eyes on me; only asked questions about my interests, as if I was the most important woman in the world.

An hour or two passed—or maybe it was only a few minutes—before I cleared my throat and asked: “Why did you go to Tibet, Mr. Dumont?”

Dumont’s smile fell a little and his sparkling grey eyes dropped to the floor. “Buddhists believe in a cyclical existence,” he eventually said. “A literal Wheel of Life, the Bhavachakra, they call it. You’re born, you die, and you’re reborn. That’s an oversimplification, but it’ll do.”

“And how do we break free of it?” I remember asking.

“That’s what I went to find out,” he replied, once again meeting my gaze. “I wanted to know if there was something more, something beyond… this.” He tapped his chest.

“Did you find it?”

“I did. But not in Tibet.” He clenched and unclenched his right hand, the rainbow ring of hair glinting in the sunlight. “I found it on the docks,” he replied sadly. “A pleasure talking with you, Miss Stewart. If you’ll excuse me.”

Dumont bowed his head and walked away into the crowd, humming a song I could never place.

Chapter 7: The Hunt

GAMMA FLIPPED through the files, the clock ticking relentlessly above him as he paced the laboratory, reminding him how short their time really was. A lesser man would have been driven insane, seeing how the world truly worked, how every person fit into the equation, adding up to the final solution, knowing there was no way to stop it. He had once called it the “tides of history,” but that wasn’t really the case anymore, was it? Tides were a consistent, measurable force. History was nebulous, shifting to the whims and words of mad men. It would be simple to say the present was dictated by the past like a logic equation, “
if a, then b, then c
,” but that was a narrow and naïve view, ignorant of all the vast moving parts, working together, seemingly out of sync, with no visible or measurable cause, until the violent end was finally reached. They were not the clockmakers, nor were they the repairmen. They were just the only ones who understood the machinery.

His mind had wandered again. It was doing that too often these days. He looked back down at the files. They were filled with handwritten notes, typed logs and dozens of gruesome images, but they all told the same tale: Failure.

“Tell me, Frank,” Gamma said, closing the files and dropping it onto the lab table. “How are the field tests coming along?”

The scientist looked up from his microscope and stared at Gamma with his beady, angry eyes. He leaned back and cracked his knuckles, all ten, one after another, before he replied. “There has been some progress made. The latest batch has proven to be more…
cooperative
than the previous experiments, due, in part, to the latest compound. Though, it is not without its imperfections.”

“Yes, it seems this batch is just as
starved
for attention as the previous,” Gamma commented, pulling the day’s newspaper from the file and tossing it at Frank. In block letters, the headline read: “CANNIBAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!” Just beneath that, in smaller, bold letters: “Twelfth Victim in two weeks.” A dark, blurry photograph of uniformed officers standing around a shrouded flattened body sat in the center of the page. “We do not mind some collateral damage, Frank, such is the nature of our work. But these…” Gamma gestured toward the newspaper, “are far too public for comfort.”

Frank lifted up the corner of the paper and read over the headline with detached amusement. “As I’ve mentioned before, the hunger side effect is connected with the base material,” he said with a shrug. “It could never have been anticipated, there was no precedence for such a reaction. However, I insist with further testing and additional compounds, I am sure we will eventually be able to control it. I find it interesting, though, that they always seek out their homes and families… At least, most of them. The first was a vagrant returning to his favorite alleyway. Hm. Peculiar.” He frowned in thought. “Conflicting impulses. Sanctuary and hunger. Good thing we’re so efficient at cleaning up after ourselves.”

“What about Harrison Valco?” Gamma asked, keeping his gaze set on Frank, curious to see his reaction. He had been so volatile when he first came here. “Do you think his Delta Liquid Ray may be of some use to of us?”

Frank grimaced, his coal-like eyes burning as he fought back his rage. “Valco could…” He cleared his throat before he continued. “The Delta Liquid Ray may have some… applications, though I doubt any of them will be effective. And even if they are, we do not need Valco for that, as I asserted before. I have an extensive
history with the Ray, need I remind you of the E.Y.E.?”

“You are too proud, Frank,” Gamma interposed. “Among the litany, that is ever your greatest flaw. Despite your experience with the Delta Liquid Ray, chemistry was never your strength. Do not try to fool yourself otherwise. We need you working with the test subjects; no one can manipulate a mind like you. Let Valco and the others figure out the right compound, that is their task, focus on yours.” His mouth twisted as he added: “Do not worry, Frank, we have… faith in you.”

“As you damn well should! I was the doctor who trepanned the Archduke of Sylvania! Not Valco. And need I remind you that it was you and your bald retriever that pursued me, by God! So if anyone’s word should be law, it should be mine! I still contend if I had my requested subject,” Frank said, crossing his arms, “we would be able to work around all
of these issues.”

Gamma sighed. He had grown tired of this argument. “Yes, Frank, we’ve read your thesis.”

The scientist slapped his hand against the table, his anger beginning to boil over. “I need him dammit!” he said, choking back a scream. His face was turning red. To be so intelligent, yet still a prisoner of one’s own emotions. Pitiful.

Gamma’s right eyebrow lifted subtly, but he kept his voice even. “I recall your experiences with the subject were less than successful, no? Or do you not remember how you came to us?”

Frank gnawed at his lower lip and resumed cracking his knuckles. When that proved less than satisfactory he went about rotating his right wrist until it clicked like a phone dial. “I was caught… unawares,” he eventually admitted. “No one could have anticipated he would—”

“Anticipation is why you are here, Frank. Anticipation is what drives this Collective. If you cannot anticipate what needs to be done, we must question your worth.” Gamma paused, waiting for a retort, but Frank remained silent, his lips quivering into a snarl. “You are lucky the subject is considered a potential threat or else I would not have been so inclined to explore your line of thinking. Our operative is working to obtain him as we speak, though we anticipate some difficultly. It has been our experience that vigilantes are a difficult breed to control.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” Frank said with a pleasant sigh, a Cheshire grin twisting his features. “One of you went rogue. The face changer… Chi was it? I can never remember the Greek alphabet.”

Gamma took a slow, deep breath, reminding himself the scientist was only trying to rile him up. Frank seemed to thrive on conflict. “There was a shooting at a Roosevelt rally,” he said seemingly changing the subject. “Did you hear about that?”

Frank waved his hands. “Because I get out so much.”

“It was in my weekly report. There was a guest of some interest…” He drifted off and hummed to himself thoughtfully. “It is only a matter of time before we will find him. Once our operative finds his weakness, the Green Lama will be ours.”

“Has our guest given you any more information?” Frank asked emboldened, hissing the word “guest.” “Or is he still spouting out witticisms like some vaudevillian prancing about the stage?

“Slowly,” Gamma replied. “He is stronger than most. More than likely, he was trained to withstand interrogation techniques such as ours.”

“Didn’t anticipate that, did you?”

Gamma ignored Frank’s slight. “Should he continue to prove uncooperative, we may need use of your talents.”