The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (9 page)

“The whole damn country knows Mr. Dumont,” Woods said broadly, shaking Dumont’s hand. “Can’t watch a newsreel without seeing your ugly mug next to the dame of the week. Tell me, did you really spend a week in Paris with Myrna Loy?”

“Just three days and four nights,” Dumont answered pleasantly. “And it was Milan, actually. I was with Mary Astor in Par—”

“What can we do for you, Jethro?” Caraway interjected, sick and tired of hearing about his friend’s many rumored conquests.

Dumont’s face steeled over. “It’s about Liberty Island.”

“Of course it is,” Caraway groaned.

“I own the ship, John.”

“You own the
Bartlett
?”
Woods asked incredulously.

“Well… the Dumont Corporation owns the company that owns the subsidiary that owns the so on and so forth,” Dumont replied, visibly uncomfortable as he placed a briefcase on Caraway’s desk. “I even own the Lindley Brothers & Andrews’ Combined Circus, if you’d believe it.”

Caraway shook his head. “I know how much you love reading the police blotter, but if you’re thinking I’m gonna let you muck around an active crime scene you might want to look into puttin’ on a badge, or for that matter, a robe,” he chided pointedly.

“Only if you have an extra one of them lying around,” Dumont retorted, pulling a thick folder from his briefcase and handing it out to Caraway. “Look, I’m not here for me, John. I’m here to help as much as a private citizen can.”

Caraway opened the folder warily. “Jesus, Jethro, this is the manifest.”

“A copy of it, at least. It’s not completely up-to-date, mind you. Only what was wired to us a day before the
Bartlett
set sail. It’s a relatively new policy, but it lets the folks on our end know what to expect; passengers, cargo, that sort of thing.”

“Pretty thorough,” Caraway commented, flipping through the pages before handing it to Woods. “Let me guess, you thought up this policy.”

“I’ve had bad experiences disembarking.”

“This is incredibly helpful, Mr. Dumont. Thank you,” Woods said with a brisk nod, his words slightly slurred. Clearly, this had not been his first drink of the day. “Officer

Heidelberger, get someone to draft up a few copies so we can start identifying remains and contact next of kin.”

“One other thing, John,” said Dumont, under his breath. “I looked over the passenger list. Gary Brown’s mother…”

Caraway felt like he had been kicked in the chest. He dropped down into his chair. “Jesus.”

“He’s downstairs with Evangl, seeing if they can identify the body.”

Caraway ran his hand over his face. “If there is one…”

“Needless to say, the Dumont Corporation will take care of any and all expenses for him and the victims’ families. And if there’s anything else the Dumont Corporation or I can do to help with the investi—” Dumont winced and swatted the air behind his head when his knees suddenly gave out.

Caraway jumped out of his chair. “You all right, Jethro?”

Dumont gripped the side of the desk and waved them away. “Just a little light headed,” he said weakly, his face pale. A sharp pop resounded from the squad room. He glanced over to the door. “What was that?”

Caraway immediately stepped out from behind his desk, drew his pistol, and moved in front of Dumont. He knew that sound, knew it all too well. Grim-faced, Woods carefully placed his glass onto Caraway’s desk and unhooked his holster. There was another pop, then another, then another. Shadows of movement danced behind the frosted glass, zigzagging across the bullpen in a fury.

“Jethro, get away from the door and duck behind the desk,” Caraway instructed firmly.

“John, what’s happening?” Dumont said, panic lacing his voice, his breathing heavy.

“Just stay down until I tell you not to. This is going to get messy real quickly.”

Screams began to echo out from the bullpen along with the increasing staccato of gunfire. Caraway felt his stomach flip angrily; he had just finished cleaning the place. He looked to Woods and silently nodded. The Commissioner responded in kind. Caraway reached to open the door when glass exploded in, proving him true to his word.

• • •

Gary’s hands were shaking as he pulled back the shroud. He was drowning, each breath an effort against the crushing weight pushing down on his chest. The face before him wasn’t his mother’s. His mother was beautiful; only Evangl was more beautiful than her. The woman lying on the slab before him was little more than a skeleton, the flesh torn off, leaving an unwavering red and white grin. They—the people, the monsters who did this—had cruelly left her eyes, sharp green and gold staring at him, looking through him. This wasn’t his mother, he told himself. His mother was beautiful and she was alive. His mother was alive. His mother was—

“Oh God, Evangl, it’s her!” he moaned, feeling his knees buckle beneath him.

Evangl ran up beside him, caught him in her arms, and helped lower him to the ground. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck as the tears began to pour. She laced her left hand with his, their rings clinking together.

“I did this to her!” he sobbed. “I gave her the ticket. It was my idea. I did it. I killed her.”

Evangl ran her fingers through his hair. “Shhh… Shh… No you didn’t, baby. That wasn’t you. You couldn’t have known.”

Gary fervently shook his head. “I could’ve— should’ve saved her. That’s what we do, right? We save people.”

“We can’t save everyone. You know that.”

“But we should have saved her,” he said hoarsely.

“I know, baby,” she whispered. “I know.”

“Who… Who would do this?”

Evangl glanced at the blood beneath her mother-in-law’s fingernails and frowned. “I don’t know…”

“I’m gonna find who did this,” Gary promised, pounding his fist against the floor. “You’ll see. No matter what, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“Breathe, love. Just breathe.”

The clock ticked out the seconds, one at a time, until they turned into minutes. Their skin grew cold in the refrigerated space, but they paid it no mind. They had been kidnapped, beaten, and shot during their time with the Green Lama, but this was the first time death had stepped through their door. They were no longer safe, Evangl realized; their armor had been stripped away. But that wasn’t really true, was it? They had never been safe, only lucky, living on borrowed time while the clock ticked down to zero.

Her thoughts became manifest as a rapid succession of pops and screams echoed down the stairwell.

Gary wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up at the ceiling. “Gunfire.” He climbed to his feet and carefully pulled the sheet back over his mother. He kissed the tip of his fingers and touched her forehead.

“You sure?” Evangl asked.

“I’ll never forget the sound,” he replied, his voice hollow. He held out his hand and helped her up.

“Should we?”

He met her gaze. “As if we wouldn’t?”

She nodded and pulled a gun from her purse.

Gary raised his eyebrows. “You’re carrying?”

Evangl looked at him in loving disbelief. “I always carry a gun.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I feel like I should say some clever witticism to comment on your hypocrisy.”

“Hypocrisy?” She wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “Sweetheart, you weren’t paying attention.”

He allowed himself a quiet, melancholy laugh. “This isn’t as much fun as I remember.”

Evangl stepped up on her toes and kissed him softly on the lips. “That’s because it never was.”

• • •

Desdemona burst into the office, landing cat-like on all fours. Shards of glass hung off her pale, bare skin as blood oozed from several bullet wounds, soaking her nightgown. Her face was sliced open, exposed red muscles twitching madly. Her eyes were a vicious, glistening black. Outside the soft, pained moans of injured or dying policemen could be heard, like a battlefield in the aftermath of a war.

She shrieked in a warbling cry, a thousands voices screaming together. Jethro clutched his head at the sound, feeling suddenly unseated from reality as a hot, white flash of pain exploded behind his eyes. For a brief moment he was once again aboard the
Bartlett,
surrounded by the pungent scent of death, the thunderstorm of evil. She wanted him;
they
wanted him. He could feel them inside his mind, whispering to him, telling him they would kill everyone that stood in their way.

Desdemona crabbed her body over, shifting and twisting so she could keep her obsidian eyes trained on Jethro. He could feel her looking through him like blades stabbing into his heart when he heard the muted crack of gunfire. A gaping wound appeared in Desdemona’s chest, a thick droplet of blood racing down her body. Her head cocked unnaturally to the side as she considered the smoking gun in Woods’s hand. She bared her teeth—black ooze lining her gums—as she jammed a finger into the wound and pulled out the metal slug. She held the bullet up and turned it over between her forefinger and thumb before she lapped the blood off it with her split tongue. She then took the bullet and drove it deep into the palm of her right hand, hissing while she did.

“Holy God,” Woods breathed, falling against the wall. A dark stain grew out from the crotch of his pants.

Desdemona turned her bloody face to the commissioner. Her black eyes blinked once, twice, staring at him like a spider regards a fly Her cracked lips extended into a hideous smile. Her back arched and her legs muscles riveted as she launched herself at Woods. The commissioner hollered and Jethro leapt in her path, grabbed Woods, threw him aside and raced into the bullpen. Desdemona let out a maddening howl, followed by the sound of glass scratching beneath her feet as she quickly made chase.

“Jethro! Get back, you idiot!” He heard Caraway shout after him.

He looked scared, adopting the panicked gait of a foolish playboy, a simple ruse to draw her away, get her isolated, before more people died. Bullets whizzed by as he raced though the destroyed bullpen, the surviving officers futilely trying to stop her. Jethro rushed over to the stairwell when Desdemona jumped him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. Jethro’s legs crumpled beneath the sudden added weight and they tumbled down the stairs in tandem. The shards of glass hanging off her body cut through Jethro’s suit and sliced into his flesh.

As they hit the landing, Jethro reached around and unleashed a torrent of energy. Desdemona’s grip shot open allowing Jethro to scramble to his feet. Desdemona back flipped into a crouch, her hands curled like claws. A despondent wave fell over Jethro as he looked into her black eyes; the woman he had saved wasn’t there.

“Freeze!”

Two uniformed officers stood at the base of the stairs, their sidearms aimed at Desdemona. Jethro moved to warn them when Desdemona leapt down stairs—mindless of the bullets slicing through her body—and tore out their throats in a single, terrifying motion. Twin scarlet fountains erupted as Desdemona dropped a pair of tracheas and tongues to the floor.

She turned back to Jethro and slowly curled a bloody, beckoning finger. She smiled sweetly despite her ruined face. Anger suddenly roiled inside him, at once foreign and familiar. His fingers curled into a fist, radioactive energy flowing through veins.
“Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”
he whispered before diving at her.

But Desdemona had anticipated the attack, quickly sidestepping as Jethro flew past, catching him by the throat singlehanded. Using his momentum, she spun him around and slammed him into the marble floor, cracking the stone. Jethro gasped at the impact as Desdemona tightened her grip around his throat and began to squeeze.

Chapter 5

INNER DEMONS

THE POLICE STATION was in disarray, buried in bits of wood, glass, and blood. Caraway limped through the center of the bedlam that had once been the squad room, pressing a scarlet soaked rag against his face while policemen ran around tending to the injured. This was the third time in almost as many months that the station had been ravaged. No wonder the department was always in the middle of a budget crisis, they practically had to keep a construction crew on retainer just to make sure the building stayed standing.

“One woman did this?” Gary asked in amazement, his gaze darting like a dog ready to be hit. He and Evangl had arrived just after the storm had passed, though Evangl insisted on keeping her gun close. Not that Caraway could blame them, after what he had just been through he was ready to keep a machine gun at his side.

“Wouldn’t exactly call her a woman,” Caraway grumbled, wincing as the claw wound on his cheek reopened. “More like a force of nature.”

“And this was the
Bartlett
survivor?” Evangl asked.

“Desdemona,” Caraway affirmed as they walked into his wrecked office. “It was like watching a caged tiger break loose. Killed six officers and scarred two dozen others.”

He pulled open his bottom desk drawer with the toe of his boot, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and opened it with his teeth.