The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (5 page)

“It’s stuck pretty good,” Caraway said, struggling to open the hatchway to the bridge, the metal squealing as if rusted shut. “You think they locked themselves in?”

“It might explain how the ship navigated up the bay,” the Green Lama said, walking up to the hatchway. “But not why they didn’t radio for help or disembark when the ship crashed.”

“The crazies might have cut the radio, and the way the ship looks, would you want to risk leaving the only safe place left?” Caraway offered. He gestured at the hatchway in frustration. “Can’t you just break this open with your ’Buddhist powers,’ or something? That’s what you—”

The wheel screeched horribly as it suddenly began to turn on its own. The metal latches clanged open, a sound that reverberated through the passageway, inviting them in. Caraway jumped back, drawing his gun, while the Green Lama held his ground, his fists subtly glowing.

“Was that you?” Caraway whispered, his eyes brimming with fear.

“No, John, that was not my ’Buddhist powers,’” the Green Lama calmly replied.

“Jesus, what kind of mystic warrior are you?”

A smirk tugged at the comer of the Green Lama’s lips. “Buddhists are pacifists. I’m offended you would even call me that.”

“A pacifist who punches people,” Caraway retorted under his breath.

The Green Lama could hear the watery sounds of sobs emanating from within and took a tentative step forward. His heart jumped into his throat.
“Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha!
There may be survivors.”

Caraway raised his gun. “Or more crazies…”

The Green Lama’s face went grim, knowing Caraway was right. He slowly pulled open the hatchway, the rusty hinges screaming. The air was thick with the smell of rot, blood splattered across the controls and windows. Here and there, mutilated bodies of the crew slumped over at their stations, all in advanced states of decay, their shriveled lips pulled back into sinister grins. The Green Lama took a tentative step in when a bullet sliced past, ricocheting off the metal siding and crashing out the window.

“Get back! Get back, you hear me?!” a young woman shrieked, a revolver rattling in her hand. She cowered in the comer, covered in dried blood, her dress a crusty, unsettling maroon. On her neck bore a long gash with three uneven dashes on the left, two on the right. “Take one step closer and I swear to God I will shoot you both,” the woman said, aiming her gun at the Green Lama’s head.

The Green Lama slowly held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “We’re not here to hurt you,” he said calmly. “I am the Green Lama and this is Lieutenant John Caraway of the New York City Police. We’re here to help.”

“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.”