The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (51 page)

“Haven’t seen you around a lot these days,” Jean managed to say.

“My role has always been in the shadows, but more so of late,” Magga replied, her voice shifting along with her visage. It was beautiful, like a song.

“Did you know all of this would happen? The infection, Jethro’s possession? All the horrors we faced, you saw it all coming and did nothing?”

Magga shook her head. “Time is a fluid thing, a lake, a river, and an ocean all at once. We can see the waves, but never know how or when they will reach the shore. As I have told Jethro so many times before, I am simply the Revealer of the Secret Paths. I am a guide, but even I do not always know the destination.”

Jean arched an eyebrow. “So why are you here?”

“Because now,” Magga said, stepping forward, “I’m here to guide you.”

• • •

KEN STOOD by the doorway of his apartment—a quaint affair in the Upper West Side—anxiously adjusting his suit, his tie, his cufflinks. Ken wasn’t sure if his guest would actually show. It had been a leap of faith in a letter, a bit of hope after so much horror. And even after Ken had received the response, he could barely hold onto the belief that it all might come true. He checked himself in the mirror four times, fixing every stray hair he could find. Or maybe he could just—

Someone knocked at the door. Ken rolled his shoulders back and stood up straight. He ran his hands over his suit, his waistcoat, and once more over his hair. He walked over to the door, took one last breath and swung it open. A handsome man stood on the other side, hat in hand. He had short-cropped black hair, day old stubble covering his face. His custom-made suit hinted at his muscled physique.

He was beautiful.

Ken cleared his throat. “Hello, Benn,” he said quietly. “How have you been?”

Without so much as a word, Benn stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Ken, and pressed their lips together. Benn’s unshaven chin scratched against Ken’s and for the first time in years, Ken was home.

• • •

A FEW WEEKS later, Captain John Caraway strolled into the briefing room.
Captain
. The title still felt odd on him, but it did feel good. Woods had brought him back on the force reluctantly, promoting him in a political move to keep Kirkpatrick happy. And far be it from Caraway to complain about seeing Woods squirm. They had even given him back the Special Crime Squad. Lord, he hadn’t realized how much he missed it. More than anything, he liked the way Helen pronounced “Captain,” when she fixed his tie in the morning. He rubbed his cheeks, feeling the warmth under his skin. Maybe Ken had been right, maybe there could be something more there, someday.

He walked into the squad room, the men yelling at one another like kids in a locker room. Caraway slammed his folders onto the table for effect rather than anger. “All right. Sit down. Shut up. You know the way it works.” He cleared his throat. He flipped open the first folder and quickly read over the briefing. “So, word around town is Pete Barry’s old gang—you remember them—have started working under his old muscle Johnny Pomatto. You remember him, they called him ‘Wits’ for the sake of irony. They haven’t taken a name, but I’m sure they will come up with something stupid sooner rather than later, especially in this city.”

“Good thing the Natives Mafia is already taken!” Fulton said from the other side of the room, eliciting a number of guffaws from his fellow officers.

“Yeah, yeah, bunch of white boys dressing up in feathers and loin cloths is always funny, even if it’s incredibly offensive,” Caraway grumbled. “We also got some information on some Fifth Columnist cells in the area. Agents Greg Kenyon and Shirley Flagg might be making an appearance on behalf of the FBI. And, if I see anyone trying to get Agent Flagg’s number—again—they’ll be hearing from me.”

Heidelberger raised his hand, looking more like himself than he had weeks ago. “Sir? There’s a rumor going around that the Green Lama’s been jumpin’ rooftops again, despite, you know, being dead.”

Caraway raised his eyebrows in suspicion. “That so? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Some of Phil Daley’s old boys say they were taken down by some guy dressed in a green hood,” Wayland added with a shrug. “Coulda been the Lama.”

“Could also just be some guy in a hood, you ever consider that?” Detective Crevier asked, playing with the scar on his cheek. “When it comes to vigilantes, copycats are a dime a dozen. You remember how many guys we had running around with a black fedora and trench coat back in the day? Wouldn’t be surprised if this guy is using two ‘L’s’.”

“End of the day, boy-os, costumed vigilantes are a way of life in this town. Green Lama or not, it’s just something we’re gonna have to deal with.” Something moved in the corner of his eye and Caraway looked over to the window to find a crouched, cloaked figure watching him from the fire escape. Caraway could just make out the figure’s face beneath the shadow before it disappeared. Caraway fought back a smile and turned back to his men.

“All right, kids. What’re you waiting for? Go out there and save the day.”

• • •

MURDOCH was drunk; had been for weeks. With little of the Facility surviving Valco’s bomb, there was little to no evidence of Murdoch’s involvement with the Collective—which by all accounts “didn’t exist.” He had been interrogated by Dumont, by Caraway, by the government, and Murdoch told them all he knew, giving names, figures, anything they could. But that didn’t wipe the slate clean, it didn’t correct the past—time couldn’t be rewritten. Murdoch was left with the memories and the guilt, flooding his mind like a malignant black cancer.

On this night, Murdoch had pounded back a bottle of absinthe, the green fairy taking him on a winding, back alleys tour of the city until he somehow found himself in an abandoned office, the tables and chairs draped with dusty cloth. He wasn’t certain how he got in, whether the door was locked, or why his hand was bleeding and covered with glass, but here he was, all alone. For reasons he was too inebriated to understand, Murdoch began to pull the cloths away in large flapping motions, and it wasn’t until the last cloth hung in his bloody hand that he realized where he was.

A small microscope sat on the lab table, the glass slide broken in three uneven pieces. He looked over to the door, the few remaining letters on the shattered frosted window reading “ISON VALC.”

“Well, of course,” Murdoch said with a slightly manic smile. “Guess we can’t take it all back, can we?”

He slumped to the floor and waited for an answer that would never come.

• • •

BETTY DALE made her way up to the roof, tightly clutching the two-lined note. Her knees ached as she took the last four steps before the rooftop door, the lock jammed open so reporters could run out and grab a smoke under the sun. It was late now, so she doubted anyone would still be up here, and if there had been, she was certain her mysterious pen pal would have scared them away. Betty pushed open the door with her elbow and stepped out into the frigid night. A powdery cloud of snow drifted by and Betty pulled her coat in.

“All right, I got your message,” she called out, holding up the note with the small “Om” symbol at the bottom. “You can cut the standing in the shadows thing you people like to do.”

A dark hooded figure stepped out of the night, green cloak flapping in the breeze. The outfit was streamlined, a green, hooded cape over a green leather jacket; form-fitting green pants and high, flat boots. Twin jade-line pistols sat snug in hip-hugging holsters.

“Word’s been getting around about you,” Betty said with a half-cocked grin. “Had to tell Jaconetti you were just a myth, but he’s convinced you’re real. Plus, I guess this answers where you’ve been hiding the last few weeks. Keeping off the stage and getting in some training?”

The Green Lama remained silent.

“I figured you’d go to Caraway first before you came to me.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” the Green Lama said in reply.

“Picking up where he left off?”

“Something like that.”

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but vigilantes are a dime a dozen in this town, what makes you think we need you?”

“You might have noticed most of them are a tad bit extreme.”

“Aren’t those guns?” Betty asked, gesturing to the jade line pistols.

“Rubber bullets,” the Green Lama replied. “No more children seeing their mothers killed.”

Betty shrugged. “But maybe extreme is what we need. Maybe the people need someone who doesn’t hug the line.”

“What we need is
balance
. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Like the new outfit,” Betty said with a nod. “Design that yourself?”

“Tsarong helped a bit. Monk’s robes weren’t exactly me. Plus, I didn’t want to run around looking like a colorblind Santa Claus—and you wouldn’t believe how they get in the way.”

Betty laughed. “I’m sure he would appreciate you saying that. But, we’re not talking about the most important thing. Why are you here?”

“I need you to hide me in plain sight. I don’t want to be a myth. The world needs to know the Green Lama is still out there. Whether it’s so they can fear the monster or remember the hero doesn’t matter. The Green Lama lives on.”

“Are you giving me an exclusive?” Betty asked with an arched eyebrow.

“So long as it gets done, you can call it whatever you like, Dale,” the Green Lama said dryly, turning toward the shadows.

Betty gave the Green Lama a quick salute. “You can count on me, ‘Tulku.’ And, hey, no more train stunts, all right? That was pretty bush-league, especially for you.”

“Least I didn’t follow a monster down into the sewers.”

Betty smirked despite herself. “You be careful out there, Jean.”

The Green Lama looked back and smiled. “Wouldn’t be fun if I was.”

• • •

THE OVAL OFFICE was colder than Barry had expected, or maybe it was just the season. Outside snow began to fall, snowflakes drifting languidly left and right before they deigned to finally fall to the ground. He shifted in his seat, careful to keep the thick manila folder on his lap from falling to the ground. As a scientist focusing on the applications of atomic energy, the assignment had come as a bit of a surprise, but when the White House called, you answered. His sister probably would have rolled her eyes at that and made a comment about “patriotic mumbo jumbo,” but Barry would never say no to his country. It was why his discoveries had been so worrisome. Based on what little hard evidence they had found, it appeared that the men behind the horrors he found were doing it for God and Country.

“Dr. Dale, sorry to keep you waiting after all the trouble you took to come down here,” the President said as he rolled into the office. Barry stood immediately, having not heard the door open, but Roosevelt waved him back down. “Sit, sit. I can’t get up for you, no reason for you to get up for me.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. President,” Barry said as he returned to his seat, smoothing out his suit.

“I assume you know why you’re here,” the President said as he moved behind to his desk.

Barry nodded, his grip on the folder unconsciously tightening. “The events in New York and Black Rock.”

“It’s a damn mess is what it was,” Roosevelt said as he lit himself a cigarette. “There’s too much going on abroad, we don’t need to start worrying about threats within our borders.” He took a drag and blew out a thin column of smoke. “What can you tell me about it?”

Barry slid the file over to Roosevelt.

“They called themselves the Collective, which isn’t the most original title in the world, but I don’t think they were really interested in being creative. We don’t know where they pulled their funding from—it certainly wasn’t anything you authorized—but they put millions, perhaps more, into their efforts. The mountain facility had technology that’s decades ahead of anything we have floating around, things I don’t think we even thought were plausible. There were hundreds dead, some staff, some civilians who had been kidnapped for various purposes. We’re still trying to identify all the bodies—it will take us some time—but we can confirm Dr. Frank Pelham, otherwise known as the Crimson Hand, is dead. Some of the staff escaped and we’re working to track them down. Dr. Murdoch, who was noted as assisting the Green Lama’s associates, has been helpful in all aspects.”

“Has the Intelligence Service Command weighed in?

“The ISC has denied any knowledge,” he then hesitantly added, “but I have my doubts.”

Roosevelt mulled this over as he looked over the various diagrams and schematics. “Can we use any of it?”

“Most of it was destroyed—which is probably for the best, if my sister ever found out about this stuff she’d plaster this all over the
Herald-Tribune
… But we did find some interesting ideas on atomic power.”

Roosevelt looked up through his glasses. “Beyond what the S-1 Uranium Committee told me?”

Barry nodded. “A lot more interesting.”

“Hm,” the President sounded thoughtfully. He carefully closed the file, letting his hand weigh down on the cover. After a moment he asked, “Do you think you can put it to good use?”

A small smile formed in the corners of Barry’s mouth. “Only one way to find out, Sir.”