The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (13 page)

“That’s a load of horseshit and you know it, Caraway. Fire before crime, that’s how it goes. It’s simple damn luck the explosion didn’t hit the gas line and blow up some damn orphanage. For all we know it could happen at any time. So, unless you plan on arresting the busted gas main, you should leave this to the boys who actually fight fires.”

“So far as I see, there’s nothing on fire at the moment, which means you’ve got nothing to do.”

“Eat me, Lieutenant.”

Caraway sighed. “Look, I can’t get into specifics, this being an ongoing investigation, but we have reason to believe this is tied to the
Bartlett.”

Langer’s walrus mustache bristled and shifted over his ruddy, bloated face. “How the hell you figure that?”

“Like I said, ongoing investigation. But,” he placed a hand on Langer’s shoulder, “if you boys wanna head down there and see what’s going on…”

Langer held up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right, I get your point. You wanna play hero with your gang of merry men, be my guest. Come on, boys, let’s give the Lieutenant some room.”

Unable to climb down the small crater, Caraway waved Sergeant Wayland over and the two lifted a manhole cover aside. A plume of smoke wafted up, but Caraway ignored the slight burning in his lungs. He was listening to the voices from the
Bartlett
humming in his ear, telling him he was close, not too far now… She was down there. The Keystone, right there for the taking… The now familiar sensation of something climbing up his back inched higher. Caraway clamped his jaw shut to stop the chattering, feeling everything freeze inside him. He gazed down at the darkness and idly scratched at the wound on his cheek.

He heard Evangl in the distance. “John?”

“What is it, Evangl?” Caraway asked drowsily.

“Your cheek…”

Caraway’s eyes fluttered as he touched his face and was numbly shocked to find the tip of his finger coated with blood. “Hm,” he sounded, wiping the wound with his handkerchief.

“John, are you—” she said, unable to hide her concern.

“Wayland, I want at least five men round the clock, guns ready. I don’t want anyone not wearing a uniform within ten feet of this place. And if something big and scary comes out, I want you to turn it into a pencil. Unless it’s us, in which case I want five bars of soap, ten buckets of hot water, and at least six towels on hand.” He turned to Gary and Evangl and let the man beneath the bravado briefly appear. “You ready for this?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s just like old times,” Gary said, his gaze burning down into the sewer.

“But a bit more scary and smelly,” Evangl added, holding her hand over her nose.

Caraway wanted to give them a reassuring smile, but even that seemed difficult. He took off his fedora instead. “As long as we’re on the same page then.”

They climbed in one after another until Caraway was left above ground once again staring down at the abyss. The murmurs grew louder, until they were almost screams; while the cold grip on his spine began to scratch against the inside of his ribs. The Keystone. They wanted the Keystone… His vision tunneled and his body swayed forward, preparing to take the leap—

“Everything all right, Sir?”

Caraway blinked as if he had been caught dozing off in class and saw Wayland and the remaining collection of the Special Crime Squad staring at him with concern. He cleared his throat and gave Wayland a reassuring slap on the shoulder and a broad smile. “Perfectly fine, Evan. Just another day at the office.”

Wayland risked an apprehensive smile. “Of course, Boss. Just another day.”

After Caraway dropped down into the sewer Wayland looked to Heidelberger and asked, “Is it me or did his eyes seem really black all of the sudden?”

Chapter 7

TERROR UNDERGROUND

“FREEDOM OF THE PRESS!” Sergeant Wayland slowly shook his giant ball of a head left then right. “Sorry, Miss Dale. Orders are orders. No one gets within two yards of this thing by order of Lieutenant Caraway of the Special Crime Squad. See, this is a Special Crime,” he said, capitalizing the words. “The sort that don’t make no sense.”

“Like I haven’t had my share of those? Come on, Wayland, you know me! Just tell me what the hell is going on!”

Wayland crossed his arms with finality. “Like I said, ’don’t make no sense.’”

“What is it? Robots? Mad scientist with a ray gun? The Fifth Column? I’ll keep rattling them off, blink when I get it right.”

“You keep asking, I’ll keep shaking my head.”

“Sounds dizzy.”

Frankie took her by the arm. “Come, Miss Dale. Clearly the officer’s hands are tied. Let’s not be a bother.”

“Biggest story of the damn year and I’m sidelined,” Betty cursed once they were down the block. “Jesus, now I know how Din feels over at the
Planet”
She could use a drink, even that bitter Manhattan she had at the Cafe Society seemed suddenly appealing. Instead, she stuffed her notebook into her purse and pulled out a cigarette in its place. “Thanks, Mr. Annor, but I’ll take it from here.”

Frankie slowly shook his head as he lit her cigarette. “I don’t think so, Miss Dale. There are many ways into the sewers.” He nodded toward a manhole in a nearby alleyway. Without waiting for a response he walked over to the manhole and began working to remove the metal cover.

“Why are you helping?” she asked after a moment. “Much as I appreciate you driving me into the middle of this ruckus, offering to go into the New York City sewers is a little above and beyond the typical ‘Good Samaritan.’ Makes me wonder what your racket is.”

Frankie’s lips thinned to a line as he pondered this for a moment. “Apart of me just feels responsible for him,” he said at last.

“How does that work?”

He pressed two fingers into his midsection. “I feel it here and I go by that. Everything else is secondary.”

Betty watched him pull the cover free, ignoring the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. “This is going to sound strange, but based on my experience, men who talk like that usually wear masks.”

“Not all of us need to hide in the shadows, Miss Dale,” he replied, a glint in his eyes.

Betty’s heart raced. It couldn’t be him, could it? “Next thing you’re going to tell me is you prefer to be called a letter or some kind of arachnid.”

He smiled. It was an honest smile, without enigma or suggestion. She had never seen someone smile like that before. “Just Frankie, Miss Dale. Just Frankie.”

Heat and steam filled the sewer, reminding Gary of those few, terrifying nights fighting the Fifth Column in Hollywood, Florida all those years ago. He had been young then, back when he was immortal. In those moments of blood, sweat and bullets, Gary had felt alive, like he was making a positive impact for once. It had never been fun, not once, that was just the lie he told himself in an effort to comprehend the madness. And there was nothing madder than this.

Now, there was a fire smoldering inside him, burning through his chest and darkening the periphery of his vision. He was not an angry man by nature, but the fury he felt wouldn’t subside, roiling around until it threatened to consume him. The
Tulku
didn’t approve of vengeance, once telling him: “When the fire of anger touches you, do not grasp it. Release it like a burning coal lest it bum you.” What did the Green Lama understand of anger, of loss? He was all calm and prayer; it would be a miracle if he felt anything besides serenity.

Margaret Brown could never have been described as a saint. Lord knew she had spent plenty of nights spewing out curses that would have made a sailor blush. Life had made her hard, left alone raising a kid who was more apt to get into fistfights than play stickball. How many bottles had she tossed at Gary’s head when he came home drunk or, when he was working for Harlem Joe, speckled with blood? Maybe she had expected better of him, or maybe just better of herself.

And then things changed, almost as if they both had been given the chance to give their story a happy ending.

But it had all been a joke. One big fat prank played by Providence. Everything he had done to right the wrongs of his youth meant nothing, succeeding only in putting his mother on the slab. He shook his head; he couldn’t even process the thought. His mother couldn’t die, she was his mother, she would outlast the world and keep going long after the stars went dark.

That one woman, this Desdemona, could survive such a nightmare only to continue it, dishonoring all those who had died, warranted some kind of justice…

“This bring back any memories?” Evangl said as sweetly as she could manage knee deep in filth. The stink of a million toilets pooled and swirled around them, digging at their senses with an unrelenting fury.

“Oh yeah, it’s an adventure,” he replied, his voice hollow. His fingers curled tightly around his gun, grasping at the flaming coal of anger.

Evangl’s face darkened. “It definitely is.”

“This way,” Caraway called from up ahead. He aimed his flashlight down an adjacent tunnel, cutting through the gloom like a knife. There was something wrong with him, though Gary couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the way Caraway unnaturally hunched his shoulders, or the way he seemed to be picking at his face, as if he were about to tear off his skin. And then there were his eyes. It might just be the gloom, but Gary could swear Caraway’s eyes were dilated three sizes too big.

“Do you remember the time we went up against the Crimson Hand?” Gary asked, moving closer to Evangl, out of earshot of the Lieutenant.

“Sweetheart, that’s how we met.”

He flapped a frustrated hand in the air. “I know, I know. It’s just… When Pelham held the red-hot poker to your face—”

“I bit my lip so hard it bled.”

“—I was never more terrified than I was in that moment. Throughout that whole ordeal, I was able to keep it cool, but watching you suffer… I felt like my whole world was shattering.”

“Was that when you realized you loved me?”

“I barely knew you,” he said with a shrug, though his cheeks turned ruddy. “But that feeling, that inescapable sense of dread…” He glanced up at Caraway. “I feel that now.”

Evangl frowned, her voice hoarse. “Yeah. Me too.”

They moved past a fork in the tunnel, their movements echoing off the curve in wet, rhythmic time. Gary waved his flashlight down the curve, seeing little more than water and a large pipe overhead when something caught his eye, a movement of shadow just around the bend. Gary’s senses ignited. He grabbed Evangl by the arm and pulled her alongside him against the wall.

“Wait,” he said under his breath.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s coming. Around the corner.”

She glanced at Caraway, several yards away. “Let’s tell John, see if we can—”

“No,” he said firmly. Caraway would just throw on cuffs and let the courts and justice take care of her. But what better justice was there than a bullet to the head? He wanted this for himself. He needed it.

“Gary, if it’s the girl from the ship, we should really get Caraway. You saw what she did…”

But Gary ignored her and flicked off his flashlight; the fire drummed at the inside of his ears as he slowly rounded the corner. Damn the Green Lama’s teaching. Even if he once again speckled himself with blood, he would avenge his mother and send a message to the darkness that nothing should ever cross Gary Brown again.

The shadows moved closer, a man and woman by the shape of them. Good, he decided as he aimed his gun, two bullets might just even the score. He cocked back the hammer and readied to—

“Gary! Wait!” Evangl hissed, aiming her flashlight at the approaching couple.

The coal inside Gary’s heart burned him. “Jean? Ken?” he exhaled in surprise, his arm dropping limply to the side.

“Gary, Evangl,” Jean Farrell said pleasantly as she walked out of the shadows. “How’re you?”

“You scared the living daylights out of us,” Evangl said, hugging Jean in relief. “Gary almost shot you.”

Jean gave Ken a knowing glance. “Yeah, that’s been going around. Take it you’re looking for Dumont?”

“Seems like the thing to do,” Gary said aloud, his breathing heavy. He had almost killed them, another few seconds and…

“Welcome to the club. We meet every Tuesday.”

“Hey, does this count as a team-up?” Ken piped up as he looked back and forth between the three of them.

Evangl frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You know, old gang and new gang.” He hooked his forefingers. “Together at last?”

Jean rolled her eyes. “We’ve worked together before, Ken, during that whole Gandini fiasco.”

“Yeah, but that was like… seventy years ago,” Ken said with a shrug. “Who remembers that?”

“Please pardon my friend, he’s blond. One question, though… Why are we whispering?”

Evangl arched an eyebrow. “Force of habit?”

“How long have we waited for you…”

They turned around to find Caraway’s silhouette standing at the curve of the tunnel; his shoulders hunched and head hanging low. Gary could hear him breathing, the slow, wet rattling sound of an influenza patient. Evangl gave Gary a wary look and Gary felt his skin prickle.