The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Betty pursed her lips. “You expect me to believe it’s all just coincidence?”

  “There are such things, Miss Dale.”

  “I’ve learned otherwise.”

  “Have you now? Then, let me ask you a question, Miss Dale. What have you seen that has left you so jaded?”

  Dale arched an eyebrow. “Things you wouldn’t believe.”

  He leaned forward, a caustic smile tugging at the comer of his mouth. “Try me.”

  A waiter approached the table and stood awkwardly, hands laced together. “Excuse me, Mr. Dumont, Sir, but you have a call from a Mr. Sah-wrong.”

  Dumont’s debonair smile instantly returned as if it never left. It was a mask, Betty realized with little surprise. “Ah, my assistant, Tsarong,” he said to the waiter, then to Betty with unexpected warmth: “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Dale.”

  Betty gave him a terse nod and watched him disappear into the crush of people.

  An hour later, Betty, resigned to the fact that Dumont wasn’t coming back, finished her drink and dropped a few bills on the table. She began to collect her notes when she glanced at Dumont’s drink, realizing he had never taken a sip.

  Frankie Annor, Jr. sat with his feet hanging over the edge of the dock, watching as dawn started to show on the horizon, a band of orange mixing with purple and black. The night shift was agony, but the money was good and for a Frenchman of color good money was hard to come by. The Americans liked to say their Civil War made everything right, but if your skin was any shade darker than white you had an impossible hill to climb.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like this country, or this city for that matter; he loved it. The way it moved, the way it smelled, the way it tasted, but there was no ignoring the bitter aftertaste, the putrid smell that lay beneath the streets.

  At least the sunrises were always beautiful.

  He sprinkled a pinch of tobacco into his pipe and dug into his coat pocket for his matchbox, shaking it to make sure he had one or two still left inside. Satisfied, he pushed open the box and moved to strike a match when he heard something splashing in the river. Curious, he leaned forward to find a young man—a boy, really—dog paddling toward the dock. Frankie lit his pipe and took several puffs before he called, “Do you need some help down there?”

  The boy turned around in the water to face him, surprised by Frankie’s presence. “Ah, yes,” he said bashfully “I think I do.”

  Frankie bit down on his pipe, wrapped his left arm around a dock post, and extended his right. The boy swam over and when he was close enough, latched on to Frankie’s hand.

  “We are going to do this on three, oui?”

  “Three, okay,” the boy replied breathlessly. How long had he been in the water, Frankie wondered?

  “Un… deux… trois!” He pulled the boy out of the water, grunting loudly as his worn forearms screamed in protest. The boy grabbed at the dock and pulled himself up the rest of the way, collapsing into a gasping, shivering heap.

  Frankie took off his jacket and offered it to the boy, who took it with a nod of thanks. Frankie couldn’t help but notice the scar on the boy’s neck: a long, diagonal gash with three uneven dashes on the left, two on the right. He unconsciously cocked his head to get a better look at it, thinking it looked more like an infected vein than a scar.

  “You want to try to explain what you’re doing swimming ’round the docks?” Frankie asked, puffing his pipe.

  The boy looked out to the river for several moments. “I don’t really know,” he said at last, water dripping off his nose. “I was… in a boat. I think. I don’t remember anything else.”

  “A ship crashed into the island with the Lady on it,” Frankie said, gesturing with his pipe. “You part of that?”

  The boy shook his head. “Don’t believe I am.”

  Something bad had happened and the kid was doing his best to forget. Whatever it was it wasn’t worth prying. Frankie got to his feet and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “The morning is cold and you should stay warm. Come, coffee and a meal will do you right.” He helped the boy to his feet and they started walking away from the water. “You have a name or should I give you one?”

  “Wilfred,” the boy said. “Wilfred Roth.”

  Chapter 2

  CURSE OF BEDLOE’S ISLAND

  EXHAUSTION STABBED at the back of Caraway’s mind, the rejuvenating effects of his cold five-minute shower long forgotten. The sun had made its way over the horizon and burned away the overnight fog, revealing Lady Liberty blindly staring at the ghost ship at her feet. Standing at the bow of a police boat heading toward Liberty Island, Caraway didn’t see anyone walking the ship’s deck. The windows were black, and the name—Bartlett—had been scratched off the bow. According to the Coast Guard there had been no distress calls, no contact of any kind. For all anyone knew the ship simply drifted into Hudson Bay unmanned.

  The engine thrummed and the deck vibrated as the boat pulled up to the dock. Caraway tossed his life preserver and stepped off before they tied up to the pier, his legs like gelatin as they reacclimated to solid ground. He glanced up at Lady Liberty, secretly wishing she would kick the Bartlett back into the ocean so he could climb into bed and let the world drift away.

  A small gaggle of uniformed men walked up to meet him, each more grizzled than the last. “You Lieutenant Caraway?” the man at the head asked.

  Caraway held up his hand to block the sun. “You the night watchman?”

  “Accordin’ to my paycheck. Ned Ambrose,” he said, firmly shaking Caraway’s hand.

  “Sorry it took us so long to get out here. They like to put up as much red tape as possible whenever something ridiculous happens.” He glanced over to the ship once more. “And this is pretty ridiculous.”

  Ambrose waved this away. “We work fer the gov’ment. We know how it is; no faster than you could.”

  “You see anyone disembark?”

  Ambrose shook his head. “Ship’s been quiet as the big lady herself ever since…” He trailed off and his eyes dropped to his feet.

  Caraway saw how shaken the other watchmen were and the pit in his stomach grew a mile deep. “Take your time, Ned,” he said softly.

  “This is gonna sounds crazy—”

  “I handle crazy on the daily. Nothing can scare me away.”

  Ambrose shook his head skeptically. “Before the ship hit, it sounded like… And you gotta understand, we all agree on this, not one heard different,” he added preemptively, his lips trembling. “God help me, it sounded like the ship was screamin’.”

  Gooseflesh ran down Caraway’s back. He looked to the other watchmen and though their eyes stayed on their feet, all were nodding in agreement. Caraway chewed the inside of his cheek in thought. “And all of you heard this?”

  “Like I said,” Ambrose answered, “not one heard different.”

  Caraway allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Sad to say that is definitely not the craziest thing I’ve heard, Ned. I take it none of you tried to get onboard?”

  “Not fer the pyramids in Egypt.”

  “You think you can you get me onboard?”

  Ambrose stole a fearful glance at the ship. “It’ll take some doing.”

  “And would you mind if your boys talk to mine?” he asked, gesturing to Heidelberger and the other officers still disembarking. “Tell them what they saw—or heard, for that matter?”

  “Don’t think that’ll be a problem, Lieutenant. We’re gonna remember this until our dying days.”

  • • •

  It took some doing, but Caraway was able to kick open a porthole and slid inside the ocean liner’s front hold, his shoes clanking against the metal deck. The smell was what hit him first, a sweet iron tinged decay. Besides the light from the shattered porthole, the ocean liner’s corridor was an impenetrable pitch. He took a step and found the floor slick with water, cursing as he slipped to the floor. He wiped his hands off on his pant legs, flicked on his flashlight, then breathed in shar
ply at the nightmare that came into view. The passageway was covered in blood, oozing off the ceiling, down the walls, and pooling on the floor. The light reflected off the ichor, illuminating Caraway in a flat, sickly maroon.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he breathed, instinctually drawing his gun. He inched down the passageway, heel-to-toe, toward the aft section of the ship, and hopefully, a way onto the bridge.

  Scattered along the passageway were discarded bits of clothes and luggage, a girl’s doll coated in ichor. Caraway tried to remember a prayer from Sunday School but came up with nothing, wishing he hadn’t spent all that time staring up Karen Woolley’s dress. He could see body parts peeking out from behind the cabin doors, brain matter and guts. Aman’s head, the top chewed off, sat propped up against the wall, his dead gaze unwavering. Words—illegible, foreign, and insane—were scratched into the bloodstained walls alongside symbols that stabbed into

  Caraway’s mind. Tears began to stream down his cheeks.

  And beneath the creaking of the ship, Caraway thought he could hear the walls whispering his name. His feet started moving quicker as the voices grew louder and before long he was running. He rounded a corner and fell to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes. His flashlight clattered to the floor, flipped over and rolled to a stop, sending a harsh cone of light diagonally across the room. Piled high, from deck to ceiling, were hundred of bodies, their heads smashed in, their limbs broken, their innards torn out. The whispers became screams, echoing in his skull and threatening to rip him apart. He pressed his hands to his ears, when someone whispered behind him:

  “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”

  Caraway let out a scream and fired wildly until his hammer clicked uselessly. The Green Lama stepped out the shadows, his footsteps barely touching the deck, his face hidden beneath his hood. On the middle finger of his right hand was a rainbow ring of hair, what the Green Lama called the “Jade Tablet.” He held up one of Caraway’s wild bullets and turned it over between his fingers. “Even in terror your aim is true,” he said in a calm, ethereal voice.

  “Goddammit, Green Lama!” Caraway swore, clutching his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The flick were you thinking?”

  “My apologies, John,” the Green Lama said, bowing his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Scared out of my goddamn mind and you’re whispering in the dark,” he growled. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and holstered his gun. The Green Lama walked past him toward the pile of bodies. “I’m guessing you already did some lookin’ around.”

  “There are children…” the Green Lama said mournfully, his face grim.

  Caraway glanced uncomfortably at his feet and began to make the sign of the cross, when he stopped. Only a twisted sort of deity would have allowed this to happen, he decided; one that seemed to take pleasure in the deaths of innocents. A cold feeling washed over him, and Caraway felt oddly glad he had forgotten his prayers. He walked over to the Green Lama, the sweet pungent smell of rot beginning to take hold, tickling the inside of his nose.

  “We have seen many horrors in our time, John, but this…” the Green Lama said. “Every man, woman, and child murdered at their own hands.”

  Caraway opened and closed his mouth as he tried to process what he just heard. “You can’t… You can’t be serious?” The Green Lama gave him a mournful nod. “How can you sure?”

  “There’s blood and skin under all the victims’ fingernails, significantly more than if they were simply fighting off an attacker.” He indicated several of the victims’ hands. Caraway could see large chunks of bloody flesh hanging from their nails, and the pit in his stomach became a black hole. “Look at the wounds and bruising as well as the placement of the bodies. Bits of skin and muscle can be found in their mouths; contusions match the shape and size of hands and impromptu weaponry. I even found several victims with their hands wrapped around each other’s throats. It all indicates—”

  “A ship gone mad,” Caraway finished grimly. “What in God’s name could have made them do this?”

  “I don’t know, John. Not yet.”

  “Bet it has something to do with those.” Caraway gestured to the symbols and words scratched into the walls. “By the look of their nails, I’m thinking our friends here scratched those phrases into the walls themselves, whatever it was they were trying to say. Can’t imagine it was anything nice.”

  “It’s variations of the same phrase written over and over in nearly every language,” the Green Lama answered gravely as he paced the room. ’“Give us the Keystone.’”

  “Mean anything to you?”

  The Green Lama shook his head.

  Caraway chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered asking about the voices but decided against it. It was all in his head, fear and panic playing with his mind.

  He needed to solve this mystery with the facts in front of him. “We should check the rest of the ship,” he said as he reloaded his gun. “Long as you promise not to mess with my crime scene.”

  “I was about to tell you the same thing,” the Green Lama said with a ghost of a smile. He nodded at Caraway’s sidearm. “Are you sure that will be necessary?”

  “Nope, but it’ll make me feel better. And don’t go telling me you could act as my bodyguard or some such,” he said as they made their way to the exit. “I usually get my ass kicked whenever you’re around.”

  • • •

  The Green Lama could feel the air crackle with energy, moving like waves as he and Caraway walked through the ship. He had felt it earlier when he was with Betty Dale, like a shift in the wind, a buzzing in the back of his head. The sensation had grown worse as he had approached the ship, calling out to him. The Green Lama knew Caraway could hear it too, the way the lieutenant’s eyes darted back and forth as if he were expecting to find someone standing in the shadows. One thing was certain. Whatever had driven the passengers and crew to kill each other was still onboard.

  A familiar pang of guilt stabbed at the Green Lama’s throat as they passed several more victims. If only he had known, if only there had been some warning, he could have protected them, saved them from themselves. He had failed them, just as he had failed to prevent the death of the three children who had been gunned down on the docks. Despite all the powers he wielded he felt impotent, nothing more than a rich boy playing the games of gods. He had chosen the path of the Bodhisattva, sacrificing himself for the good of all sentient beings, but even so the weight of responsibility, the lives of so many in his hands, threatened to crush him. It was tempting to turn away, to deny his calling, but the life of a Bodhisattva demanded more; and it was only recently that he had begun to realize how much it truly required. There were others like him, men and women who hid their faces in the shadows, doling out what they considered justice. Some did it because of a twisted sense of morality; others did it because they could; but the Green Lama fought because of what he believed, even if it meant betraying the very tenets of his faith.

  “It’s stuck pretty good,” Caraway said, struggling to open the hatchway to the bridge, the metal squealing as if rusted shut. “You think they locked themselves in?”

  “It might explain how the ship navigated up the bay,” the Green Lama said, walking up to the hatchway. “But not why they didn’t radio for help or disembark when the ship crashed.”

  “The crazies might have cut the radio, and the way the ship looks, would you want to risk leaving the only safe place left?” Caraway offered. He gestured at the hatchway in frustration. “Can’t you just break this open with your ’Buddhist powers,’ or something? That’s what you—”

  The wheel screeched horribly as it suddenly began to turn on its own. The metal latches clanged open, a sound that reverberated through the passageway, inviting them in. Caraway jumped back, drawing his gun, while the Green Lama held his ground, his fists subtly glowing.

  “Was that you?” Caraway whispered, his eyes brimming with fear.

&nb
sp; “No, John, that was not my ’Buddhist powers,’” the Green Lama calmly replied.

  “Jesus, what kind of mystic warrior are you?”

  A smirk tugged at the comer of the Green Lama’s lips. “Buddhists are pacifists. I’m offended you would even call me that.”

  “A pacifist who punches people,” Caraway retorted under his breath.

  The Green Lama could hear the watery sounds of sobs emanating from within and took a tentative step forward. His heart jumped into his throat. “Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha! There may be survivors.”

  Caraway raised his gun. “Or more crazies…”

  The Green Lama’s face went grim, knowing Caraway was right. He slowly pulled open the hatchway, the rusty hinges screaming. The air was thick with the smell of rot, blood splattered across the controls and windows. Here and there, mutilated bodies of the crew slumped over at their stations, all in advanced states of decay, their shriveled lips pulled back into sinister grins. The Green Lama took a tentative step in when a bullet sliced past, ricocheting off the metal siding and crashing out the window.

  “Get back! Get back, you hear me?!” a young woman shrieked, a revolver rattling in her hand. She cowered in the comer, covered in dried blood, her dress a crusty, unsettling maroon. On her neck bore a long gash with three uneven dashes on the left, two on the right. “Take one step closer and I swear to God I will shoot you both,” the woman said, aiming her gun at the Green Lama’s head.

  The Green Lama slowly held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “We’re not here to hurt you,” he said calmly. “I am the Green Lama and this is Lieutenant John Caraway of the New York City Police. We’re here to help.”