The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (46 page)

He put the pistol in his pocket, ran back to Rose and slowly lifted her face. She was alive. He could feel her breath on his hand. Was she unconscious or comatose? He opened one eyelid and checked her pupil. Unconscious. He searched for a bruise on the back of her neck. There it was. Given her size, the effect would last more than forty minutes.

Good. Let her rest while I take the cuffs off.

He tried to calculate when Paul had left by the color of the bruise. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes earlier.
Fuck. I just missed him.
Then he saw the blood seeping through her robe.
You fucking fuck!

He gently parted the thick terrycloth and saw what Paul had done to her breasts. He chewed his knuckles, trying to keep his cool while he appraised her injuries. They looked horrible, but the actual wounds were small and would leave only tiny scars with proper treatment. He slowly pulled out the knitting needles, grateful she wasn’t feeling them on the way out like she must have felt them on the way in. He ran to the bathroom, searching for a first aid kit. He found one under the sink. He grabbed it and ran back to the sitting room, tenderly daubing the streaks of blood away, covering the small holes with antiseptic and band-aids. When he was finished, he closed her robe and moved behind her to see what he could do about those handcuffs.
Fuck!
He could usually pick handcuff locks faster than he could pick his own teeth, but he had never seen a keyhole that remotely resembled this. Was it magnetic?
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He examined the chair next, calculating how difficult it would be to break apart without causing her any further injuries.

That’s when he saw it. The gleaming metal device under her chair. He dropped to his knees, tilting his head sideways like a bomb-squad periscope. Under the chair was a strange contraption attached to all four legs. In the center was a broad round metal plate. In the middle of that was an inch–thick, stainless-steel pole, tapering to a razor-sharp tip. It looked like a spring-triggered device that would engage if any leg was lifted or the weight of Rose’s body was removed. When the trap was sprung, it would instantly shoot up through the seat. Through Rose. He almost punched a hole in the wall. He sat down in the chair across from her instead, pondering his next move. As he sat, some paper crinkled under his ass. There was a long note sitting on the cushion. How had he missed it? He snatched it up, marveling at the gorgeous penmanship…until he read the message:

Dear Martin,

If you move this bitch a single inch, I’ve installed a very interesting device under her chair that will make you wish you hadn’t. It has a timer set for 3:15 this afternoon, if you don’t help it along by fiddling around, trying to get her out of that chair. Even though you’re good with gadgets, there’s only one thing in the world that can disarm it: a simple remote control device. If you’re able to find where I’ve hidden it and make it back here in time, then she’ll be yours. That shouldn’t be much trouble for a resourceful lad like you. And because I feel such compassion for all the suffering I’m causing you, I’ll give you a tiny clue: I’ve hidden it in a very special place, a place you’ve visited before. All you have to do is remember. Then again, you should have known where she was in the first place, because you’ve been here before too. Good luck, lad. I wouldn’t tarry too long. Even though you have enough time to accomplish your task, I’ve thrown a few obstacles in the way, just to keep things interesting.

Love and kisses, Paul

Martin looked around the room and felt a sense of dread creep into his bones that he had never experienced. He
had
been here before. He knew it as soon as he read Paul’s note. Was he out if his mind? He looked at the old paintings, the draperies and furniture and felt a deepening sense of déjà vu with every painful glance. When had he been here? What had they done? Why couldn’t he remember?

He looked back at Rose. Her tearstained eyes. Her punctured breasts. He could have saved her. He had totally blown it. He got down on his knees again and looked under the chair, praying he could figure out how it worked. There was a black plastic disc near the telescoping pole. A button? Maybe it locked the mechanism. Or triggered it.
Fuck!
There was no way of knowing.

Usually a paragon of decisiveness and efficiency, Martin held his head, agonizing over what he should do next. Should he leave right now? Track down Paul and the remote control? Or try to disarm it? If he fucked up, he’d kill her either way. Shit! He had to make a decision now, before Rose regained consciousness. If she saw him and he left again to hunt down Paul, she’d go nuts and spring the trap. “What should I do?” he fretted, never expecting an answer.

“She’ll be okay,” said an urgent voice in his mind that didn’t sound at all like his. “You need to go now, find the remote and…”

Martin didn’t recognize the voice or listen to the rest of its instructions. He looked back only once, at Rose’s hanging head, then ran to the elevator as fast as his feet could fly.

“Bye, bye, Martin,” I said with a wave down the hallway as I opened the door of the Ambassador Suite. I went inside as soon as Martin left in the elevator. I quietly closed the door and walked over to her, stroking her hanging head. Good. Still unconscious. At least she hadn’t heard me bidding Martin a fond farewell. I was going to have my hands full anyway, explaining my presence when she came around.

I opened her robe…to look at her injuries, of course. I’m not some kind of pervert. As you may have guessed, Martin did a bang-up job dressing her wounds. I gently closed the red-stained fabric and read Paul’s note, then looked under the chair.

Ooooeey. That was some nasty piece of metal. I saw the button Paul showed me. I pressed it and heard a loud metallic
ching!
A tiny black screen popped out of the metal with a switchblade sound. A line of red digital letters streamed across the black screen like a news ticker in Times Square:

CONGRATULATIONS, BILLY! I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!

Then the letters disappeared and were replaced by digital numbers…ticking backwards. Son-of-a-
bitch!
I cursed myself and cursed Paul even more vehemently. Yet there was still time to correct what I’d set in motion, if that’s what I really wanted. Be a hero. Get the girl.

There’s a solution to every puzzle. Sometimes it’s a simple one. I got an idea and fiddled around. Then I sat back down and composed myself, waiting for her to awaken.

She opened her eyes slowly. As they focused on my face, I raised my finger to her lips, not so much to quiet her as to warn her against any movement. “It’s me,” I said stupidly. She remained silent, her eyes soaked with fear. She must have thought I was here to help Paul. Who could blame her?

“I came here to…protect you,” I said, settling on “protect” instead of “save.” It was less self-serving and slightly more honest.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked, her head clearing, more angry than afraid, moving her shoulders forward, tilting the chair with her. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Don’t move. There’s a trap,” I said in the most forbidding voice I could manage.

“I know,” she said, glaring at me through her streaked eye makeup. “Your buddy really enjoyed telling me about it before he…” her face took on a puzzled expression before she concluded, “…knocked me out.”

“He’s not my buddy,” I said testily. “Did he tell you how it’s triggered?”

“If I move, if I wiggle…if I try to scratch my ass,” she said, managing to make her whisper sound like a scream. “And if I don’t manage to kill myself…he put a timer on it.”

“Did you see anything that looked like a remote control?”

“No,” she said, her lips barely moving. She began to cry. I touched her shoulder. She shrugged it away.
Now is all that matters,
I thought, struggling to regain my composure. “I’m here to help,” I said.

She raised her head. Not with the same look of contempt. With a flicker of excitement. “My boyfriend! He must be looking for me! Call room 1112. He’ll be able to get me out of here! Wait, what am I thinking? Call 911!”

I didn’t move.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rose cried, clearly upset by my lack of enthusiasm and initiative. “You said you wanted to help! Pick up the phone and call the cops!”

I stared blankly at her until her fear mounted to such a crescendo that it blessedly extinguished her frantic, bossy suggestions. When she finally became still, I spoke again.

“I’m sorry, but the cops won’t help you. Paul has a very special relationship with certain members of the police department. Understand?”

Her eyes clouded with suspicion. “So call my boyfriend…”

“Martin,” I sighed, looking into my lap, cleaning my nails. When I looked up again, her face was ashy white. I held her gaze a bit longer than I should have, feeling those old familiar resentments before I came to my senses. “We came here together,” I lied, forcing a smile, doing my best to reassure her again. “He took those needles out. Cleaned you up.”

She looked at the bloody knitting needles on the table, then down her slightly parted robe. Band-aids. She looked confused. Then her cheeks turned red with rage. “How do you know Martin? Where is he?” she hissed. “What did you do to him?”

I had to laugh. Me? Do something to Martin? No. I could see she meant it, though my laughter unnerved her again and she retreated into silence.
Shit.
Things were spinning out of control, so I showed her Paul’s note. Explained how Martin left to hunt down Paul and find the remote. How I stayed behind to guard her. How I, not Martin, was her true hero.

“No! Martin wouldn’t leave me again! He wouldn’t!” Rose said, her face quivering, trying to hold back an impending flood of tears.

“Well, he did. He was kind of stoic about it, actually. He told me to look after you, but he didn’t even leave me a gun. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, quite convincingly. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. I want you to call my room right now…in front of me.”

I called her room.
Ring. Ring. Ring
. I even left a message. Her reaction was predictable. She started crying again. Begged me to call the cops. Then I had to explain
that
all over again. Why wouldn’t she believe me? Yes, I know. Why should she believe me? I was lying. But they were good lies. I spent a lot of time thinking them through.

“You’re in this with him! You helped him do this to me!”

I’d been looking forward to seeing her so much, but this wasn’t how I imagined things going at all. “If I wanted to hurt you, it wouldn’t be too difficult,” I said with a yawn.

Her face clouded with a film of pasty fear. “What are you doing here? How do you know Paul…and Martin?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Rose thought about her father again…his crazy letters…Martin’s even crazier revelations. She glared at me and took a deep breath. I followed her eyes as they traced the absurd splendor of the Ambassador Suite. I watched her point her chin at the armoire and its bizarre contents. I saw her stare at the bloody knitting needles on the table between us. Then she looked back at me, rolled her eyes and said, “Try me.”

I decided to tell Rose everything. How could I not?

“Martin is my brother. Paul is our father. I only found out a few months ago, after we finished the tattoos. He wants to kill you because you’re an O’Neil. His clan is at war with yours, so there’s no way he’s going to let you hook up with Martin.”

“Martin would have told me if Paul was his father!” Rose cried, her mind reeling with the horrifying implications of Paul’s blood flowing in Martin’s veins.

“Martin can’t remember fuckall. Paul traumatized him so much as a kid that his memory is in lockdown mode. He thinks Paul is the Clan King and he’s one of the stupid knights. You’ll understand all this better if I start at the beginning.”

“No, start at the end. How did you know I was here? Why didn’t you come before…?”

Her stern expression was momentarily wiped away with a cascade of tears. Her sobbing gave me a few seconds to think. In the weeks I spent preparing for our encounter, I rehearsed at least ten plausible and very detailed explanations for those questions. Once I was sitting right in front of her, not a single scripted response came to mind. But any good liar is an inventive liar, with a knack for improvisation. So I decided to take the most inventive approach I could think of on short notice.