“Tulku, I am surprised you did not get Dr. Valco to help you with this. He would be better suited for this procedure,” he said aloud to Jethro, who was slipping on a white lab coat. During his decade at the Temple of the Clouds, in addition to his Buddhist studies, Jethro had spent time learning a number of sciences, including human anatomy. And while he had performed several autopsies, there were limits to his knowledge.
Jethro shook his head. “I called his office, but he wasn’t available—Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he added off Tsarong’s worried expression. “His assistant said he went to work on some kind of a special project upstate. I’m sure we can manage without him.”
Jethro turned on an overheard bulb, blanketing the body in a cold blue light, throwing into stark relief the damage done to the woman’s body. Her skin, perhaps once a pale pink, was white, bordering on grey; thick black veins visible beneath the skin. Tsarong frowned and stole a glance at the large veins protruding from Jethro’s neck. They were getting worse, he noted, but chose to say nothing. Now was not the time.
“Are you ready?” Jethro asked him as he reached for a scalpel.
Tsarong nodded solemnly. “Yes, Tulku.”
Jethro leaned over the body. “Female, age late twenties. Apparent cause of death, a gunshot wound to the side of the head,” he described as Tsarong took notes. “Deceased’s skin is unnaturally pale, veins are distended and discolored. There is a puncture wound within overlapping triangular and circular scars on the deceased’s forehead…”
“What is it?”
Jethro frowned. “No, I just… When Caraway was possessed he drew this exact symbol on his forehead. He doesn’t remember much from then, ‘flashes and fog’ is what he describes, nor did he recognize the symbol at the scene. Besides Betty Dale, I was the only one who saw him do it.”
“You’re not suggesting the demons from the Bartlett are behind this?”
“I dearly hope not, but there’s only one way to find out…” Jethro returned to the body. “The puncture wound was created some time prior to death. I will make the first incision in the chest to examine the deceased’s organs.” He pressed the scalpel between the woman’s breasts and sliced down to the abdomen, eliciting a flow of black ooze. Jethro described the occurrence before cracking the ribs and splitting them open.
Tsarong drew in a sharp breath as the woman’s organs came into view. He was no stranger to a human being’s inner workings, but it was clear that this was no longer a human body. The stomach and intestines were enlarged while the heart, kidneys, and liver were shriveled, the lungs deflated. Everything was covered in a black webbing, stringy and pulsating. The smell was putrid, hitting Tsarong like a hammer. He gagged as he instinctively covered his mouth and nose.
Jethro fell back a step and coughed into his gloved hand, his eyes blinking and tearing as if he were cutting onions. “Body is filled with—pungent—black fluid,” he said between coughs. “Possibly organic—in nature. Tsarong—get the gas masks,” he instructed, pointing to the three masks hanging on the wall.
Tsarong quickly complied and once their masks were in place, they returned to their investigation. Jethro took out each organ one by one, placing them in glass jars for further analysis, careful never to touch the ooze with his bare skin. Once that was completed, he moved up to the woman’s shattered skull. Tsarong had carefully shaved her scalp bald earlier, allowing Jethro to saw away a section, careful not to damage to wound on the forehead. He carefully pulled off the piece of the skull and began to examine the brain.
“Brain is heavily damaged from the bullet,” Jethro observed, his voice muffled through the mask. “Whereas internal organs were simply coated with obsidian liquid, the brain appears to be saturated with the organic black substance.” He pulled a light over and peered closely at the dark grey matter. To Tsarong’s eyes, what was left undamaged by the bullet told little to nothing, but Jethro saw it all.
“This was the injection point,” he said excitedly, indicating the small hole in the center of the forehead. “The needle was drilled through the skull, where the fluid was injected here.” He moved his finger and indicated the narrow space between the two frontal lobes. “Whatever this fluid is, it saturated the brain before entering her nervous system. From there, the fluid somehow worked its way into the woman’s heart where it then entered the blood stream and began infecting her whole body, until it eventually altered the configuration of her internal organs and—” Jethro cut himself short. Despite the stench, he pulled off his mask and took two long steps back and fell into a nearby chair, his eyes locked on the cadaver.
Tsarong ripped off his own gas mask and ran over to Jethro. “What is it, Tulku?”
“I—I’m not sure but…” Jethro pinched his eyes shut. “The necrosis is far more advanced than it should be at this point. Most of her organs are showing weeks of decay, when she should only show a few hours at the most. Her lungs have shriveled to the point that they would only be able to inhale a tenth of the oxygen needed. There is no blood in her veins. Her cerebral matter is so saturated with the fluid that higher brain function wouldn’t be possible.”
“Tulku, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Jethro opened his eyes and gave Tsarong a look that chilled his blood. “I’m saying that this woman was already dead when Jean shot her.”
• • •
THE SUN had set a long time ago, and out there somewhere in the sky there were stars, but here in New York there was only the muted black of city night. Not that long ago, those hidden stars had aligned and brought forth indescribable horrors. They would probably do so again, but that wasn’t something Ken wanted to think about right now. He didn’t want to think about anything right now. He just wanted to drown it all down in scotch, in bourbon, in whatever else he could find until all he could do was fall face first into a brief visit to oblivion. But no matter how much he drank, his goal seemed to creep further and further away. He tapped the ashes off the tip of his cigarette, his fifth—maybe sixth—of the night, the ashtray looking like a graveyard. Beside him, Caraway was making his way through a bottle of ouzo. Like Ken, he too was looking for the quickest route to unconsciousness and was speeding there fast. They had been sitting at the pub for the better part of the afternoon and into the evening, watching it transform from a near-empty way station of slumped headed winos to a boisterous center of revelry, filled with the sound of glasses clinking and songs being sung.
“Don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” Ken commented as Caraway poured himself another glass. “Tastes like licorice.”
“I happen to like licorice,” Caraway replied gruffly, slurring his words. He clumsily slammed the bottle back on to the bar.
“Well, good for you. More whiskey for me,” Ken replied sipping at his drink, saddened to discover the bottom of the glass. “Speaking of which…” He raised his glass and caught the bartender’s eye. It was almost magic to watch the glass refill with amber liquid.
“Can I ask you a question?” Ken asked after several sips.
“Think you just did,” Caraway said into his glass.
Ken cleared his throat; the whiskey singed the back of his throat. “Does Jethro—I mean, the Tulku, the Lama… I mean—Does he seem different to you? Bigger, somehow? And his powers—”
“Well, he’s not using the enhanced salts, I can tell ya that.” Caraway replied after a moment studying his empty glass. “Told me himself he doesn’t need ’em anymore.”
Ken furrowed his brow. “Huh. Wonder why he gave us the code to his safe then? Hm.”
Caraway half turned to Ken. “His safe?”
Ken shrugged. “Yeah, he keeps all his super special salts locked up in his study, behind the golden Buddha. You know the one. Jean and I each have half of the code, though I bet Tsarong has it, too, considering he’s Dumont’s manservant, former teacher, or something. Imagine if someone ever got their hands on that stuff? We’d be in deep shit.” He took a swig, gulping down half his g
lass. “I’m gonna be honest, John, I don’t know how I’m still sitting upright. I don’t think I’ve drank this… this much since Hollywood. Not this time. The first time. When I was out there.”
Caraway let out a brusque laugh. He was already pouring himself another glass. “And how was Hollywood, by the way?”
“Hotter than you’d expect,” Ken replied with a shrug. “No seasons that I could tell. Thought I felt an earthquake once, but it turned out to be a truck driving by.”
Caraway chuckled.
“How was Germany?”
Caraway’s hand stopped short of his glass, and his slanted smirk turned solemn. “Cold,” he said after a moment. He took a swig of his drink and immediately poured himself another. “Colder than you’d expect.”
Ken smiled uncomfortably and tapped his nails against his glass. He wouldn’t pry any further. While Ken, Dumont, and Jean all went back to the States after R’lyeh, Caraway had gone into the belly of the beast in search of Gan’s family. There was no question that he had been through hell, perhaps worse than any of them, which was saying something. To fight your way through Nazi Germany and then return home to find your wife and job gone would take a lot out of a man, which was why Ken couldn’t blame him for emptying the bottle of ouzo into his stomach.
Ken looked over his shoulder at the raucous crowd. There was a rhythm to them, a pattern, none that Ken could perceive, but he was sure Dumont could. Perhaps that’s what it took to be a… What? A vigilante? A hero? Were they one in the same or was there a line between the two? And if so what side of the line were they, those who fought alongside the Lama, all on? He took a sip of his drink. He was woolgathering, that great profession that united drunkards and intellectuals.
“You know, last time we were in a bar,” he said aloud to Caraway, “we got the shit kicked out of us.”
“I was just trying to talk to a girl,” Caraway corrected. “You got the shit kicked out you.”
Ken pointedly rapped his knuckles on the bar. “And let’s not forget that someone shot me. In the arm.”
“You were grazed.”
“By a bullet.”
“Not the same as being shot.”
“Yes, it is!”
“Kid. No, it isn’t.”
“And here I was hoping for a fun evening.”
“Our ideas of fun are very different, Clayton.”
Ken kept his eyes on his glass and thought of Roger Edens, the smell of his cologne, the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, the way it bristled against his lips. He thought of Benn Mendoza, a circus performer he had met while on a case, the first man Ken had ever truly loved. He lost himself in the memories of their all-too-brief sojourn, their days and nights enmeshed in each other, their arms wrapped around one another as the world had gone away. Those few months had been wonderful, but Ken hated himself for them. He had been too brash and stupid. There had always been rumors, you couldn’t be an actor and not have them swirl around you… He knew that wasn’t what Caraway meant, but alcohol can make anything mean something. “You have no idea,” he admitted under his breath.
“No, I do,” Caraway admitted with a nod.
Ken’s eyes went wide and his stomach dropped. He looked at Caraway in stunned silence. “How long have you known?” he eventually managed.
“Come on, I’m a—I used to be a New York City detective. Give me some credit.” He poured out the last of his ouzo. “Since day one.”
“And that doesn’t…?” he croaked, his throat bone dry.
Caraway shrugged. “I fought in the blood and shit alongside men braver than I’ll ever be and some were…” He gestured to Ken. “Who they were didn’t change how they fought or how they died.” He took his last swig. “So, I have to ask myself, who the hell am I to say what’s right or not?” He flipped the glass over and placed it on the counter. “Besides, all the shit that we deal with, giant squid gods, rampaging clay monsters, demons, and psychotic Nazis… What you do with another man ain’t so unnatural, is it?”
Ken smiled at that. “No, I suppose not.”
“Plus, it’s the only way that could explain how’d you let a peach like Jean slip away.”
“Tell me about it. I mean, come on. Dumont?” Ken scoffed. “Guy runs around in a bathrobe.” They both burst out in laughter. Ken clapped Caraway on the back and waved the bartender over. “Another whiskey for me and another bottle of licorice for my friend.”
• • •
JEAN WAS running late. Compounded with the fact that she had never bothered to call out sick last night, she fully expected to get an ear full from Fluegge, but a pissed off theatre director was nothing she couldn’t handle. What worried her more was whether she would be able to remember her lines. All she could think about was the look on that little girl’s face—Colleen, she reminded herself. Thank God for Jethro, he was her rock. It wasn’t so much the words he had said, but small moments he had given her. Brief looks, small gestures of affection that let her know he was there for her, that he understood. But it was more than the girl… It was this entire case—if she could call it that. It felt more like a marathon of mistakes and murders, as if they were all in over their heads in a way that made the events in Samothrace and R’lyeh seem somehow effortless. She was certain they would all make it out on the other side—they always did—but that didn’t make the present any easier.
Maybe her nerves were just frayed. God willing, they wouldn’t show up on stage because the third act was going to be murder.
“Yes, I know, I know,” she said as she pushed open the backstage door with her hip. “I’m sorry about last night, but I had—” She paused at the silence. The place was empty and dark, the only light leaking in from the stage. She took a tentative step forward, holding the door open with her hand. Broken glass littered the floor beneath a maze of overturned chairs, discarded costumes, and small maroon droplets. Jean swallowed the lump forming in her throat, her heart hammering. “Hello?”
“Good evening, Miss Farrell, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” an ice-cold voice said over the loudspeaker.
Jean instantly reached into her purse, pulled out her pistol, and let the handbag fall to the ground. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“Come on stage, Miss Farrell,” the voice instructed. “There’s an audience waiting for you.”
She wrapped both hands around the gun’s butt, her forefinger testing the weight of the trigger. She kicked off her shoes—if she had to run she didn’t want to do it in heels—and took another step forward, the floor frigid against her bare feet, careful to avoid the broken glass. “Yeah? And what if I’ve got a sudden case of stage fright?” she defiantly asked, letting the door close behind her, dropping everything into shadow. “That happens you know. Even the big boys sometimes get in over their head.”
“Indeed, but we know that won’t be the case, will it, Miss Farrell? You’re braver than most.”
“Nah, just stupider.” She pushed aside a fallen chair, careful not to step on the shattered glass as she inched toward the stage entrance, peering into every shadow, every corner.
The voice hummed pleasantly, as if stifling a laugh. “The words have been known to be synonymous.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” She tried to place the voice, but didn’t recognize it. The speaker was definitely male, possibly American, but the accent was wrong, as if it was cobbled together from various different regions and dialects, shifting and changing with every sentence. “So, while we’re getting to know one another, Mr. Creepy Voice, be honest with me. Are you the Phantom of the Opera?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. My singing voice would never compare.”
“Aw, well ain’t that the saddest thing?” Jean made her way into the narrow hallway leading to the stairwell up to the stage. A bare bulb hung overhead, barely illuminating the space. She stepped forward, the floor feeling at once slick and sticky. She kept her eyes and gun trained on the doorway, knowing full well what was beneath her feet
. Her breathing was ragged and she found herself shivering. She steadied her hands as best she could. He was watching her, she could feel it like a spider crawling down her back, but she wouldn’t let him see how terrified she was.
“I understand yours is quite lovely,” the man said, his voice echoing eerily in the tight space. “Would you sing something for me?”
“Yeah, why don’t you write down a list of your favorite songs and I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Miss Farrell.”
Her face felt hot, but her teeth tried to chatter. She used the muzzle of her gun to carefully push aside the curtain. She stepped onto the darkened stage. The main curtain was drawn back, the auditorium barely visible. Her steps echoed out into the rafters; the quiet was deafening. There was a faint sound of dripping water, like the end of a rainstorm. Her hands were sweat-damp with anticipation. Now was not the time to bow.
Now was the time for guns.
“All right, I’m here!” she called out defiantly, betraying none of the fear rattling inside her. “Let’s get this over with!”
A spotlight suddenly came to life, momentarily blinding her. She raised her left hand to block the light, while her right kept the gun ready to fire.
“I’m afraid I never saw your show, Miss Farrell,” the man said from the shadows. He was somewhere in the auditorium, but she couldn’t pinpoint where. “Pity. I hear you were splendid.”
“Not according the Times,” she replied. “They thought I came off as too ‘rough around the edges’ if you could believe that. But if we’re here to talk shop, the least you could do is come out so we can do it face-to-face, no need to stand off in the shadows. There’s a guy on the radio who does that and I hate it.”
“Shadows are all we really have, Miss Farrell. They let us know when we’re standing in the light.”
“Right, cause that makes sense. You know I have a gun, right?”
The man laughed; a hollow laugh that had no soul behind it. “I would have been surprised if you didn’t. Here. Let me make this easier for you.” In the middle of the orchestra section the man stood up from his seat like a living shadow. Jean silently cursed to herself, she had been looking right at him. “Hello, Miss Farrell. Or is it Miss Parker? Or would you prefer both? I am a fan of nom de guerre,” the man said as he slowly walked toward the aisle, his motions fluid. “Names have such power.”
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 19