The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (36 page)

But she was too late. He bit down on the capsule with an audible crunch. White foam bubbled out of his mouth as his eyes rolled back and his head lolled to the side. It was over in seconds.

Jean let out a string of curses before moving to search the man’s corpse. Looking through his pockets she found the usual—car keys, matchbook, cigarettes, and wallet—but no driver’s license or I.D. He had a small notebook in his inside jacket pocket, dog-eared from constant use. She quickly leafed through the pages, finding the book filled with a long list of four-digit codes made up of random letters, numbers, and symbols. Jean instinctually rolled the notebook tightly in her hand lest she drop it, grabbed the keys, and headed back to the car.

It was going to be a long drive.

• • •

THE ROOM was cold, bordering on frigid. Small wisps of his breath flowed out of his mouth before evaporating into the dim light. At some point they had removed his shirt and strapped him onto a T-shaped examination table, his arms bound at the wrists, his legs braced together with a large leather belt. It had been several hours since they had brought him here, several more since his abduction, though how many he couldn’t tell. They had kept him blindfolded and drugged. He heard the door open as faceless men walked in at irregular intervals to inject him with sedatives. Jethro made no effort to fight them, no attempt to escape. He needed to wait. The time would come and they would talk—they always did—and then he would know how to stop them. He had underestimated his adversaries. He wouldn’t do so again.

When the sedatives began to take hold, he would close his eyes, recite a silent mantra and let his mind drift—as it often did—to Jean. He had no way of knowing if she was here, if she was safe, if she was even alive, but he held on to her face, on to the memory of her touch. As always it was through her that he had found his strength. But the sedatives did their work and unconsciousness visited again.

Hours passed before the door opened for the last time.

Jethro was awakened by the sound of footsteps, slow and methodical, clipping against the cement floor. The blindfold was removed. Spots formed in his vision as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright light shining inches from his face.

“Ah… Mr. Dumont, so good to finally see you again after all this time!”

Jethro knew that voice, a relic from another era. “Who’s there?” he croaked, blinking at the silhouette pacing around him.

“Who? Who? Who? Such a good question. Allow me to provide the answer,” the silhouette tittered. A red-gloved right hand reached out and turned the light toward the shadows.

Jethro let out a soft gasp through his chapped lips. “Dr. Pelham…”

“Indeed,” the Crimson Hand said with a steeplechase grin. He was wearing a pure white lab coat, glowing in the darkness. “I must confess, Mr. Dumont, had I known you were the Green Lama all those years ago we could have avoided so many unpleasantries. Truly, it would have saved us so much time.”

“No…” Jethro breathed. “You’re supposed to be in jail.”

“Am I? Hm.” The Crimson Hand frowned in consideration before allowing his smile to explode once again. “I suppose I should be, but here I am. Funny how life works, isn’t it? It brought us together again, yes, continuing our tale long after everyone thought it had finished. But, I digress, distracting myself with mindless ponderings. Let’s get on with the task at hand, shall we?”

The Crimson Hand leaned forward and began examining Jethro, pulling at his cheeks, forcibly turning his head, and peering closely at his eyes and skin. “My, my, you are pale, Mr. Dumont. Your eyes are bloodshot, red under the eyelids. Hm. You haven’t slept in months have you? Not one night, though I’m sure you faked it quite well. Couldn’t let anyone know could you? And what’s this?” The Crimson Hand moved around the examination table and palpated the green veins lacing Jethro’s arm and neck. “These veins look quite infected, Mr. Dumont. Very green and distended. Hm. All extending from the curious scar on this finger. Very interesting.”

The Crimson Hand cocked his head to the side and gave Jethro a mournful expression. “Tell me, Mr. Dumont, how long ago did you realize you were dying?”

Chapter 15
: The Crimson Hand’s Revenge

SOMETHING STIRRED inside Gary Brown; a black, pulsating thing that slithered through his mind, engulfing every piece of him bit by bit. He could feel his memories slip away, replaced with an endless crawling chaos. Black oil and blood leaked from the open wound on his forehead, his eyes, nose and mouth, spilling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. His stomach roared a hunger that echoed into his muscles, into his bones. His jaw opened and shut, involuntarily gnawing at the air. He opened his grey-white eyes and stared into the darkness enveloping him. He was losing himself, every part of him stolen away.

Except her. Except them. He kept their faces in front of him, hidden from the black tendrils invading his soul. He would hold on, he needed to hold on.

For Evangl.

For Marie.

Even when the shadows claimed him, he would never let them out of his sight. They would be his light; they would be his way back home.

• • •

“ARE YOU GOING to be all right?”

“Yeah, fine, fine,” Betty Dale said, brushing off Caraway with a bandaged hand. She eased down into a worn wooden chair in a corner of the squad room, her dress singed or outright burned, in several places. Soot covered her reddened cheeks, but the petite woman looked as strong and resolved as ever. “Just a little crispy is all. Besides, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been through.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you should really be in a hospital.”

“So should you,” Betty shot back, tugging at Caraway’s burned sleeve.

“Yeah, but this sorta thing makes me look good,” he said with a winning smile as he fixed what remained of his tie.

“Don’t try and flirt with me, John. I’m a one-man woman. And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she said, her lighthearted tone melting away, “we both know things are about to get messy—at least messier than they already are—and I want to be on the frontline. Besides, why would I want to be away from all the fun? No, no, John. This is where I am and where I’m staying.”

Caraway’s face firmed. “We lost people,” he said quietly.

“No one ever said this life was a safe one.”

“Yeah, but I wish it was,” he said, nodding in understanding. “Sit tight and I’ll have one of the boys get you some coffee. They make it a slurry here, so you’ll be awake for days.”

Betty allowed herself a chuckle. “Wonderful.”

Caraway waved over Officer Heidelberger and the two men walked over to Caraway’s old office, his name still written in gold block letter across the frosted glass. He twisted the handle, kicked open the door, and was hit with the faint, dry smell of paper and stale whiskey. A thick blanket of dust—or perhaps debris, the police station had been nearly demolished several times—covered every surface.

“Nice to see you guys kept the place clean for me.”

“It is a bit of a disaster area, sir,” Heidelberger commented, wiping his finger across the thick icing of dust and dirt covering Caraway’s desk.

“A demon, a Nazi, and a golem saw to that,” Caraway ruminated aloud as he paced around his old office. He was surprised to realize he had missed it. “Honestly, how this building is still standing is a testament to American engineering. Or stubbornness.”

“We didn’t have that many major catastrophes since you left, but… you know, when your baseline is destruction, it’s hard to work up from there. But no one’s touched the room since you left,” Heidelberger added quietly. “At least, I wouldn’t let ’em.”

Caraway glanced over at Heidelberger.

The officer shrugged. “I guess you could say I run on hope.”

Caraway found himself smiling at that. “We could use a bit of that now. How long have you been on the force, David?”

“With you or as a policeman in general?”

“In general.”

“Three years.”

“So you’re barely out of the academy and you start working with the Special Crime Squad. Tough break, kid.”

Heidelberger puffed out his sunken chest. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Caraway clapped his hand on Heidelberger’s shoulder. “I appreciate that, David. I really do.”

“So, what can I do for you, Sir? Much as I enjoy the conversation…”

“I need you to get me every case file we have on the Green Lama, even the ones we’re not sure were him.”

Heidelberger crossed his arms and pinched his eyebrows together in the thought. “That’s anywhere between fourteen and sixty-three, though I think one of those cases might be a duplicate. Either way, no matter your measure that list is growing.”

“Might be in the hundreds by the time this whole thing is done.” Caraway grumbled as he wiped the seat of his desk chair clean and sat down. “Just bring up whatever you can find and we’ll go for there.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Heidelberger turned to leave when he hesitated. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, how did you talk Woods into putting you back on the force?”

“Not back,” Caraway responded, shaking his head. “But we’re inching closer.”

“And why’s that?”

Caraway nodded to the two detectives heading toward his office. “Hang around a minute, you’re about to find out. Jeff, Pete,” he said as Fulton and Crevier entered.

“Jesus, you weren’t in that fire, were you?” Fulton asked, indicating Caraway’s singed suit.

“Near enough to make it count,” he commented, pulling off his tie and tossing it into a heap of papers and dust. “How do you like my new old digs?”

Crevier blew the dust off a stack of papers, clouding the air. “Could use with a maid, much like everything else you do.”

Caraway gave him a mirthful grin. “Always a sweetheart.”

“Why don’t we cut to the chase, eh?” Crevier said, pacing the room. “Woods sent us down here, and based on where you’re sitting, I’m guessing there’s been a change in the tide.”

“Not yet,” Caraway said, leaning back in his chair.

“Not anything we didn’t already smell on the wind,” Fulton added.

“If we could cut the nautical talk, maybe we can get to business,” Crevier said. Caraway could tell there was something on the detective’s mind, but he wasn’t about to go prying. Let the Cajun chatter if he wanted, until then, it was Caraway’s show.

“You boys know where I stand, we’re all on the same team.”

“No one’s denying that, John,” Fulton said with a nod. “What’ve you got for us?”

Caraway cleared his throat, swiped a bit of dust off the edge of his desk before resting his elbows and lacing his fingers together. “It’s all connected. The cannibal killers, the theatre murders, the fire at Dumont’s… It has to be. Whoever kidnapped Dumont—”

“Come on, John,” Fulton guffawed. “Pull the other one. Dumont’s dead. Ain’t no question he died in that fire.”

“Dumont’s missing,” Caraway corrected. “Trust me, it’ll take a lot more to kill him than—whatever it is we’re facing.”

“And you’re certain of this how?”

Crevier suddenly kicked one of Caraway’s chairs across the office. The crash of wood clattering against wood echoed in the room as they stared at the detective in silent shock.

Fulton took a half step toward his partner and put a placating hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Pete…”

Crevier swiped Fulton’s hand away. “John and I need to speak in private.”

“You’re going to tell me what goin’ on, Petey?” Fulton asked through his eyebrows.

Crevier shook his head. “If what I’m thinking is true,” he said under his breath, “one of us needs to be outside of it, just in case this whole thing goes belly up.”

Heidelberger glanced nervously at Caraway, who gave the officer a simple nod.

“Close the door, David,” Caraway instructed. “The good detective has something he needs to say.”

Fulton and Heidelberger exchanged a look before they moved to the exit.

“Sorry about the outburst, I did it more for effect than anything,” Crevier said quietly after Heidelberger closed the door behind them.

“It definitely had an effect,” Caraway said eyeing the broken chair. He leaned forward and gestured for Crevier to come closer. “All right, out with it. We don’t have much time for games.”

“Jethro Dumont is the Green Lama,” Crevier said deliberately.

Caraway kept his eyes locked on Crevier. “That’s a pretty bold statement,” he said with a knowing grin.

“Cut the act, John, I’m a detective. Give me some credit,” he said with an arched eyebrow. “Dumont’s main squeeze Jean Parker—or Farrell—shoots a woman infected with whatever the hell’s going around. You find a way to sweep it under the rug, because that’s just what you do. But the next day, Farrell goes missing while her costars get gutted like cattle. No more than twelve hours later, Dumont’s main residence goes up like the Fourth of July. The only way that sorta shit happens is if some idiot rich kid is running around playing dress up. And of all the millionaire playboys bouncing around this damn country, only one of them is a full-fledged Buddhist. So you tell me Jethro Dumont is the Green Lama so we can go about doing our job and solve this damn case before more people die.”