The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (20 page)

Fingers started laughing uncontrollably, tears still pouring down his cheeks. “Ain’t no one that goddamn stupid to go after you, Lama. You know how many guys you put in here? There are still some—some guys who…” The words got caught in his throat and his jaw quivered. “Guys who still wake up screaming about you,” he confessed, his voice barely audible. The Green Lama’s hands began to glow from within; Fingers could feel the slight heat rising off them, as the hair on his head stood on end from the electric charge. “All right! All right! Everyone’s been sayin’ that you been pickin’ off the big boys over the last few years. Takin’ out the brains behind all the big jobs like you did with Gandini and von Kultz. Making sure it sends a message that no one will ever try and take their place.”

The Green Lama’s grip slackened, the verdant aura in his hands and eyes dissipating in a whiff of smoke. “What?” he asked, sounding as though he had been punched hard in the gut.

“All I know is no one’s seen the Crimson Hand since you busted him. And that Russian scientist down in Florida? I’ve met guys who were in every slammer between here and Mexico and ain’t no one knows what happened to either of ’em,” Fingers replied. “After you busted them, they just—just disappeared. We all thought you killed them.”

Fingers waited several moments for the Green Lama to reply. He tried to read his expression, but the Green Lama’s face was hidden by the hood’s shadow—if that even was the Green Lama’s real face. Fingers could make out signs of greasepaint and what looked like a false chin. Beneath that though, the Green Lama’s skin had gone pale and Fingers realized the truth: The Green Lama had no idea what had happened to the Crimson Hand either.

The Green Lama let go of Finger’s collar and stepped back into the shadows. As Fingers fell toward the ground there was a rush of air as something shot into the sky. Fingers’ legs were wobbly, but he caught himself against the prison wall. He didn’t bother looking for the Green Lama, knowing he was already long gone.

Fingers couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong about it all. Someone was going after the Green Lama’s associates and not just finding them, but
killing
them too. More than that, the Green Lama hadn’t known Pelham and the other super criminals had disappeared. Whatever was going down out there, it was big; bigger than anything Fingers had ever been involved with, which was saying a lot. Fingers found his cigarette burnt down to a nub at his feet, ash kicked around like gray sand. He sighed, booted it away with the toe of his shoe and limped back toward the yard.

Looked like it was safer inside after all.

• • •

“YOU CANNOT go into an active crime scene,” Detective Fulton said, pointing at Caraway with a cigarette clamped between his fingers as the former Lieutenant paced around his and Crevier’s shared office. Crevier stood off to the side, massaging his eyes after having watch the two men trade barbs for the better part of the afternoon.

Caraway gave Fulton an incredulous look. “The hell I can’t. I know for a fact Wayland is on guard duty and he owes me more favors than I can count,” he grunted in reply, opening up the thick manila folder.

“You know the evidence is all in the file right there,” Fulton said nodding to the manila folder, his walrus mustache wagging.

Caraway raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say!” Caraway clapped the folder shut and took a long, calming breath in. “Twelve victims, Jeff. That’s one short of a baker’s dozen in a few short weeks… Look, it’s not like I’m gonna go in there and start pressing my fingerprints onto every surface. I just need to get my eyes on it and see if it fits the pattern so I can report it back to Green Sleeves.”

Crevier placed a conciliatory hand on Caraway’s shoulder. “Look, John, it ain’t that we’re tying to be difficult—hell, we
need
you. Outside of your Buddhist buddy, there’s no one in this goddamn city with as much experience with the kinda shit we’ve been dealing with. But Woods didn’t give you back your badge, so right now you’re here hush hush, in every way in an unofficial capacity,” he said, risking a glance at the frosted office door. “That means we can tell you everything we know and let you rifle through our reports. But do you have any idea the shit we all took after that very public spectacle you and the Lama made getting into the Brooklyn scene? Woods was on a rampage and he was the one who let you in! The moment any of us just walks you onto an active crime scene, we’ll all be out on our asses and in the dark. Then who’s gonna solve this goddamn thing?”

Fulton groaned and rubbed the bristles of his mustache. “So, are you gonna help us, John, or are you just gonna keep being a jackass?” he asked as he flopped back down into his chair. “I’ve got a buck on jackass.”

Caraway dug his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a one-dollar bill, and tossed it on the table. Fulton fished out two fifty-cent coins and tossed them on top of the bill. The two men glowered at each other before Caraway waved his hand, beckoning them on. “Let’s start with what we know.”

“Our first known victims were Beatrice Ramon and her son, Hector,” Crevier said.

“Which is why,” Fulton added, “her husband George Ramon remains our prime suspect.”

“But what do we
know
?” Caraway tapped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. “All of the victims were split in half and eaten alive. All the bodies were covered in our mysterious ‘growing black substance.’” He walked over to the small map pinpricked with the locations of the victims. “What’s also been consistent is that all the murders occurred in immigrant neighborhoods.”

Fulton shrugged. “So? Immigrants and vagrants get killed every day.”

“Right,” Caraway said, shaking a finger. “If you’re going to go around killing people and eating them, go after the population that won’t stand out.”

“So much for melting pot,” Crevier said under his breath.

“So George Ramon is going after what’s convenient. He’s just another spic wandering around the ghettos,” Fulton said with a shrug.

Caraway leaned up against the map and drummed his fingers between the small red pins. “But they’re not convenient. His wife and son, sure, but look at the rest. Red Hook was last night. The victim before that was up in the Bronx. The victim before
that
was down in Sheepshead Bay, and before that was over in Ridgewood. It’s all over the city. It would be one thing if these were done over a matter of days, but several of these, like Hell’s Kitchen and Astoria, were committed within hours of each other.”

“You’re thinking there’s more than one killer?” Crevier asked skeptically.

Fulton crossed his arms. “We’ve considered that, but what, a cannibal population just suddenly appeared in New York? It
has
to be Ramon. Some kind of even more fucked up Jack the Ripper.”

“Well, if it is one killer, then he’s really good at picking his targets, because not one of the murder scenes showed any sign of forced entry. Whoever the killer is, everyone’s eager to let him in.” Caraway let that sit between them before he continued. “Pete, is there anything else connecting the victims?

Crevier walked over to his desk and quickly rifled through his notes. “Yeah… Eight out of eleven had reported missing family members in recent weeks.” He scratched at the scar on his cheek. “Dunno about number twelve—”

“But I wouldn’t be surprised,” Caraway finished. He looked to Fulton. “That connection is too hard to ignore.”

Fulton mollusked his lower lip over his mustache in thought. “All right, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say it’s multiple murderers, missing people wandering home to what? Kill their families? What’s the motive? Some weird cult? Bunch of crazies running around sacrificing their family members?”

Caraway’s body turned to stone. His vision tunneled and his hearing dropped out. A familiar sensation ran up his back, like a hand reaching around his spine. For a moment he saw a woman standing in front of him, her eyes black, the skin shredded from her face in long red strips.

“John!” Crevier said, placing a hand of Caraway’s shoulder. “John, you okay?”

Caraway jumped and blinked out of his reverie. He cleared his throat. “Yeah… Yeah. I’m fine… You boys no doubt remember the
Bartlett
last year?”

“You’d have to knock us on the head pretty hard to make us forget that,” Fulton scoffed. “The way that bitch tore up—”

“Her name was Desdemona. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget that about any of them. They all had names. They were all people,” Caraway cut in, his voice breaking. For a moment the name hung in the air while Fulton shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Caraway glanced away and ran his finger and thumb over the sides of his mustache. “Before Desdemona was…taken over,” Caraway began, choosing not to elaborate on the term, “she told us that everyone aboard the
Bartlett
complained about hearing whispers at night, voices that spoke to them when no one else was around. Then the fights began. Ordinary folks, from prim and proper gentlemen to waif-thin dowagers, broke out into violent brawls. The whole ship devolved into madness. Families, murdering each other in cold blood. The poor girl saw her own mother ram a damn comb through her father’s head. It was their eyes though, they filled up with some kind of black substance…”

Crevier narrowed his eyes in shocked disbelief. “What’re you trying to say, John? That this black goo is somehow the cause of these murders?”

Caraway licked his lips. “I think it’s worth exploring. Because if this is anything like the
Bartlett
, I don’t think we’re dealing with a killer.” He looked back at the map. “We’re dealing with a virus.”

He then reached onto the table and snatched up his two dollars.

• • •

GARY’S LIPS were chapped, his throat dry. He tried to move his head, forgetting it had been strapped down, along with his arms and legs. Somewhere beneath the mountains of pain and driving exhaustion, his body felt numb like he had slept wrong. But that was just his imagination, a kind of mild delirium brought on by the near constant torture, stripping his nerves of any understanding of pain. He had long since given up screaming, crying and begging; there was simply no point. They would keep at it until he gave them the answers they wanted or he was dead.

And Gary had no intention of cooperating.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said from the darkness, the shadowed man. He was always so calm, so goddamn pleasant. But something was always missing behind that even tone, a detachment that still sent shivers down Gary’s spine; it reminded him of the Green Lama’s voice. The man called himself Omega.
The last name I’ll ever know
, Gary thought, something he found morbidly humorous. It felt so oddly appropriate.

“We’re gonna try again today?” Gary managed, his tongue rasping against the roof of his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but he had forgotten his eyelids had swollen shut yesterday.
Or was that this morning?
Either way, it would be more darkness and pain today, just like yesterday, and the day before that.

“Yes, Mr. Brown, we’re going to try again,” Omega replied pleasantly. There was a
ting-ting-ting
of metal against metal. What would it be, Gary wondered? Pliers? Knives? Hooks? Omega never liked to repeat himself, never the same man twice. “Unless, of course, you would like to tell me what I want to know.”

“Remind me, what was that again?” Gary asked, playing along with Omega’s affable demeanor.

Omega chuckled.
Like we’re old friends talking over a beer
. His footsteps clopped closer. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Brown. I can see how a girl like Evangl fell for you.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t my looks?” Gary gave Omega a diminished grin; two of his teeth had been pulled, the vacant gums still bleeding. “If you’re trying to flirt with me, remember I am already spoken for.”

“Are you, Mr. Brown?” Omega retorted pleasantly. “Last I checked you’re missing a wedding band on your ring finger.”

“No, just missing a ring finger,” Gary somberly admitted.

“The bleeding stopped,” Omega observed with sympathy.

A rueful smirk touched the corner of Gary’s lips. “Ain’t that grand.”

“The identity of the Green Lama, Mr. Brown,” Omega said, his voice instantly losing its warmth. “A simple name is all I’m asking for. Doesn’t have to be the whole name, either. First or last; I can do with either.”

Gary chuckled. “What makes you think today will be any different than yesterday, or the day before, or the day before?”

“How long do you think you’ve been here, Mr. Brown?” Omega asked. When Gary didn’t reply, he continued: “Three days? Two? A week? A month? When was the last time you remember really sleeping, Mr. Brown? Hm? You are a strong man, Mr. Brown. I will not deny that. Everyone else I’ve subjected to this treatment broke within a short span of time, but you continue on. It is impressive. The Green Lama prepared you for this, didn’t he?”

“‘Prepared’ is a strong word. Let’s just say the Lama chooses his friends wisely,” Gary shrugged. “See, my dad liked to beat me. When he got drunk he used to put cigarettes out on my arm, before beating me silly. So this has all been just a walk in the park.”