The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (24 page)

“I’m sure Jean will show she was justified in her decision,” Jethro replied, pulling off his hood. He walked over to the couch and sat down beside her. He placed his hand on her knee and Jean laced her hands with his.

“You heard screams?” he asked, he had already heard the story from Ken, but needed to hear again, for both his and Caraway’s sake.

“We heard screams,” Jean repeated, her gaze locked on their hands.

“And you ran up?”

Jean nodded. “We ran up.”

“You saw this woman attacking her husband…”

“And you shot her…?” Caraway asked.

She nodded silently.

“She did exactly what any of us would have done, given the options,” Ken said.

Caraway stared out the window, but nodded in understanding.

“I could tell… That she wasn’t…” She cleared her throat. “It was like the
Bartlett
,” Caraway felt a chill run up his spine. “Wilfred and Desdemona. Like you, John. There was nothing left of her—”

“Nothing human, at least,” Caraway cut in. “I had the same thought going over evidence with Crevier and Fulton. I didn’t want it to be true but…”

Ken nodded and gestured to the body. “What about the scar on her head; triangle inside a circle?” he asked Jethro. “That mean anything to you?”

Jethro shook his head. “The symbol has been associated with everything from satanic cults to the Illuminati.”

“Illuminati?” Caraway asked.

“An Enlightenment era secret society that died out in the eighteenth century,” Jean cut in, massaging her head. She then added with a nod to Jethro, “Green Sleeves has a lot of books and I had time to kill.”

Jethro gave Jean a wan smile. “Jean’s correct… This is something else…” He glanced down at the crimson scar on the woman’s forehead. “John, I’ll need to dissect the body.”

Caraway balked. “Are you insane? Getting Woods to give us time alone in here is a miracle, but getting the body, that’s a water-into-wine level request.”

“There is some kind of toxin in this woman’s system. Whatever it is, it is far beyond the understanding of the police department, beyond my
understanding. And I think that is our ‘Cannibal Killer.’ Not a man or a woman, but a chemical intentionally injected into the person’s frontal lobes. It would explain the man that attacked Jean the other night, as well as the evidence of families turning on each other. It’s only an educated guess, and I can’t confirm anything until I dissect the corpse.” Jethro stood and slipped his hood back over his head. “Arrange it however you can,” Jethro said to Caraway. “Tell them Dr. Charles Pali will be handling the examinations. That name should carry enough weight to throw off any suspicions.”

“Yeah, ’cause this isn’t suspicious enough as it is,” Caraway said gruffly in reply. Then, under his breath: “Uncharted waters.”

“What was that, John?” Ken asked.

“Something someone told me,” Caraway said as he walked to the door. “I just didn’t think they’d be so deep.” He glanced back at the woman’s body. “Or so dark.”

• • •

FOG, GREY AND HAZY. Sounds muffled. Night? Day? It no longer mattered, they had all blurred into one continuous rotation of pain. He tried to remember the last time he saw the sun. Was it in Washington? Or was it in Black Rock? He remembered looking out the window when he put Marie to sleep. The sun had set by then, the sky shades of red and oranges, purples bordering on black. He thought nothing of it at the time, but it had been beautiful. And Marie… Oh, she was glorious. He held onto that, he held onto her. Her and Evangl, they would get him through this; they were all that mattered.

“Hello, Mr. Brown!”

This was a new voice, a male’s, both pleasant and enthusiastic. Wait. No. There was something familiar about it… But it was old, from long before, but the name was lost in the deep recesses of the past.

“Who’s there?” he murmured, his tongue a brick in his mouth.

“How long has it been?” the man asked, stepping closer. “Two years? Three? I’ll confess time moves a bit strangely down here, so you’ll forgive me if I can’t remember.”

“I know that voice.”

“I should hope so! I would be terribly offended if you didn’t. Oh, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. After all these years, you remembered my voice. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure you would even recognize my face… I can barely recognize yours. Though I was wearing a mask at the time and you… Well, it almost looks like you’re wearing a mask now. How have you been? No, no, don’t try and move. I doubt your legs would be much use to you now. And your arm…
tsk tsk
.” The man reached forward and squeezed down on the break in Gary’s arm. Gary gritted what remained of his teeth and did his best not to black out. “You must be in
terrible
pain, by God!” the man observed pleasantly.

“I’ve had worse,” Gary managed.

“Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Brown. I’m afraid our hosts aren’t very good ones. I would apologize on their behalf if I weren’t such a
fan
of their work. You almost look like a painting, a Van Gogh even, by God. You’re even missing part of an ear… Wonderful! But I digress. I do that sometimes; my mind wanders. I imagine you are very curious as to
who
I am. Allow me to answer your question…” The man pulled open Gary’s swollen eyelid with his forefinger and thumb.

Light poured into Gary’s eye, blinding and pure. It took a moment for his eyesight to resolve, but the angry, flabby face soon came into view. He looked different—almost normal—without his red domino mask, but Gary recognized the man nonetheless. How could he forget the man that had introduced him to Evangl, the man who had kidnapped and tortured them both. Gary’s jaw clenched, the blinding pain raging through his body the only thing preventing him from strangling the man to death. “
You
.”

“Yes,” the man said with a vicious smile. “Me.” He leaned forward and gently kissed Gary on the forehead. “I am so happy to see you again, Mr. Brown.” The man let go of Gary’s eyelids and plunged him back into darkness. “It seems, Mr. Brown, that we have some… mutual friends; friends who would very much like to meet our verdant vigilante. You see, Mr. Brown, we need him for… some
experiments
,
you might say. They believe—as do I—that he can help us answer some questions we have. Mysteries, one might say. He so excels at that, solving mysteries. Now, we also believe that you know more than what you’ve confessed. Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Brown. They have their theory as to the Buddhist Bastard’s identity, a name that has been tossed around here and there, which is perhaps more plausible than the others. Based on my personal experience with the man, I tend to agree with their theory. Now my superiors could have gone on and asked you more questions to confirm their little theory, but they know, as I know, that will be a dead-end. There is no doubt in our minds that you know the Green Lama’s identity, Mr. Brown, but they came to realize that no matter how much they asked, no matter how much they tortured you, you will never let that name slip.” The man tapped Gary in the chest. “You are strong like that. And I should know, by God! I’ve tortured you before.”

There were more sounds of machinery moving into place, the hum of electricity. Gary felt beads of sweat form on his battered brow.

“I have come to understand that you and Miss Stewart have married. And a daughter, Marie! Wonderful! I like to think I had a hand in that. I never thought of myself as a matchmaker, but then again, we all have hidden talents. One day I would love to meet little Marie and break every bone in her body,” the man said, his voice gravelly and sinister.

Gary’s body quaked; an odd sound escaped his lips, something between a moan and sob.
Not Evangl. Not Marie. Please anything, anything but that.

“Here is something I always wondered, however,” the man said thoughtfully, “Who does the Green Lama love?”

Gary chuckled, little bolts of pain shooting through his chest. “He’s a
Buddhist
,” he said, trying to sound defiant. “He loves
everyone
.”

“Cute, Mr. Brown,” the man chuckled. Gary heard the sound of switches being flipped. “But while the Green Lama is a Buddhist, he
isn’t
a very good one. If anything, his faith—if you can call it that—is a twisted version of the Buddha’s doctrine. I have done my research, you see. I like to know my enemies. A true Buddhist would never raise his hand against another; he would never ‘strike for justice.’ The Green Lama is a flawed man, but a man nonetheless. But again, I digress.”

“Is that why I’m here?” Gary croaked. “Because they want me to tell you who the Green Lama loves?”

“Oh no, no, no,” the man tutted. “They’ve already pieced that together. These are intelligent men, Mr. Brown, the builders of nations and so forth. They can read a newspaper. No, you are here so I can have some fun.” Then, pleasantly: “So, let us get to business then.”

Somewhere in the shadow and haze Gary heard the sound of a powerful drill coming to life. He could feel the ground rumble beneath him as the machine roared. He struggled against his bindings, but the effort was futile. There was no escape, not this time. He winced as the sharp end of a needle pressed up against his forehead. There was the sound of mechanics clicking into place and Gary felt four cold, jagged blades touch his skin.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Brown,” Dr. Frank Pelham, the Crimson Hand, whispered as the four metal blades began to dig into Gary’s skin. “The nightmare isn’t over yet.”

Chapter 9
: Capture

THERE WERE days Franklin Murdoch found himself missing the ocean; the crash of the waves against the ship’s hull, the rush of wind in his ear as he stepped out onto the deck. At first those days had been far and few between, but they had became more frequent over the last month or so, around the same time when the trials began.

His discovery of the Substance had been purely accidental; a Eureka moment that would have made Archimedes jealous had it not been so terrifying. It was all so unprecedented, so marvelously implausible, it seemed like the laws of nature had been completely uprooted. He had shouted so loud the whole crew of the
USS North Carolina
had heard him. It was later, after he had stopped blubbering in fear, that he began to realize the Substance’s potential. Yet, while it was easy to sit hunched over a microscope, amazed by the Substance’s unique properties, it was something else entirely seeing them put to use. Sometimes, he could hear the screams echo through the facility, rattling him to the bone.

Murdoch drummed his fingers against his desk. He tried again to read over the letter from his superiors, but the typewritten words blurred together into a jumble of black symbols. What were they asking for, again? He massaged his eyes as he tried to remember, something about needing more test subjects, moving on to the next phase in testing, that the Project Manager was becoming impatient. It was one or all of those. Instead, he folded up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and dropped it into the trash. He was a naval medical officer, trained to treat the wounds of the battle-torn, the dead and the dying. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand why the Collective initially brought him on, he had discovered the Substance; what he couldn’t wrap his head around was why they kept
him here.

He gazed up at the high, rocky ceiling, the light fixture dangling precariously above him, swaying every so slightly, as though it was threatening to fall. Murdoch frowned, wondering whether they would cut the cord now, or wait until their work was done.

There was a knock on the door, soft and polite, yet it put Murdoch’s nerves on edge. “Yes?” he called, hating the way his voice cracked and then hating even more that he had to hear it echo back.

The door creaked open and the weathered visage of Dr. Valco appeared.

“Harrison,” Murdoch said as pleasantly as he could. He stood up from his chair and gestured for Valco to enter. “What can I do for you? My goodness, man, you look exhausted. Well, more so than usual, at least.”

Valco smiled sheepishly, fumbling with the thick manila folder in his hands as he walked into the office. “It’s the lack of sunlight,” he lied. “It throws off my internal clock. Don’t even know what time it is anymore. Plus, I don’t know… The vents sometimes sound like someone screaming.”

“Mm. Yeah, I know the feeling,” Murdoch admitted, feeling the weight of his eyelids. “You’ve only been here a couple of weeks. You should see what it’s like after three months. You’ll start seeing the walls melt. As to what time it is,” he began as he checked his watch. “It’s been awhile since I’ve wound this thing, but… Half-past two. In the morning. I think.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Valco confessed with a shrug. He took a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of Murdoch’s desk. Valco closed his eyes for a second, exhaustion temporarily taking its hold. He shook his head and forced open his eyes, staving off sleep for a little while longer. “That Metchnikoff fellow acts like he’s been underground for
years
.”