The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (47 page)

“I see visions. I saw you here and I came as quickly as I could. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

She went absolutely apeshit.
“You saw this in a vision?”

“I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

She ranted a while longer. When she settled down enough for me to continue, I talked about my visions, when they started, how my mother had them too. I explained that they were the reason I got into the tarot in the first place. Since she already knew The Striker, I told her about the implants next and how I met Paul. I even told her about the website, though I neglected to mention my unauthorized bio. Maybe if she knew what a sick, twisted fuck her old pal was, she’d cut me some slack.

“That’s bullshit! The Striker is a friend of mine. I’ve known him for years. He’s weird…but he’s no serial killer.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest. “You’re so sure about that?”

Rose took a deep breath, ready to give me both barrels. Suddenly, she gazed blankly out the window. I
saw
a memory cascade through her mind with such clarity it felt like I was inside her head.

“My, what a charming necklace,” The Striker cooed in that unearthly deep baritone. “Where on earth did you ever find it? An estate sale?”

“My dad gave it to me,” Rose said quietly. She wasn’t up to talking about her mom.

“It’s simply wonderful. Look at how detailed these engravings are,” he intoned, bending lower to stare at it closer, oddly not lifting a finger to touch it. “How very impressive. It looks positively ancient. What treasure does this precious key guard?”

“It doesn’t open anything,” Rose told him, a frown crossing her face. “It’s just a good luck charm.”

“Lucky, indeed,” The Striker said, straightening his back again, not smiling like before. “But you’re mistaken if you think it doesn’t fit any lock.”

“What do you mean?” Rose asked, strangely anxious from his change in demeanor.

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” he asked, his smile returning, touching her chin with a long, spindly finger. “Any father who would give his little girl such a splendid present could only have one thing in mind…and that charm around your neck, dear Rose, is the key to your daddy’s heart.”

Rose opened her eyes with such a jolt I had to steady her shoulders to keep her from springing the trap. “The Striker…” she whispered, only now realizing that Martin wasn’t the first or only man to exhibit a keen interest in her jewelry.

“I guess you don’t think I’m so full of shit anymore,” I said, easing my grip on her robe as she calmed down again. “Do you want me to tell you the rest of it or not?”

Rose nodded, her face pale and clammy, beads of anxious sweat pebbling her brow.

“Oh, God! The key!” she gasped, staring down at her bruised, bandaged, but otherwise naked chest. “I left it on the doorknob downstairs. In the bathroom. Maybe he didn’t find it. Maybe there’s still time to…”

“It’s gone,” I said curtly. I could still picture the doorknob perfectly. Unadorned. A small drop of blood drying on the shiny brass finish.

“How do you know?” she gasped, trying not to fidget.

“If Paul wanted it, he has it,” I answered with a shrug. “It’s gone.”

“Gone…” she echoed, hanging her head with grief. I gave her a soft, comforting stroke on the top of her sobbing head. She rudely shook it off.

Hhmmph!
I wanted to snort. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and folded my arms across my chest, slyly stroking the warm lump of metal hidden beneath my clean, starched shirt.

Well, not gone, forever,
I mused, swallowing the words I so much wanted to voice before resuming my story again.
Let’s just say you lost it.

Martin fumbled with the last lock on his door, hesitating in the hallway before opening it. What was he doing here? He should be marching into Paul’s hellhole right now! How could he even think of stopping here first and wasting even more time?

The voice in his head that whispered to him on the way home warned him not to come here first. But no, he had to try the white room. Besides, he needed more equipment: his homemade ammo, his special ice pick for that fuckhead Michael and a Kevlar vest for when the bullets started flying. It would only offer a slim chance of survival if Paul wanted to go toe-to-toe with him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going into that building without it.

He thought about the remote as he opened the final lock. Did it even exist? If he found it, would it actually work? Either way, he needed some extra insurance. Only the Book could ensure their survival. He needed the white room to find it. He needed his gear.

“No!” the voice nagged at him again as soon as he opened the door. “Go there now!”

“It won’t take long,” Martin tried to explain, rationalizing his dubious decision to both himself and the voice of his old and probably only friend: Johnny Bones.

He didn’t recognize Johnny’s voice the first time, yelling for him to run back to The Plaza after he stupidly went to the Carnegie Deli. He didn’t recognize it the second time either, as he was leaving Paul’s suite. When the voice spoke to him a third time in the taxi on his way home, he didn’t even hear it. He was lost in his thoughts, debating battle tactics. Always blessed with the barest trace of an internal dialogue, Martin had been chattering in his own head so ceaselessly in the last half hour that he was starting to get a migraine.

“Can you step on it?” he shouted to the driver. “I’m in a hurry!”

The driver muttered, but stepped on it so hard Martin’s neck jerked backwards. The traffic was lighter than usual. Was it a holiday? He wasn’t even sure what day it was, though he thought it might be Friday. Clouds were gathering quickly, as if on cue. The dream of a peaceful day with Rose had long vanished and now the sun was going with it.

“That girl is not for you!” Paul screamed last night. When he found out about Johnny and Rose, he knew why. But when he replayed Paul’s shouting voice on the ride home, this time he heard it differently. There was something in the way he said it. With the accent on the last word. If she wasn’t supposed to be with him, then who?

That kid! Who was he? Where did he come from? What did Paul want with him?

To take my place. No, not just my place in the crazy clan vendetta. My gold. My girl. Paul wants Rose for him! But why? Just to hurt me? He couldn’t imagine Paul caring about Bean’s romantic longings. It didn’t make any sense.

“You’re wasting time,” said an urgent voice in Martin’s mind. This time he knew it wasn’t his own. He shook his head, trying to clear it. His brain was already aching. Now he was hearing things. He rubbed his temples and took a long, deep breath.

I need to find that book,
he thought, glad to hear his own familiar voice in his head.

“Go there now!” the other voice shouted.

“Johnny?” Martin asked, loudly enough for the driver to look back over his shoulder.

“Yes,” Johnny grunted, like every word was a strain equivalent to lifting a boulder off his chest. “Go there. Kill Bean. Take the Book.”

“Bean has the book? What about Paul?” Martin whispered into his hand, but the driver was still eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

The voice was silent. In the absence of any other competing internal dialog, Martin pictured himself wrapping his fingers around Bean’s smelly, stubbly throat. Then an image flashed in his brain with all the clarity of a Polaroid. In fact, the image was a Polaroid…of Bean. Where had he seen it?

“Pinned on the wall behind the candles,” came a new whispering. “In the chapel.”

This time it didn’t sound like Johnny. It sounded suspiciously like…Paul? No. It wasn’t that much different from his own voice. Except it sounded…it felt…more grown up.

Martin clutched his knees. There was a strange new voice in his head that was
him?
But instead of the angry, sullen texture of his familiar thoughts, this voice was completely relaxed. Maybe even articulate. Adult.

“Where’s the chapel?” Martin asked, willing the wonderful new “him” to return.

He sat. Waited. Nothing. Not even Johnny. His eyes snapped open and he pounded the armrest. He needed to find the chapel! He needed the white room!

“Step on the fucking gas!” he yelled, not sounding adult at all.

When the taxi screeched to a halt in front of his stoop, Martin threw some cash at him and barreled up the stairs, unfastening his myriad locks. I closed my eyes and watched him rummage around, gathering his supplies. Then I turned my attention back to Rose. Dear Rose.

Too bad Johnny didn’t have the strength left to set Martin straight about his more misguided assumptions. Like what Paul meant when he said, “That girl is not for you!”

Martin was correct in thinking that Paul wanted her for someone else.

But it wasn’t Michael. It was me.

I said earlier that I told Rose everything. That wasn’t exactly true. After all, I was just starting to gain her trust. When I told her about Mother’s deathbed plea for me to save Martin, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. And later, once her grief from the loss of her treasured family heirloom subsided a tad, she went right back to that salient point and barraged me with a slew of new questions. All about Martin, of course.

I obliged her curiosity, spinning the web of our strange, sad tale…even though I had to make some more judicious edits. Like the one I made earlier, when I told her about Paul and The Striker and the serial killer website. I left out the part about her being my intended victim. I figured she was scared enough already. She was still in that chair! Besides, if I told her she was the one dear ole Dad wanted me to kill, she’d start asking even more questions.

Like how and where and when.

And then, if I insisted on being completely honest, I would have had to tell her something even more terrifying: that according to my profile on the site, written five months earlier, I was supposed to have murdered her with an impaling device, after torturing her with knitting needles and pliers, in the Ambassador Suite of The Plaza Hotel on Good Friday at 3:15 in the afternoon.

I’ve got some big, fat acorns to squirrel away so I’d better start scribbling. When Paul told me to come up with some answers before I dirtied his doorstep, I took it as both a challenge and a reprieve. The good news was: I didn’t have to see his detestable face for a while. The bad news was: pretty much the same thing. I really don’t understand how I can hate someone more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life and at the same time, miss his company when he’s not around. One minute I’m plotting to murder him, the next I’m panting like a puppy, waiting for him to walk in the door. Fortunately, my obsession with Clan Kelly and the Hermetic lineage helped me stuff those fucked-up feelings and channel my energy into digging for gold. Even though I can’t confirm everything conclusively and I’ve come up with a lot more questions than definitive answers, I’ve got some big nuggets to deposit.

I’ve been awake for almost two full days now, fueled by endless pots of coffee and surrounded by a mountain of books, my eyes glazed from reading countless pages of paper and Internet ink. Paul gave me some decent breadcrumbs to follow: the Clan Kelly feudal dynasty (which I’m now certain is linked to both the Hermetic lineage and the Celtic druids); the shift in succession from disciples to progeny (still not sure exactly when it happened, but I’ve got a new theory on why it’s more advantageous); his lofty pronouncements about death and immortality (more to come); and his rage at the Church.