The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) (10 page)

“Yeah,” Caraway grumbled. “I’m just a big ol’ Raggedy Andy. Drop me off at FAO Schwartz and sell me for a dollar.”

“Heh. ‘Lucky to be alive’ is a bit more apropos, to be frank. Amount of blood you lost, and that many lacerations and stab wounds. Hell, it’s a goddamn miracle that sword missed your vital organs. Speaking of which, who told you to go out and get yourself stabbed by a sword in this day and age? Most cops stupid enough to run headfirst into a bank robbery usually have the decency to only get themselves shot. You had to go and do both and make my life a little bit harder. I’ll tell ya what’s ‘special’ about your Crime Squad, Lieutenant,” he said, pointedly tapping his head. “Anyway, besides lots of bed rest, I’d advise against eating any spicy foods for the next few months—”

“Won’t be a problem, Doc.”

“—and I wouldn’t drink any of the hard stuff anytime soon.”

“Aw, hell. You trying to kill me?!”

“No more than everyone else you’ve been hanging around with recently.”

“Ha ha.”

“Laugh all you want, Lieutenant. You’re still a lot better off than ‘Jerry’ over there,” the doc said indicating a sleeping Gan on the cot across the way. With one arm broken, several bullet wounds, and a terrible gash that stretched from his bald scalp to his right cheek, the fact that Gan was alive was not simply a miracle but a testament to the German’s pure strength.

“Yeah,” Caraway said, keeping his eyes on the injured German officer. “Only a little bit better. … Am I done?”

“You’re all patched up,” the doctor replied, signing the last of the paperwork. “The nurse will sign you out.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said as the doctor walked away.

Caraway slowly swung himself out of his bed, hobbled over to Gan’s, and sat down on the stool beside it. He sat there for a moment, unsure what to do.

“If you have come here to mock my wounds, Herr Leutnant, I would appreciate it if you did so silently,” Gan said, his eyes remaining closed.

Caraway let out a soft chuckle, which shot a sharp pain deep into his gut. “Ain’t gonna mock ya,” he said with a grimace. “Don’t you worry, Jerry.”

Gan sighed. “Then why are you bothering me?”

“Figured you could use the company,” he said with a shrug.

“Did I not already tell you that I do not like you?”

“And I don’t like you. Something we have in common.” Caraway failed to suppress a grin as a nurse walked past. He let out a soft whistle in approval. “Besides, you’ve got a much better view than I do,” Caraway said, craning his neck to follow the nurse as she rounded a corner and fell out of view.

Gan winked opened one eye to catch a glance at the passing nurse. “Aren’t you married, Herr Leutnant? I remember reading that in your file.”

“I have a file?”

“We all have files, Herr Leutnant. Yours was quite interesting, from what I recall. However, I’ve been hit on the head quite a few times today, so, remind me, you are married,
nicht wahr
?”

Caraway shifted uncomfortably. “It depends on the day. Today, I’m not. Tomorrow?” He shrugged. “What about you, you got a ball and chain?”

A sad smile colored Gan’s expression. “Helen. We have two children, a boy and a girl.”

“Two little pocket Nazis. How nice,” Caraway chuckled, failing to notice the shadow that passed over Gan’s face.

“Thank you,” Gan said before they both fell into silence, neither attempting conversation for a time.

“That was pretty impressive,” Caraway said at last, flexing his wounded hand.

“Hm?” His eyes still closed, Gan tilted his head slightly toward Caraway.

“With Adair.”

“Ah. Yes,” Gan said. Caraway noticed his slight smile. Finally opening his eyes, Gan turned his head to face Caraway. “I find it curious, Herr Leutnant, how it is you were able to survive this city for so long, what with the bull-like mobsters, homicidal circus folk, and Indian-themed bank robbers.”

Caraway leaned forward and looked Gan in the eyes. “You want the truth?” Gan nodded and Caraway replied, with deliberation and sincerity, “I have no goddamn idea.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment before they burst into laughter, testing the strength of their stitches.

• • •

Walking down the hall, the Rabbi was sure to take note of the time on the grandfather clock and couldn’t help but feel that the hour had grown dangerously late. The telegram he had received some months prior indicated his associate from Europe would make an appearance on this date, yet it had been several weeks since their last communication and the Rabbi feared their efforts could be forestalled or even derailed if they did not meet soon. There were so many lives at stake.

He rubbed his arthritic fingers, bending and twisting them until the pain
subsided. He had been working too hard these past few months, spending hours after dark working in the synagogue, continuing to labor well into the early light of morning. It was why he had begun taking his late-night constitutionals down on the coast. “The sea air will calm you,” his wife had told him once. If only he could tell her what he was working on. She would be mad. Yes, he decided, she would be very, very mad.
Baruch
Hashem,
she was visiting the children.

Rounding the corner to the entrance of his home, he found the eminent Dr. Charles Pali in the foyer, awkwardly fiddling with his mustache, a habit the Rabbi found strange for a man of such storied refinement and renown. The Rabbi had only been notified of Pali’s impending arrival less than an hour earlier. Had it been any other person, he would have immediately turned away the late-night caller, but he would not miss the opportunity to meet with someone so highly accredited in Eastern faiths, a subject the Rabbi had recently begun researching.

“Dr. Pali,” the Rabbi said.

“Oh, Rabbi Brickman!” Dr. Pali spun around to face the Rabbi, shaking his hand vigorously.

“I was so excited when you called,” the Rabbi said, unable to comprehend how
young
the Tibetan doctor looked despite the grey at his temples. “I have read several of your papers on the Buddhist teachings and cannot tell you what it means to finally be able to meet you in person. To what do I owe this honor?”

“You are too kind, Rabbi. Thank you so much for taking the time to accommodate me so late. My schedule is such that this was the only time I could
make my way down. I hope I am not being a burden.”

The Rabbi waved this away. “Nonsense, a man of your stature is always welcome in my home.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.”

“I hope the trip down wasn’t too taxing.”

“A drive to the shore? How could that ever be taxing?” The two men laughed jovially as if they were old friends, until Pali cleared his throat and took on a more serious tone. “As to my purpose here, I am in need of a translation—Well, I suppose that’s not true… I am trying to, uh,
decipher
the significance of a Hebrew phrase I’ve recently come upon. Our mutual friend Dr. Allen said you would be the man to speak to.”

“I would be glad to help,” the Rabbi said with a smile, placing a hand lightly on Pali’s shoulder as he led him away from the entrance. “Please, come into my study, and we shall find the answers you seek.”

As they walked down the hall to the study, the Rabbi noticed scuff marks on the carpet. Glancing over at the basement door, he let out a soft sigh of relief. If Pali noticed this, he didn’t say anything. Reaching the end of the hall, the Rabbi opened the door to his modest study, the walls lined with leather bound books. The two men walked over to the Rabbi’s desk, on which sat a massive tome. His knees weak from age, the Rabbi eased himself into his desk chair, while Pali took the small chair across from him.

“So, what is the phrase you want ‘deciphered’?” the Rabbi asked after they had settled in.

Dr. Pali reached into his pocket. “Just this,” he said, handing over the small piece of parchment. The Rabbi held the fragment lightly in his hands, all too familiar with the fragility of the material. “I discovered this while at an archeological dig some weeks ago.”

“Truly?” the Rabbi said with legitimate excitement. “Archeology is something of a hobby of mine. I actually had the chance to attend a dig outside Jerusalem a few years ago myself. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating the things they discovered there! But I digress. Do forgive me. You were saying?”

The Tibetan scholar gave the Rabbi an odd smile, as if he were a young boy who had lost his place while reading the Torah. “Ah… Yes. As I was saying—when we recovered the parchment we were unfortunately unable to translate it; Dr. Allen was only able to tell me it says—”

“‘…From the empty void He made the solid earth, and from the nonexistent He brought forth Life,’” the Rabbi quoted solemnly from memory. “At least that’s one translation. Though the more accurate translation is ‘He formed substance out of chaos and made nonexistence into existence.’”

“Oh… You’re, uh, familiar… with the, um, phrase?”

The Rabbi nodded, placing the parchment carefully down on his desk.

“Yes, I’m familiar with the passage. It’s from the
Sefer Yetzirah
—the Book of Creation.” The Rabbi stood up and gingerly walked over to one of the large bookcases that lined his walls. “There are many who debate the book’s origins. Some say it was written during the Middle Ages, others argue that its origins are Babylonian. The text itself claims to be authored by our father Abraham, though tradition states that it was originally revealed by
Hashem
to Adam, who passed it on to Noah and so on and so forth. I believe I have a copy of the Gra
version here…
somewhere…” He ran his finger over the books until he landed on an
ancient volume. “Ah, here it is.”

The Rabbi walked over to Pali and carefully placed the slim book before him on the desk, opening it from right to left.

“Careful,” the Rabbi said with a friendly wag of his finger. “It’s quite old.”

“
What is it—well, what is it about?” Pali asked as he peered cautiously at the text, clearly struggling with the Hebrew script and shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“About? Hm.” The Rabbi leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers
together. “It’s not strictly a narrative, such as we see in the Torah,” he said after a moment, “if that’s what you’re asking. It’s more of a …
speculation
on Hashem, angels, and creation.”

Pali considered this. “Basically, trying to understand who we are and why,” he said as he returned to the book.

The Rabbi tilted his head up in thought, running a hand through his lengthy white beard, the flecks of red shimmering. “That is one way of looking at it, though it’s a bit more, hm…
mystical
than that.”

“Mystical?” Pali looked over at the Rabbi with subdued enthusiasm. “Like hocus pocus, you mean?”

The Rabbi clapped his hands together in amusement. “Heh, you have a sense of humor, Dr. Pali! I would not have guessed that. When I say mystical, I mean that the
Sefer Yetzirah
, in part, works to find meaning
in numbers and words to fully understand the truth of creation. No, there is no hocus pocus, nor is there any abracadabra
… per se.”

Pali leaned forward. “What do you mean by ‘per se’?”

The Rabbi hesitated, tilting his head toward the hallway door, as if he were listening to a distant sound of thunder in the distance. “Hm. Sounds like rain….” He cleared his throat and folded his hands in his lap before continuing. “There are those who believe that within the Book of Creation lies the secret to not only understand the power of Hashem—of God Himself—but to mimic it as well.”

“How do you mean?”

“Hm… Let me tell you the story of the Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel and the Avenger of Vltava.”

• • •

The last person they brought into the line-up had to crouch down just to make it through the door. As Caraway watched Officer Heidelberger—sporting an impressive shiner on his left eye—bring the last suspect over, he couldn’t help but notice how very small the uniformed officer really was; or at least how very, very tall their suspects were, all of whom stood well above the six-foot marker, save for “Wits” Pomatto, who had to sit in a small desk chair, a cast covering his foot.

“Buncha big suckers ya got there, Boss,” Sergeant Wayland said with a smirk, jowls jiggling as he walked into the room. “Hope ya didn’t have to work too… hard…” he trailed off as Caraway and Gan turned to face him and he saw the extent of their wounds. His eyes went wide and his gelatinous jaw hung open as he fumbled for an apology.

“Shut up, Wayland,” Caraway commanded.

“Uh, uh… Yes. Yes, sir,” Wayland mumbled into his hand, trying to cover his embarrassment with a cough or sneeze, unable to decide which, before finally deciding to stumble over into a darkened corner and remain silent.

Caraway looked over to Gan. “Your man ready?”

Gan glanced over his shoulder into an adjacent room. Johann sat silently at a small table, staring at his hands as he slowly rubbed them together. His eyes were vacant and lost.