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

by Adam Lance Garcia

  “That’s what they said!” The woman spoke with a slight accent, her voice trembling. Her finger teased at the trigger. “They tried to get in, but I wouldn’t let them. They begged and they told me I would be safe but they lied! They lied and they—Tell him to put down the gun!” she shouted suddenly.

  The Green Lama half-turned to Caraway. “John?”

  “Putting it away, nice and slow, see?” Caraway grumbled as he holstered his gun. “Now, we can all be friends and laugh about this later.”

  The woman pinched her eyes shut. Tears spilled down her cheeks in long red bands. “I wouldn’t let them in. And then… And then they started…”

  “We saw,” the Green Lama said with a slow nod.

  “Why would they do that?” she sobbed.

  The Green Lama frowned. “I don’t know,” he said mournfully “I wish I did…”

  She shook her head, her chest heaving in and out between the sobs. “My mother—my father—all of them. I thought… I almost…” She rubbed the barrel of the gun against her skull. The Green Lama breath hitched, fearing the worst, but her grip slackened and her arm dropped to her side.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, stepping closer.

  “Des—Desdemona…” the woman managed. “Desdemona Georgas.”

  The Green Lama knelt down and carefully took the gun from her. “It’s all right, Desdemona. You’re safe now.”

  Desdemona grabbed at the fur-trimmed cuff of the Green Lama’s sleeve. “You don’t understand. I heard them… I heard it all,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes wild. “They want the Keystone. You need to give them the Keystone or it will spread. The madness will spread.”

  Chapter 3

  WHAT THE TIDE BROUGHT IN

  SLEEP HAD BEEN fitful, tossed between the hands of the clock until the sun peeked through the window and turned it to memory. Betty forced herself into the shower, covered the pockets under her eyes with layers of makeup, dressed, and wandered out into the city, coffee still burning at the back of her throat. Through the haze of the subway, the crush of commuters, and the never-ending stream of cars, she made her way into the twenty-story building just off Thirty-Fourth, and into the elevator. She took two short steps back as the elevator filled up, leaned her head against the side and closed her eyes. Her body began to blissfully drift away when the doors suddenly opened; the deafening cacophony of typewriters, stock tickers, reporters, and editors rolled in like the winter wind, waking her from her stupor.

  “Fifteenth Floor, New York Herald-Tribune,” the operator said without enthusiasm.

  Betty adjusted her black hat with velveteen purple and pink flowers, stepped out with the rest of the crowd, and made her way to her desk at the far end of the newsroom.

  “Dale, where the hell have you been?” Luke Jaconetti asked, his feet propped up on his desk. A crime reporter, Jaconetti had joined the paper back when it was simply the Herald, but save for a thatch of grey on his right temple, still looked no older than thirty. He was finishing his stub of a cigarette, while his free hand fiddled with his pocket watch.

  “Chasing a jackass across town,” she grumbled, tossing her purse onto her desk. Folders and files towered on either side, a fortification from the choleric stares of male reporters still uncomfortable with the idea of a female reporter in the ranks. Jaconetti thankfully didn’t fall into this classification, more amused by the concept than disturbed. “These damn playboys think they can just string people along and no one’s going to say boo. Just because you have money and looks doesn’t mean you get to have whatever you want.”

  “I’ve gone on record that you have the worst taste in men,” Jaconetti said, extinguishing his cigarette in an overloaded tray. “Besides we’ve got plenty of jackasses right here. Most of them single; some of them attractive—”

  “And one right in front of me.”

  A coy smile tugged at Jaconetti’s lips. “You look like shit.”

  Betty cocked an eyebrow. “Thanks,” she replied, dropping down into her chair. She took off her hat and threw it onto her paper rampart. She looked over the newsroom as people dashed back and forth. “What the hell is going on? The President in town?”

  Jaconetti furrowed his brow. “You didn’t hear? Figured you were all over it.”

  Betty gave him an exasperated sigh. “What did I just say about jackasses?”

  “Christ, Dale,” Jaconetti snapped in frustration. “A ship crash landed into Bedloe’s Island.”

  “What? You mean Liberty?”

  He nodded. “Just floated up and rammed in.” He waved to the windows. “You can see it from here.”

  Betty rushed over and shouldered her way through a small crowd to the window, ignoring the grousing and nasty looks. The ship was hazy in the distance, but there it was, stabbing into Liberty Island like a knife in a wedge of cheese. Tugboats milled about like flies around a rotting carcass, ready to pick at the remains.

  “They’re still fishing bodies out of the bay,” Jaconetti said, walking up besides her, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “Not a lot, but apparently it’s worse onboard.”

  “Bodies?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the ship in case it dared to move.

  “The whole ship is dead. A real life ghost ship, if my source is correct. Rumor has it that the Green Lama was there.”

  Betty sighed. She was sick and tired of hearing about the hooded Buddhist vigilante. “Of course he was. Do we know anything about what happened?”

  Jaconetti shook his head. “Just the name, the S.S. Bartlett”

  “Bartletf!” she repeated, knocking her fist against her forehead. “Dammit. I know that ship.” She ran back over to her desk and pulled out a file marked “JD.” “B-A-R-T-L-E-double-T?” she spelled out as she leafed through her notes.

  “Unless they started spelling it differently,” Jaconetti replied with a shrug.

  She turned two more pages when she found what she was looking for. A smile spread across her lips. “I’ve got you now, you jackass.”

  • • •

  The ferries were only now beginning to run, releasing a tidal wave of commuters into the city. From where Jean stood they all looked like ants, marching toward a picnic in irregular black streams. The big bad ship kissing Lady Liberty’s feet was barely visible, looking like a miniature toy that fit comfortably on the tip of Jean’s thumbnail.

  The wind whipped up and Jean pulled her coat tighter around her body, regretting her excitement. She lost perspective sometimes, so easily caught up in the thrill of it all. She had come to New York to see her name in lights, but that dream had been replaced, thanks to the Green Lama.

  A smile formed on her lips. Jean made a point of never being defined by a man, but she would be lying if she said the Green Lama hadn’t completely changed her. She had never seen his real face, never known his real name, and yet she trusted him; in a sense loved him, no matter how much she tried to deny it. He was certifiable, had to be, running around in a hooded cloak, trying to right wrongs. There was more to him, of course, powers that defied explanation, but it took a special kind of crazy to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Even so, he had shown her a deeper calling, one that was as virtuous as it was insane, running headfirst into mobster dens, bullets whizzing by, saving the day without the rest of the world ever knowing.

  Maybe she was just as crazy as him.

  Whether from the icy breeze or from her own mind, she decided to take refuge inside and get the wheels turning. She kicked open the sticky comer of the stairwell door and headed down to Ken’s apartment.

  It was simple with Ken; he read her like a book and never pulled his punches, the kind of man she sorely needed, even if it meant she had none of the benefits of a relationship. She picked up the newspaper outside his room and rapped her knuckles against his door, listening patiently while he stumbled out of bed.

  She and Ken were by no means the Green Lama’s only associates, only the most recent. As far as Jean knew
, Gary Brown, Evangl Stewart, Dr. Harrison Valco, and of course Lieutenant Caraway were the firsts. The millionaire Jethro Dumont, who lived up to his playboy pedigree despite his professed Buddhism, helped on occasion, while Dr. Charles Pali, a middle-aged Tibetan “reverend,” often claimed to be the Green Lama himself, though Jean had her doubts. Finally, there was the mysterious woman known only as Magga, who proved to be an even greater detective than the Lama.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, Farrell,” Ken mumbled, cracking open the door, his eyes half shut. He was dressed only in his pajama pants, his golden hair standing awkwardly to the side. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Why should I when being with you is such a dream?” she replied, pushing her way into his apartment. “What are you doing today?”

  “Well, I was of the mind to sleep through it and find out what was on the other end,” he said. “Oddly enough, and this is just pure intuition, but I’ve got this horrible feeling you’re about to ruin my plans.”

  “Consider them ruined,” she said, handing him the newspaper, the headline “SCREAMING SHIP HITS LIBERTY ISLAND” in big block letters over a photo of the now familiar sight of the S.S. Bartlett.

  Ken rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand. “This your ship from last night?”

  Jean leaned up against the edge of his desk, crossing her arms uncomfortably. “Paragraph two.”

  “Holy God,” he whispered after a moment.

  “I was thinking we could go to the docks, see if anyone knows anything about the ship, where it was coming from, any special cargo, things the cops might have missed.”

  “Is this him asking?”

  “This is me asking.”

  Ken ran a hand over his face. “Last I checked, Red, we were in the business of helping a vigilante, not striking out on our own as independent contractors.”

  “We could be the ‘Double Detectives,’” she said with a coy smile. “Though ‘Clayton and Farrell’ does have a nice ring to it, too. Or should we go the Lama route and come up with a couple of secret identities?”

  “Jean, I love you,” Ken said with an exasperated sigh, tossing the newspaper onto the bed. “But get to the goddamn point.”

  “Look, it’s a big city and he’s only one man—presumably. He’ll appreciate the help.” And hopefully be impressed, she didn’t say. “I mean, hell, he’s dragged us to Cleveland and the backwoods of Florida, we might as well take the initiative.”

  Ken rolled his eyes and walked over to his dresser. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  “And I will apologize profusely when it happens.”

  “Isn’t that sweet,” Ken said dryly as he slipped on his undershirt. “Will you be packing?”

  Jean patted the gun strapped beneath her coat. “Never leave home without it. Now, come on, sweet cheeks,” she said, slapping his butt as she walked out the door. “Let’s solve ourselves a mystery.”

  The train pulled into Grand Central with a hiss, the conductor bellowing down the aisle like a town crier of old. Gary Brown sat up in his seat and massaged the sleep from his eyes. It was too damn early, he decided. The sun wasn’t even high enough to warrant calling it morning. He glanced over at the beautiful blonde resting her head on his shoulder and smiled.

  “We’re here?” Evangl asked without opening her eyes.

  Gary kissed her forehead. “We’re here.”

  Evangl sat up, stretched her arms, and cracked her neck. “That was fast.”

  “Still say we could have driven down,” Gary commented as he put on his fedora and followed her into the aisle.

  “The Lama spoiled you,” Evangl sighed. “Driving in New York isn’t always about car chases.”

  “Yeah, but it was always an adventure.”

  Evangl raised an eyebrow and took his hand as they exited onto the platform, early morning commuters filing toward the exit. It was hard to believe there had been a major train derailment here only five years ago. “Was it?”

  ‘“Least that’s how I remember it.”

  “I remember guns,” Evangl said with a dramatic frown. “Actually, I remember a lot of guns.”

  “And you loved every minute of it,” he retorted with a crooked grin.

  “I loved you” Evangl said matter-of-factly, sending goosebumps down Gary’s neck; he would never get tired of hearing her say that. She hooked her arm with his and pulled herself close. “Everything else was secondary.”

  A reformed gangster and a post debutante, Gary and Evangl’s courtship had been anything but orthodox. Kidnapped by the Crimson Hand, they had formed a bond that proved to be something deeper. Within a short time they were married, giving up the vigilante trade to raise a family in upstate New York.

  “You think she enjoyed the trip?” he asked as they walked into the main concourse.

  Evangl reassuringly patted Gary’s arm. “Of course she did, honey. You saw her face when she was boarding; your mother was positively glowing. Heading off to Greece! Looked like she was about to go on an adventure.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say ‘adventure.’ Adventure implies guns.”

  Evangl furrowed her brow. “Didn’t you just say how much fun it used to be?”

  “Well, honestly, I’m not sure how much I love the idea of my mother and guns,” Gary said with a shrug. “And besides, I didn’t want to disagree with you again.”

  “Aw,” Evangl smiled, squeezing his hand. “You’re learning.”

  “Miracles can happen.”

  “Next you’ll start turning water into wine. Remember, I prefer white.”

  “I’m actually still working my way through exorcisms,” Gary replied. “But I’ll let you know when I get around to wine. What was the name of Mom’s boat again?”

  “Bartlett, I think.”

  “Right. Like that girl I… Um… Courted,” he mumbled, feeling Evangl’s icy glare.

  They circled around the central information booth, walked through the tidal pool of people in the waiting room, and out onto Forty-Second Street. It felt good to be back in the city, Gary reflected, missing the hustle and bustle. He had made a decent life with Evangl at their small farm outside Black Rock, but his heart would always belong to the city. Gary raised his hand to call for a taxi when a Cadillac V-16 Imperial Limo pulled up in front of them, the chrome strips glinting in the early morning sun.

  “Jeez, look at that piece of work.”

  “You want one?”

  “Sweetheart, we couldn’t afford that if we tried.”

  “Well, you couldn’t,” Evangl said.

  Gary mimed stabbing himself in the heart and twisted. “It looks like Uncle Moneybags is staying put, why don’t we head over there and see if—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” Jethro Dumont said, climbing out the back of the limo. Gary felt his muscles tense. While Dumont also worked for the Green Lama, Gary had never forgiven him for trying to steal Evangl away.

  “Stewart-Brown,” Gary corrected, cocking his head at Evangl. “Her maiden name carries a lot more weight than mine, so she split the difference. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here, Dumont?”

  Dumont’s gaze dropped to the ground. “There’s been an incident.”

  Desdemona Georgas woke up screaming. Sweat poured down her body, leaving her nightgown drenched. Nightmares and memories intermingled, flashing ferociously behind her eyes. She covered her mouth and let out a small sob, the scar on her neck throbbing. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart thunder.

  She could still hear the screams, the broken nails scratching against the metal doors as the mad and dying tried to fight their way through.

  She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering despite the warmth of the room. The shadows were deep enough to fall into, and no matter how much they seemed to move they were only just shadows. The nightmare was over, no matter how real it was, no matter how much it violated her dreams. She was alive, she reminded herself, she was impossibly, horribly alive.
It didn’t seem fair, didn’t seem right. What made her so special that she could escape the madness, the savagery that had overtaken the entire ship in a matter of days?

  Like a plague it had started quietly with a mosquito bite or finger prick. Passengers complained of hearing whispers at night, voices that spoke to them when no one else was around. At first, the crew believed it to be a stowaway in the ducts or a thief trying to steal valuables, searching the ship to no avail. Then the fights began.

  Ordinary folks, from prim and proper gentlemen to waif thin dowagers, would break out into violent brawls, often needing a dozen grown men to keep them apart. Desdemona, having grown up on the island of Kamariotissa, naively thought it was simply the ocean’s effect on normally landlocked travelers, the tides affecting their minds. It wasn’t until she returned to her cabin to find her mother driving a comb through her father’s eye that the real horror began.

  Desdemona didn’t scream then, not the entire time she fought to survive aboard that ship. Not when their black eyes watched her like an animal, not when crimson flowed over the ship like a river as flesh was torn from bone, hearts ripped from chests. Throughout it all she remained silent, eliciting little more than a frightened breath as she watched the few survivors succumb, one by one, to their violent, horrifying fate. But it wasn’t bravery or inner strength that held her tongue, she could never claim that; it was pure, unadulterated terror. She never fought back, never defended herself against the horde, she simply ran into any shelter she could find while all around her men, women, and children became monsters. After hours—or perhaps days—of watching an orgy of blood and agony fill the ship, Desdemona locked herself in the bridge and waited to die.

  And yet, she survived.

  But why?

  The question rolled over and over in her mind without answer. She had watched the madness—the virus—spread to every single person onboard and yet she was spared.