The Green Lama: Crimson Circle

by Adam Lance Garcia

  “You asked me in R’lyeh if I ever thought Jethro would retire,” Jean said, unconsciously drumming her hand on the handle of her holstered gun. “What our lives would be like if we…” She cleared her throat. “Part of me expected it to be like it always was. Saving the day with a laugh and a smile. Sure we’ve faced down death and monsters, but there was always a sense, in the back of my mind, that we would all make it out to the other side. But with Theodor and Gary… I guess I’m finding out what the other side is really like… and it’s a lot harder than I ever expected.”

  “You’re not saying you and Jethro—”

  “What? No. God, no. I’m crazier about him today than when we first got together. It’s just that—” She ran her hand through her hair. “We’re out here to do good, right? We’re out here to save people. That’s what Jethro stands for. That’s why we’re here. But what do we do when not even the heroes are safe?”

  Something moved in the shadows of the alleyway, a lurch of motion in human form. Jean’s heart began hammering, her blood boiling. Her revolver was cocked before she realized she had drawn it. “There! Come on!” she hissed as she ran passed Ken, who was fumbling with his cigarette. She charged through the roof exit and raced down the stairs, her heels echoing down the stairwell.

  Bursting into the alleyway, Jean already had her gun aimed at the man hunched in the shadows. “You! Creepy guy in the corner!” she shouted. “Turn and let me see your baby blues.”

  The man took a long shuffling turn around, his feet dragging against the concrete. Gooseflesh ran up Jean’s neck and her finger instinctively squeezed down on the trigger, anticipating the bloody triangle and circle on the man’s forehead, the black ooze between his teeth. She heard Ken yell as the hammer fell down on the revolver. He knocked her arm, sending the bullet wild, raining brick over the alleyway.

  “Jean, no!” Ken shouted, trying to wrench the gun from her hand. “It’s just some drunk!”

  “Puhlees,” the man sobbed, “doan hur me!”

  Jean froze. The man was hunched over himself, holding his arms over his head. His clothes were ratty, ripped and ruined. He stank of whiskey and rum, his beard sopped with alcohol. His eyes were wide; his corroded mouth gaped in fear. The gun in her hand suddenly became impossibly heavy, and her arm swung limp to her side.

  “Sorry about the scare there, buddy. It’s been one of those weeks, eh? Get out of here and try and sober up,” Ken told the drunk, patting the man on the shoulder while handing him a dollar. The drunk nodded in fearful understanding before he stumbled down the alleyway, rounded the corner, and disappeared into the street.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ken groaned angrily once the man was out of earshot. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

  Jean shook her head slightly, her gaze still stuck on the ground. She replayed it all back in her head. She had seen the scar, the black ooze… hadn’t she? She glanced down at her gun, still warm from the shot. Bits of brick were sprinkled over her shoulder, her hair. She absently holstered her gun.

  Ken’s brow furrowed in concern. He reached over to touch her shoulder. “Jean…”

  She heard her name, bringing her back to reality, back to the cold and the night where the monsters still lurked. He met her gaze, his sympathy short-lived. “You’re jumping at shadows, Red,” he said calmly.

  Jean’s eyes fell. She had overreacted, she knew that, but that didn’t stop the horrors that were clawing through the city. “That’s ’cause the shadows keep jumping back, Clayton.”

  That’s when she heard the screams coming from the third floor window.

  • • •

  LIKE SO MANY things, the bar had been left abandoned, boarded up and left to collect dust until it all rusted away. The Green Lama stared down at the bullet hole in the floor, blood soaked into the wood. Theodor’s blood. It was maroon, almost brown, scabbed over. The bones and brain matter had been collected and discarded; only a few shards remained jammed between the floorboards. The Green Lama drifted further down the bar. He kept his feet off the ground—a task that had grown dramatically easier over time—to avoid contaminating the crime scene. A long trail of dried blood—Theodor Harrin’s blood—tracked through the bar, leading up to a solitary table in the back. The table had been left where it had fallen, tilted to the side and cracked straight through the center. Standing guard over the table’s vacant space were two old wooden chairs, one so caked with blood the legs were stuck to the floor. That was where Theodor had sat, where he had been tortured. Fingernails, clumps of hair and chunks of skin had been found piled up around the chair. The pain must have been excruciating. But for all the blood, for all the evidence of the horrors Theodor had endured, there were no clues. No fingerprints, shoe prints, or stray hairs—save for Theodor’s—not even a single bullet shell casing. Nothing, the scene had been swept clean. It was as if Theodor had been killed by a ghost.

  Jethro pulled back his hood and let his feet touch the ground. He had been through the crime scene every night for nearly two weeks, always coming up empty. His shoulders slumped, his body wracked with exhaustion despite the energy coursing through his body.

  He tried to think back to his short time working with Theodor, but found the memories muddled. Even Theodor’s act—which had always impressed him—seemed grey and faded in his thoughts, an old photograph left out in the sun. He could recall his adventures with Gary and Evangl in vivid detail; his times with Ken, Caraway and Jean stood out like mountains in a plain. But, Theodor… Theodor was forgotten. Jethro sat across from the blood caked chair and stared at it silently, hating himself. He had failed Theodor, as he failed those children on the docks, as he failed the passengers aboard the Bartlett, as he had failed Gan and Sotiria, as he had failed the Cannibal Killer’s victims… He massaged his eyes. Was this what now awaited Gary; awaited everyone he ever held dear?

  The veins on his right arm pulsated angrily, reaching up to his shoulder. He opened his hand and flexed his fingers, watching the green veins push against his skin, glowing subtly in the dark. How much time did he have left? Weeks? Days? Every second was borrowed time. It seemed so obvious now, that surviving an evil such as Cthulhu should have a price. Jethro had no fear of mortality, but there was still so much he had left to do, so many things he could accomplish…

  Jethro’s hand began to glow brighter, reminding him once again of Tsarong’s teachings all those years ago: “When the fire of anger touches you, do not grasp it. Release it like a burning coal lest it burn you. You must let go of your anger.” Jethro took a deep breath, and then another, desperately trying to let go of the coal trapped in his chest, but it was no good, the fire grew hotter inside him, threatening to explode. He had broken nearly every tenet of his faith to help rid the world of darkness. He had sacrificed all of himself in the face of evil. All that he had done, for what? So that anyone who came close to him would die at the hands of the very darkness he was trying to destroy? What would it take? What further sacrifices would he have to make to save all that he loved?

  Jethro snarled as his body began to vibrate from within, the fire—the anger—within threatening to consume him. His eyes became luminescent orbs. Soon his whole body radiated light and energy, scorching the wood beneath his feet before setting it aflame. And when he finally screamed, the shockwave of energy that blasted out from his body devastated the building around him. The pavement of the street cracked while every window in a three-block radius shattered.

  And the light—green and white and as bright as the sun—could be seen for miles.

  Chapter 8: MEETINGS

  KAITLIN HAD BEEN missing for three weeks now, but Sean never bothered crying. Crying was for weak men, over pints of ale and whiskey with sad songs drifting through the air. Sean would never let Colleen see him cry. Little Colleen, her red hair still vibrant and full of curls, she didn’t seem to notice her mother had skipped out again, probably chasing yet another man with grand dreams and a smooth tongue. Perhaps the child had become a
ccustomed to it, a thought that upset Sean more than he would have expected. He would like to say that things had been better back in the old country, but Sean was not one to lie to himself. He wasn’t innocent of infidelity, but he would never leave his Colleen. She was his light. He had hoped that moving to America would have somehow, miraculously fixed things between him and Kaitlin, but he had learned he couldn’t wipe away the past anymore than he could change it.

  Sean dried off the last dinner plate—there were only two tonight—watching from the corner of his eye as Colleen walked into the kitchen dressed in her long pink nightgown, her ginger hair tied neatly back in a bun. His heart melted. She was so beautiful.

  “Are you ready for bed, darling?” he asked as he put the plate away.

  Colleen tugged at her nightgown as if to prove a point. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “You brush your teeth?”

  Colleen crossed her arms and sighed audibly. She had her mother’s attitude, there was no doubt. “I always brush my teeth.”

  He kneeled down and stroked her hair, kissing her on the forehead. “There’s a good girl.”

  Something scratched at the front door and Sean’s smile twisted into a frown. He glanced at the clock. It was too late for someone to come calling.

  “We have guests,” Colleen observed.

  “Go to your room, sweetheart,” he told her. His throat tightened up. It couldn’t be Pete Barry’s boys; Pete Barry had been dead for months. He stood up, his hands unconsciously curling into fists. “Daddy’ll be there in a minute.” When she didn’t move, he placed his hand on her back and gently pushed her toward her bedroom. “Go, darling. It’ll be all right.”

  Sean waited until Colleen turned into her room before he walked over to the door, his heart hammering in his chest the way it used to when he was young, kissing girls in the schoolyard. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the doorknob. “’Allo?” he called through the door. “’Allo, who’s there?”

  A moan and another scratch; Sean rested his head against the door, knowing full well who was on the other side. His fist unfurled, but the anger—and the sadness—remained. He slowly turned the knob and opened the door. Kaitlin stood in the hallway; her head slumped to the side, her hair draped over her face. Her clothing was stained, and she reeked something horrible. Sean sighed. Oh, Kaitlin, he wished he didn’t love her.

  “Nice to see you back home,” he grumbled.

  Kaitlin moaned as her head leaned listlessly back. She took a half-step back, trying to steady herself. She was drunk.

  “Which one was it this time?” Sean asked, crossing his arms. “The butcher or the grocer? I know you’ve been messing around with both. Don’t try and pretend. I’ve known for—”

  Kaitlin raised her left hand, reaching for him. Her fingernails were crusted with dirt, her wedding ring still glinting in the dim hallway light.

  “Glad to see you didn’t take it off this time,” Sean said, sounding more sincere than he intended. Kaitlin took a shambling step toward him, letting out another soft, mournful moan, but Sean swatted her hand away. “Don’t. I’m not letting you off that easy this time. Sleep it off and we’ll talk tomorrow.” He caught another whiff of her horrible stench. “And get yerself showered. I don’t want Colleen to see ya like this.”

  Kaitlin let out another moan, loud and guttural. She leaned her head forward and her bangs fell to the side, revealing her shattered face. Her skin was pale grey bordering on white. A horrible scar carved out the center of her forehead, a bloody concave puncture wound oozing black, surrounded by a crooked triangle in a circle. Her eyes were glassy and milk white, seemingly blind yet staring straight at him. She stretched open her jaw, baring her black-lined teeth. “Shhaaw—!”

  The blood drained from Sean’s face and his feet fell out from under him. “Kait?” he sobbed. “Kait!” He tumbled into the apartment, onto the floor, instinctually scuttling backwards as Kaitlin advanced on him, moving faster than he could have ever believed. Her hands clasped his skull and dug her nails into his face, breaking skin.

  There was a high-pitched screech from the other side of the apartment. Unable to turn his head, Sean shot his eyes over to the sound. Colleen was in the hallway, a bit of her nightgown bunched up in her hands, as tears streamed down her cheeks. Sean reached for her, but she was too far away.

  “Colleen, run!” he shouted. But Colleen only stumbled back against the wall, sobbing hysterically.

  Kaitlin pressed her thumbs against Sean’s forehead, her cracked nails digging into the muscle, to the bone. Sean screamed in pain. He grabbed Kaitlin’s wrists and tried to pull her off him, but she was so impossibly strong. He looked into Kaitlin’s dead white eyes as she brought her face to his. Her jaw stretched open and he understood. He didn’t want Colleen to see this. Please, God, don’t let her see this.

  There was the crack and flash of gunfire. The side of Kaitlin’s skull exploded out with black, white and grey, splattering over Sean. Kaitlin’s body remained rigid for a moment, her milky eyes meeting Sean’s, frozen in time. Her head tilted to the right, as if she was listening to a question before her she toppled over, black ooze pouring out her shattered skull and onto the floor.

  Sean looked up to the redheaded woman standing in his doorway, the revolver still smoking in her hand. If she noticed the black blood splattered on her face, she made no effort to wipe it away. A blonde man, pistol in hand, stood beside her in shock. The woman walked over to Kaitlin’s body and eyed it suspiciously before tapping it with the toe of her shoe. Satisfied, the woman silently holstered her gun. She glanced at Colleen mournfully before she turned to Sean.

  “I need to use your phone.”

  • • •

  CARAWAY WALKED into his apartment, his body creaking like old floorboards. His spine felt stiff, bent into an awkward angle. His feet throbbed in his shoes, his face felt painted with dirt. He had spent the entire day with Fulton and Crevier, working over every aspect of the case, but finding themselves no closer to a solution.

  He flicked on the light in the living room and sighed audibly. The apartment was pathetic. Most of the furniture went with Francesca into the ether, never to be seen again. He promised himself to purchase at least a couch once things calmed down, knowing that day would probably never come. How could he stop to buy furniture when the world was constantly falling into madness? White rectangles marked the spaces where photos and paintings once hung, while on the floor dark spots of wood revealed where sofas and tables used to sit. Caraway’s stomach twisted and his heart started thumping in irregular beats. He wasn’t sure which he really missed, Francesca or the idea of her. So much of their relationship had been predicated on what they could have, what they would have. But what did they really have? Was it a beautiful and shining thing, the sort of romance that turned men into poets? Or was it simply passion confused for romance; two people who never truly belonged together, but convinced themselves they did. Caraway’s throat tightened.

  What was it like for normal people? Caraway tried to remember back to when he had first joined the force, when thec rooks were only booze runners and johns with their pants down around their ankles. He was just a kid in a uniform back then, could barely even grow a mustache. Sure, there were car chases, gunfights and more than a couple of murders, but the monsters were just men with guns. You could slap them in handcuffs and toss them behind bars and the job was done. How much simpler things had been; he remembered enjoying it.

  Now it just felt like the world was crumbling around him.

  “Have you made any progress?” a voice whispered from the far corner of the room. The Green Lama stepped forward from the shadows, his robe covered in dust, his face hidden in darkness. Caraway could feel the electricity radiate off the Lama, making the hair on his neck stand on end. “Are we closer to finding Theodor’s killer?”

  “You know, there was a time that you walking out of the shadows would have given me four heart attacks,” Caraway sighed. He shook his
head. “No. Spent most of the day working on the Cannibal Killer case.”

  The Green Lama nodded in understanding. “Jean is scouting—”

  “You sure that’s the best idea?”

  “You, more than anyone, know how capable she is, if it weren’t for her—”

  “I trust Jean with my life, Jethro,” Caraway shot back, “but that doesn’t mean it’s safe out there.”

  “A dozen innocent people have already lost their lives, John,” the Green Lama said fiercely. “What else are we to do? We cannot sit idly by and wait for the next murder.”

  “Jethro, with the ‘Cannibal Killer’ and this Omega character running around, we’re getting attacked on all sides. We can’t spread ourselves thinner than we already are. I just…” Caraway ran a hand through his hair. “I care about her too, y’know. Her, Ken, Evangl, Marie… The whole lot.” He touched the Green Lama’s shoulder, ignoring the slight shock of electricity. “This is my family, too, Jethro.”

  The Green Lama nodded solemnly and gave Caraway a thin smile. The electricity that had been radiating off him dissipated. “I appreciate that, John.” He tucked his hands into his sleeves and began pacing the room.

  “Did you find anything at the crime scene?” Caraway asked. “You’ve been there so many times, I’d bet you know the place like the back of your hand by now.”

  The Green Lama shook his head. “Nothing,” he admitted. “There is nothing there. Might as well have been a ghost that killed Theodor and the others. You would think after all the cases we’ve investigated over the years, a triple homicide would be the simplest of tasks, but…” The Green Lama trailed off and bowed his head, refusing to meet Caraway’s gaze. “He was one of us, John,” he murmured. “One of mine.”

  Caraway frowned uncomfortably. For all his god-like powers, the Green Lama was still very human. “I know that, Jethro. That doesn’t mean it was your fault.”