The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (2 page)

I try to remember what it felt like after that first adventure—if that’s the right word for it. I’ve never used any other word to describe it but I suppose it’s a misnomer. I spent so much of it tied to a chair watching some masked madman torture the man who would become my husband, I’m no longer certain I could ever describe it as an adventure. At the time it was terrifying, not knowing which moment would be your last, but afterward, the thrill of survival washed over me, and nothing seemed the same again. It was a drug, addicting to the point of maddening. So when the Green Lama asked me to help him with the Fifthers down in Hollywood, Florida, it was impossible for me to say no. And the more adventures (or cases, or mysteries, or whatever you call them) we went on, the harder it became to say no.

In fact, I never did.

The thing is, when we fought for him, it wasn’t out of some patriotic duty, nor was it because we lived for the adventure. We fought because we believed in him. It didn’t matter what face he had on, we all knew that however bad it got, the Green Lama would always be there to protect us, to save us when we needed him most.

But those were naïve days. We were flying around with Peter Pan believing we’d never grow up, that Death would never find us. I look back and ask myself, if I had known how dark the world would become, how heavy the price our dalliances with heroism would be… would I have said “no” that first day?

And the more I think about it, the less sure I am.

What I’ve come to realize is life isn’t neat and simple. It’s not a road. It’s not left turn, right turn, and you find your destination. It’s a river. It starts small, a narrow creek, zigging and zagging through the forest. Then tributaries begin to run in at all angles, the creek becomes a stream, and the stream grows wider until the river spills out into an ocean full of storms.

We saw the storm coming; at least, I’d like to think we did. We had weathered so many storms before, what was another? Batten down the hatches, lower the sails and head straight through. We’ll make it to the other side. But what we thought was a squall turned into a hurricane.

Do I blame the Green Lama? I’m not sure that’s the right question. I don’t think there’s any one person who can be given fault. We all chose this life, even if we were all dragged into it. We always had the option to leave, but we stayed. We stayed and paid the price.

And because of the Green Lama I would have love wrenched from my hands, a horror so indescribable it has taken me nearly two decades to set these words to paper. With the world teetering on the edge of atomic destruction, perhaps now is the time to face the pain, and tell the story of how my love, my life, my Gary died.

Chapter 1: Diaspora, 1939

THE EXPLOSION rocked the foundation, tearing open the side of the building, splattering brick, bone, and blood onto the street. Dust floated through the air like snowflakes on Christmas Eve, coating everything in white and silence. His ears ringing and his brain screaming inside his skull, John Caraway let out a rib-cracking cough as he shoved aside a fallen wooden beam. Wiping the soot from his eyes, he peeked around the corner of the shattered wall to look over his destruction. Bits and pieces of Nazi bodies littered the ruined lobby and somewhere beneath the rubble he could hear the cries of the dying. He wanted to say he’d never seen something like this before, but that would be a lie. He'd been in Berlin for nearly three months now and this had all become horribly routine. They called him
der Fremde
—The Stranger—and the devastation he had left in his wake had already become the stuff of legend.

The things we do for our friends
, he reflected as he spat a dirt-filled wad of phlegm to the ground. He looked over to the small blonde woman huddled beside him, two young children wrapped in her arms; all three caked with dust. “Everybody okay?
Ist irgendjemand verletzt?
” he asked in heavily accented German.

“
Ja
…
Dürfen wir jetzt rauskommen?
” the blonde woman asked, her voice trembling.

It had taken Caraway nearly seven weeks to find her, an effort that left hundreds of Nazis dead and had drawn the attention of the Jewish Underground, who claimed to have anticipated his arrival. Caraway liked to think he could have done this all on his own, but had it not been for the Underground, he doubted they could have made it this far.

“I think so.” He gave the woman a somber smile. “Let’s just pray the Underground got our exit ready. If they didn’t we’re up shit’s creek without a paddle.
Wir sind jetzt sicher
,” he added off her befuddled expression.

She nodded, considering this. “John,” she began, struggling with her English, “it is possible…”

“Yeah, well, anything’s possible, Helen.” He extended his hand. “Come on, before it’s too late—”

“No, John, you do not understand…” she said deliberately, a schoolteacher instructing a poor student as he pulled her to her feet. “This—all of this—
none
of it was prophesized by Rabbi Brickman.”

Caraway met her gaze, understanding her implication. “So, we’re in uncharted waters?”

Helen nodded.

“Great,” he said with a sigh as he drew his revolver. “Cover the children’s eyes. You don’t want them to see this. And whatever happens next,
no matter what
, keep moving. Don’t stop until we get the plane into the air. Do you understand? We have to get the plane into the air.”

“
Ja
… Yes.
In die Luft
.”

Caraway gave her a weak smile and then looked to the children, a boy and a girl, the boy reminding Caraway so much of their father, but with significantly more hair. He knelt down in front of them. “It’s going to be okay,” he lied to them as well as himself. “Just stay close to your mom and everything will be fine.”

The little girl, her golden locks covered in dirt, stepped forward and placed her small, warm hand reassuringly on Caraway’s cheek. “Be brave,
Onkel
John,” she said in heavily accented English. “Father is with us.”

Caraway’s smile broadened, she was so strong for one so young. He reached over and lovingly wiped a smudge of dirt off the girl’s forehead. “I know, Nancy. I know.” Standing up, he tried to ignore the sharp pain shooting up from his popping knees. Heroism was a young man’s profession, and it had been a long time since he had been a young man. She told him to be brave, but brave was just another word for stupid. He cocked back the hammer of his revolver. “Okay, let’s get out of this
damned
country,” he growled, stepping out into the wreckage and—hopefully—toward the way home.

• • •

THE SCREAMS and shouts were deafening, a wave of sound that sent a chill down her spine. It felt so unnatural… So wrong. A hundred faces surrounded her, a thousand eyes watched her, and they could be anyone. Jean’s fingers itched for her gun; instead she only found a sweat-damp hand as fingers interlaced with hers. Now was not the time for guns.

Now was the time to smile and bow.

The curtain rose, the stage lights blinding. The audience clamored to their feet, applauding with renewed passion as flowers flew onto the stage. She looked to her left and then her right, meeting the eyes of her costars. They were drinking in the glory, though the crowd cheered her name—her stage name, at least—their applause erupting as she stepped forward. To the world, Jean Parker took a bow, a smile spreading across her face, as beautiful and as false as her name on the marquee. Jean Farrell meanwhile fought back a scream.

This was all she ever wanted, to stand in the spotlight. She took another bow, another, then one last time; unable to understand why all she wanted was to slip back into the shadows.

• • •

“DAMMIT,” Ken Clayton muttered as he raced down the darkened pathway, jumping over the jumbles of machines and equipment that littered the ground. He could hear it chasing after him, slicing the shadows like a knife. “Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.”

Fifteen people had been killed, each death more gruesome than the last, leaving the police baffled and the newspapers seething. Ken had sworn not to get involved, going so far as to write himself a note and placing it by his alarm clock to remind him every day that it was simply not his problem. His hero days were over. He took every distraction he could find, every job he was offered, every drink he was handed; but there was always that itch, like a mosquito bite at the back of his head, begging to be scratched. It was stupid—so very, very stupid—but one day he bought a pistol, put on a shoulder harness and started wandering the night searching for clues.

All of which had led him here, the last place he’d ever look.

Ken glanced back over his shoulder as the creature shot out from the rafters with a cat-like hiss. Its fangs—two long, sharp white canines, vibrant in the darkness—extended out from the gum line as its pale white hands gripped Ken by the collar. Ken fell backwards onto the ground, stars exploding behind his eyes when his head smacked against the cement, the air rushing out from his lungs.

“Be calm, young one,” the monster whispered in its child-like voice, stroking its soft, icy fingers against Ken’s cheek. It was soothing and sweet like the faded memories of a first love’s kiss. All Ken needed to do was close his eyes and relax. “It will all be over soon.”

Ken’s body stiffened, remembering where he was. “The hell it will,” he snarled as he drew his pistol and fired into the creature’s abdomen, an explosion of heat and blood. The monster screamed a horrific shrill that nearly shattered Ken’s eardrums as it flew back into the darkness, maroon plasma spilling out into the air.

“Silver bullets,” Ken said with a grin. “Ain’t that a bitch?”

“How do you resist me?” the creature croaked from the shadows, the steady
drip-drip-drip
of blood flowing out from the bullet wound, trickling down to the ground.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve faced bigger monsters than you,” Ken said, a confident smirk curling his lips as he peered into the shadows. “And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”

God, how he missed this.

“Do not mock me, meat!” the creature wheezed. “I have lived for over three hundred years! I have tasted the blood of—”

Ken rolled his eyes, aiming into the darkness. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. What is it with you supernatural types, always yammering on about how old you are, how many people you killed? Are you trying to impress me?” he asked as he followed the sound of dripping blood, his eyes straining through the shadows. “Honestly, how impressive can you be when you will
never
stand over four feet. I mean have you
ever
even
ridden a rollercoaster?”

“Insolence!” the creature shouted from behind him.

Ken whirled around and fired, narrowly missing the monster as it ran away down the narrow corridor, a blur in the dark.

“Oh, you’re not getting away that easily,” Ken grumbled as he made chase.

• • •

PUTRID WATER, filled with trash and lumps of God-only-knew sloshed past Gary Brown’s knees. A horrid smell attacked his nostrils, while the distant echo of dripping water surrounded him. He could still remember the last time he was in a sewer and all the pain and loss that was associated with it. He aimed his flashlight over the ancient arched brick and mortar above him, before pointing it toward the beautiful blond wading through the filth ahead of him. Even down here in the shit and piss of the city, she gave him butterflies. And they said their marriage wouldn’t last.

“Darling,” he said, his voice reverberating back around him. “Remind me again, why is it that Dumont gets to rub shoulders with the President of the United States, while we get stuck with sewer duty?”

“Because,” Evangl Stewart-Brown replied, flashing him that humored yet exasperated smile she only gave him, “he’s Jethro Dumont.”

“And why, exactly, does that mean we have to be knee-deep in sewage?” he asked, avoiding a suspicious-looking clump of brown that seemed to be moving. “If I had wanted to drudge through a week’s worth of Washington’s
excrement
I would have gone into politics.”

“Look at you, babe, almost making satire,” Evangl commented proudly.

Gary tried to tramp down his satisfied grin. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No offense, sweetheart, but of the three of us, Dumont’s the only one with enough clout to get himself next to Roosevelt without raising suspicions. And if the Green Lama is right—and he usually is—then the Fifth Columnists might be trying to take out the President tonight. Dumont can stay close should the Fifthers try anything funny,” she responded, moving deeper into the sewer tunnel. “Plus, Dumont practically bankrolled Roosevelt’s re-election campaign in ’36.”

“And they say the rich ain’t progressive…” Gary sighed. “Look, I get that Dumont’s a
Big Shot
, but I still can’t quite figure why the Green Lama works with him. Sure, he’s a ‘Buddhist,’ but in name only! Hell, he’s practically scandal personified! He’s slept with every girl between New York and Hollywood, even Marlene Dietrich. He’s practically a gigolo! Why Jean Farrell stays with him is beyond me.”