The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) (9 page)

“Somethin’ wrong, coppa?”

Caraway tasted iron on his tongue and, glancing down at his stomach, saw the hilt of Adair’s sword pushing hard into his side.

“Gaaaw… Hell…” Caraway groaned as he rolled over and collapsed to the ground, clutching the hilt as if that would change the circumstances. “Gaaaaww… Damn. Damn. Damn…”

This wasn’t happening
, he told himself.
Lord, no, please, this wasn’t happening
. He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad, this wasn’t supposed to happen. This pain wasn’t real. This wasn’t a sword in his side. He wasn’t going to die. Dammit, he wasn’t going to die. He had to tell Francesca he still loved her, he had to win her back. That’s what was supposed to happen. Things started to get fuzzy, going grey on the edges. Caraway watched as Adair stood up and climbed over him, laughing. Unsheathing a massive hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt, the “Matador” threw his head back, letting out a deafening war whoop as he brought the knife up, preparing for the killing blow.

Caraway knew what was coming, much as he tried to pretend it wasn’t. Despite the cold sensations he began to feel around him and his fading vision, he refused to close his eyes in the face of death. He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad,
dammit
.

Adair thrust the knife down, and before things went completely black, Caraway swore he saw Gan, still riding their borrowed horse, jumping over the bank teller desk, guns blazing.

But that, he was sure, was only a hallucination.

Chapter 7

SECRETS BY THE SEA

Jean trekked her way from the shoreline toward the boardwalk in the distance, her bare feet kicking up the cool loose sand, granules clinging to her still moist skin. There were lights on the horizon, bright and ostentatious, flashing off and on, every color of the rainbow, twisting and turning in the night sky. A faint sound of music echoed softly in the air, high octaves and a fast rhythm, which only added to rather than relieved the sense of dread Jean felt coursing through her. She did her best to stop her body from shivering and her teeth from chattering, but nothing could stop the cold sense of terror at the pit of her stomach. What scared her most, what dug down deep into her gut and churned around the bile until it made her nauseous was the simple fact that none of this was possible. No one—not even the Green Lama—could instantly transport from one place to another. Whatever had happened to her was…
wrong
.

Making it to the boardwalk, she climbed over the guardrails and tossed her shoes and coat onto the wooden boards. Sitting down so that her feet hung off the edge of the walkway she began batting off the clumps of sand that had formed around her heels and between her toes.

Despite the dark Jean couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this place. As if she had been here—maybe even several times—before. She couldn’t see the city, nor could she see anything beyond the coast save for a ship or two in the distance. The boardwalk—even the lights down on the horizon—were good signs. They meant that wherever she was it was near or part of civilization. Hopefully her own.

“Um, young miss, don’t you think it’s quite late for a walk on the beach?”

She heard someone speak from behind her. She instantly reached for her gun in her coat pocket, remembering too late that the coat was folded up on the ground behind her. Risking a glance behind, Jean saw a small man standing a few feet away. Dressed all in black with an old, worn fedora atop his head and a long white beard, flecked with red flowing down his chest, he smiled at her pleasantly.

Jean measured the old man, determining him probably harmless. Probably. “Won’t disagree with ya there, padre,” Jean said after a moment.

The old man nodded. “Cold, too. Yes. Much too cold. You must be freezing,” he said, indicating her feet with his wooden cane.

“A little chilly, sure,” Jean said as she wiped the last bit of sand off her feet, stood up, and slipped on her shoes and coat. “Hey, look, this might sound a little bit nutty, but humor me...”

The old man shrugged. “I do whatever a beautiful young woman asks.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Heh, right. So this is gonna make me seem a bit off my rocker, but… you mind telling me where I am?”

The old man frowned. He glanced over at the shoreline, then at the lights on the horizon. “I would have assumed that would be more than obvious, wouldn’t you think, young miss?” he said waving his cane around him.

“Like I said, humor me.”

“Well, young miss… You’re in Coney Island.”

Jean’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Lord… How?” She stumbled forward, collapsing into the old man’s arms, which caught her much more skillfully than she would have given him credit for.

“Come, now, it cannot be that bad? It’s the playground of the world, no?”

Jean steadied herself. “It’s not that. I…” She looked at the old man and decided against telling him she had been inexplicably transported across the city. She already thought she had gone insane; imagine what Grandpa would think. “I just had a long day, padre. That’s all. Guess I just lost my bearing is all.”

“I know the feeling, my dear,” the old man said with sincerity. “Do you have any place to stay?”

Jean shook her head. “Not around here, no.”

The old man tapped his cane three times on the ground. “Then you shall stay with me. My wife and I have several spare rooms now that our children have families of their own. You shall be comfortable until you can find your way.”

“That isn’t necessary, but thank you. I can just hop on the train—”

He waved his hand in an arbitrary direction. “Nonsense. I will not leave you alone to the night in a city such as this. Besides, the trains are closed at this hour. A warm meal, a warm bed, that is what you need.”

Jean looked into his old, milky grey eyes and saw something that reminded her of the Green Lama and realized she trusted him, though she couldn’t say why. She nodded. “Okay... If you insist.”

“I do! Come, now, there is no better cook on this side of the Atlantic than my wife. You shall see! She is visiting my sons, but tomorrow, you shall see!” he said as they began to walk down the expanse of the boardwalk.

“But tell me, my dear, what is your name? A woman as beautiful as yourself surely has one.”

“Jean,” she replied. “Jean Farrell. And yours, Mister…?”

“You may call me Chaim.”

• • •

“This feels very wrong, Tulku,” Ken said as he considered himself in the mirror, adjusting the outfit the Green Lama had given him until it sat comfortably against his body. “It’s like I’m debasing something holy.”

“You are the star in major Broadway show, Mr. Clayton. Think of this as just another role,” the Green Lama said from the other side of the study.

“No offense, but none of my other roles ever included the risk of actually getting killed,” Ken retorted, chewing the inside of his cheek. He adjusted the collar again and pulled on the velvet sleeves. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to settle into the costume, even though the Green Lama’s assistant—or master, Ken wasn’t quite sure which—Tsarong had tailored it specifically for him. Then there was the makeup, so detailed and refined, unlike anything Ken had experienced on the stage, to the point that he did not recognize the face he saw in the mirror.

“You survived the
S. S. Cathay
, the Murder Corporation,” the Green Lama said, clearly distracted.

“That was no walk in the park, okay? I was scared out of my mind.” Ken spun around to face the Green Lama, who was furiously working at his laboratory table. “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” the Green Lama sounded as he worked without pause.

“You’re about to send me out on a do-or-die covert mission, and you’re over there, ignoring me, looking like some sort of movie serial villain.”

“I am trying to enhance the efficiency of my radioactive salts,” the Green Lama said as he placed a test tube filled with jade liquid into a centrifuge, refusing to look up at Ken.

“The radioactive salts? You mean the stuff that gets you all super strong and such?”

The Green Lama nodded as he started the centrifuge and turned toward a microscope, placing a slide beneath the magnifier.

“Look, Tulku.” Ken took a tentative step toward the robed vigilante. “I’ve seen you in action. I know what you can do. You don’t need to make those things any more powerful.”

“Do you have the item I gave you?” the Green Lama asked, avoiding Ken’s question. “And the address I provided?”

“Yes,” Ken said, exasperated.

“And you remember what I told you to ask, yes?”

“I can recite the Complete Works of Shakespeare backwards while standing on my head, if you want, so yes, I remember what you told me,” Ken said waving his hand above his head in annoyance.

“It is vital that you report back to me
exactly
what you learn. Do not leave out a single detail.”

Ken reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Yes, Tulku,” he said as he struck a match.

“‘He’ doesn’t smoke,” the Green Lama said, his back now turned to Ken as he jotted down notes.

“What do you mean, ‘he’?”

The Green Lama lifted his head but kept his back turned toward Ken. “
You
,” he replied sharply. “You don’t smoke. Not dressed like that, at least.”

Waving out the match, Ken watched as the Green Lama returned to his notes, as if Ken were a mere distraction to be ignored. He watched the Green Lama’s hurried motions and realized the truth of the matter.

“You’re actually scared, aren’t you?” There was a slight hesitation but the Green Lama didn’t reply. Ken risked another step closer. “Not for me, though,” he said taking another tentative step forward. “Not even for yourself. You’re scared for
her
.”

The Green Lama grimaced but continued his frantic labor. Despite his increasing celebrity, Ken never felt any heightened sense of self-importance; he didn’t need to be the center of attention, nor did he really want it—there were things about him he couldn’t let the world see. He just wanted to be another soul floating through this mess of a world, but this game, he decided, had gone on long enough. He wasn’t about to dive headfirst into certain danger for someone who would treat him so dispassionately. Storming around the laboratory table to face the Green Lama, he slammed his right palm down, rattling the test tubes, vials and Bunsen burners. “Hey!” he shouted. “You look at me when I’m talking to you!”

The Green Lama put down his chemicals, laced his fingers together, and looked straight into Ken’s eyes. Ken stumbled back a step, stunned by the Green Lama’s visage. His skin was milky white, his normally vibrant blue-grey eyes dulled and bloodshot, ringed in black.

“I—I…” Ken stammered.

“You are right, Mr. Clayton. I confess my concern for Miss Farrell, unprecedented as it is, trumps my concern for you, and yes, even myself. I apologize for that.” The Green Lama leaned heavily against the table as he stood up from his stool. He stepped forward toward Ken, his feet clearly heavy from exhaustion. “But, there is more than just that. The perpetrator behind the attack on the German consulate, beyond the terrible crimes he has most notoriously perpetrated, in addition, has, it is my belief, broken a supreme law that transcends our plane of existence. I do not yet know exactly the transgression that was committed, but I do know that in doing so he has either intentionally or inadvertently damaged a vital link to the spiritual realm and has severely weakened me as well as reality itself.” He took a deep, rattling breath. “Time, Mr. Clayton, is of the essence.”

Ken nodded quickly, visibly shaken.

“Good,” the Green Lama said, turning back to his lab table. “Then we have an understanding. Contact me as soon as you can.”

“Ye—Yes. Yeah. Sure,” Ken said as he spun on his heels toward the secret elevator at the back of the study, fingering the item in his pocket nervously. As he stepped inside, Ken glanced back over his shoulder at the Green Lama, huddled over his equipment.

Whatever it was they were up against, if it could do
that
to the Green Lama, then every man, woman, and child had a reason to fear the darkness.

The doors closed, and the elevator plunged down into the depths.

• • •

Caraway flexed his arm, testing the wound.
Wounds
, he corrected himself,
lots and lots of wounds.
He lost count at seventeen. His right arm, right shoulder, and left hand were covered in bandages. Stitches lined his abdomen and forehead, giving him the appearance of Frankenstein’s monster. All he needed was bolts in his neck to complete the transformation.

The doctor grunted when he finished wrapping up the last of the bandages. “The only thing keeping you together,” the doctor said with a cigarette hanging loosely in his lips, “is about six feet of stitching and a pound of bandaging. Don’t think I’ve done this much sewing since my daughter busted her rag doll.”