Last Days (19 page)

"Cheers," said Kline.

"Just here to report," said Gous.

"Of course," said the Paul. He excused himself, went behind a desk, lifted a telephone receiver, spoke into it. A moment later he was back, unlocking the heavy door at the back of the lobby.

"Paul's expecting you," he said, holding the door wide. "Go right in."

They met the chief Paul in a room very much like the one that had been used for Kline's convalescence, the bed replaced by a sort of Victorian fainting couch, a few additional wing-backed chairs thrown in as well, the sort of room a group of nineteenth-century gentlemen would retire to after dinner to smoke their cigars. The Paul was at the piano when they came in, playing a stylized version of a song Kline knew but couldn't place. The Paul watched him, kept playing. Kline settled into one of the wing-backed chairs and listened. It was, he suddenly realized, Hank Williams' "Hey, Good Looking," reworked to sound like a German cabaret number.

When the Paul was done, Gous thumped his hand against his thigh, applauding.
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Kline couldn't help but think. The Paul stood and gave a little bow, then came over near them, stretching out rather effetely on the fainting couch.

"Ah," he said, smiling. "Here we are again. What bliss."

Gous nodded and smiled. Kline didn't do anything.

"You are, friend Kline, I must say, a charmed man," said the Paul. "It appears you can't be killed. Though the same unfortunately cannot be said for almost anyone who comes in contact with you."

"I suppose not," said Kline.

"I see that Paul," he said, nodding at Gous, "has had to come in from the cold, so to speak. And yet I suspect, Mr. Kline, that even had he not been readily available, you would have managed to extricate yourself."

He got up and crossed to Gous, moving behind him to stand behind his wing-chair. He placed his hand and stump on Gous' head and closed his eyes. Gous too, Kline saw, had closed his eyes.

"Our father who art in all things," said the Paul sonorously, and Kline realized with surprise that this was a sort of blessing. "We ask thee, in gratitude and humility, to look kindly upon this thy servant Paul, to arrange the trees and flowers, the rocks and fields, the buildings and bodies that constitute the expression of your being here upon this earth so as to cradle him and shelter him and shield him from harm." The Paul's eyes squinted, his brow tightening. "He has gone into the mouth of affliction for thee; he has given thee not only one hand but the better part of another, more than thou doest require. Now take him into thy bosom, dear Lord, and hereafter protect him. Amen."

He lifted his hand and stump away and opened his eyes. Gous opened his eyes and looked around, as if slightly disoriented, then smiled. The Paul came back toward the fainting couch, stood in front of Kline.

"And now," he said, "Your turn, friend Kline."

"Absolutely not," said Kline.

"Why ever not, friend Kline? What could you possibly be afraid of? That you might actually feel the holy spirit?"

"None of this has anything to do with me," said Kline.

"But it could have something to do with you, friend Kline," said the Paul, regarding him steadily. "And if not, what do you have to lose? It's only a man putting his hands on your head and nothing happening at all. But what if it does have something to do with you? Wouldn't you care to know what you're missing?"

Kline let his gaze wander the room, trying to look anywhere but at Paul. He shook his head.

"Have it your way, friend Kline," said the Paul. "Nobody can be forced to believe." He sat down on the fainting couch. "And now," he said. "We've saved your life, friend Kline. The least you can do is hear us out."

"Just like Paul here," said the Paul, nodding at Gous, "I first began as part of the brotherhood. I was one of the founders, one of the first group that included, among others, Borchert and Aline, both of whom I believe you've had the pleasure of meeting. It began at first as idle speculation, an interest in certain early Christian gnostic groups followed by a fascination for certain passages of scripture, followed by the notion that indeed our hand did offend us and thus it needed to be cut off. But the leap from this conclusion to the actual physical removal of a hand itself is perhaps more difficult to explain. These were heady times, friend Kline, and had there been one less of us to spur the others on, or merely a slight shift in the atmosphere, things might well have turned out differently."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Kline.

"Be patient, friend Kline.

"Things turned out as they were meant to turn out, and it took only the removal of the first hand--which to my eternal shame I must admit was not my own--to realize we had struck on something divine and inspired and profound." Paul stood up and paced the room, settling finally in front of the portrait of the man with his face bored away. "Before we knew it, we had begun to gather around us others, a society of men willing to go to extremes to demonstrate their faith. There were, you'll be surprised to know, Mr. Kline, more than a few. For a moment we were happy, all equals, developing a new gospel intended, through self-sacrifice, to bring ourselves closer to the divine."

"Sounds like paradise," said Kline.

Gous looked at him sharply. The Paul just turned away from the picture, smiled.

"But every paradise must end," he said. "Even a one-handed one."

"What ended this one?"

"This one?" asked the Paul. "Oh, the usual thing," he said, waving his stump.

"They went too far," said Gous.

"Yes," said the Paul. "As Paul says, they went too far. If the loss of one limb brings one closer to God, they reasoned, additional losses would bring them even closer."

"Less is more," said Gous.

"Less is more," Paul assented. He sat back down. "And everything appended thereto."

"Ramse felt that way," said Gous.

"The hierarchy, the judgment of others with fewer amputations, servitude, holier than thou. They became coarse, greedy. A real shame."

"But you didn't go along," said Kline.

"Oh, I went along," said the Paul. "At first. I had reservations but I lopped off my own foot."

"You did?" said Gous, surprised.

"It's not common knowledge as you see, friend Kline." He turned to Gous. "Just like you, Paul. I did it because I had to." He turned back to Kline. "Or you, friend Kline. I keep it covered, shoed, like you with your toes. I'm not particularly proud of it, Mr. Kline."

"And then?" said Kline.

"And then, the others kept letting more and more of themselves go. I stayed a two, and as their own amputations increased they began to separate themselves from me. Finally I gathered who I could and left."

"I'm surprised they let you leave."

"
Let
probably isn't the best word to use," Paul said. He pulled at his shirt until it came untucked, then reached across his body to tug it up. On his left side Kline saw four scarred divots, bullet wounds. "Like you, friend Kline, they didn't want me to go. Had I not already converted others to my cause I would have died in a ditch. But as it was, my comrades took me and healed me and now here we are."

"Here we are," said Kline.

"But you, Mr. Kline, made it out entirely on your own, and left them more than a little to remember you by."

"A conflagration," said Gous.

"Fire from heaven," said the Paul. "Though they themselves surely didn't see it in those terms."

"No, they didn't," said Gous.

"But we know who you are," said the Paul.

"You come not with an olive branch but with a sword," said Gous.

"You can't be killed," said the Paul. "You are the Son of God returned."

"You've got to be kidding," said Kline.

"Far from it, friend Kline," said the Paul. "We know thou art He."

"Then why don't I know?" asked Kline.

"Deep down, you know," said the Paul. "You just won't let the scales fall from your eyes."

"You're here for a purpose," said Gous.

"Yes," said the Paul.

"And what," asked Kline reluctantly, "could that purpose possibly be?"

"Mayhem," said the Paul, his voice rising. "Holy wrath. Cast down the false prophets. God wants you to destroy them. Kill them all."

Gous and Paul were close behind him, calling to him, begging him to listen. He kept moving, running as fast as he could. Doors were opening, the heads of Pauls popping out, watching him rush past.

He came to the T-intersection and went left, followed it to the second intersection, turned right, rushed down the spiral staircase, hand sliding along the heavy lacquered banister.

There was the door to the outside, the Paul he had knocked unconscious before standing in front of it.

"I'd like to leave," said Kline, breathless.

"Leave?" said the doorman Paul. "Now why, friend Kline, would you want to do that?"

"Open the door now."

"We haven't made you welcome?" asked the Paul. "Is it because you're not a Paul? I'm sorry to hear it." Lifting his hand, he turned toward the door, then paused, turned back.

"Do you have my key?"

"Your key?" asked Kline. "What do you mean?"

"To the car," said the Paul. "The one we loaned you."

"Mr. Kline," called a voice from behind him. "Surely you're not thinking of leaving us?"

He turned and there, on the stairs, a turn up, looking down, was the chief Paul, Gous beside him, dozens of Pauls clustered behind them.

"I thought I might," said Kline.

"But surely you must see, Mr. Kline, that what happened before can only happen again. They'll be waiting for you, they'll find you, and they'll kill you."

"You just said I couldn't be killed."

The Paul came down another turn, the others following. "As long as you are following God's will, friend Kline. But even God sometimes becomes impatient. You know the story of Jonah, friend Kline? How many whales do you suppose God will deign send to swallow you? When does God run out of whales?"

He came the rest of the way down until he was standing in front of Kline. "How long do you keep running, Mr. Kline? Is that really how you want to live? Listening for the sound of footsteps, heart leaping every time you see someone missing a limb? Like an animal?"

He moved a little closer, spread his arms.

"We're just trying to help you, friend."

"I don't want help," said Kline. "And I'm not your friend."

"Of course not," said the chief Paul, soothingly.

"All I want is to be left alone."

"Who could ask for anything more?" asked the Paul. "We want to leave you alone, friend Kline, we want you to come and go as you please. They're the ones who keep trying to kill you. We only want to help you."

Kline didn't say anything.

"If you'd rather not," said the chief Paul, "I can't force you. But they did remove several of your toes if I'm not mistaken, not to mention your entire arm."

"Forearm," said Kline, "and I was the one who removed it."

"Voluntarily, Mr. Kline? Or were you coerced?"

"Coerced," said Gous.

"Thank you, Paul," said the chief Paul. "'A' for effort. But I was asking our friend Kline. How can you ever live a normal life," he said, turning back to Kline, "until they're dead?"

"I'm not looking for revenge," said Kline.

"This isn't vengeance," said the chief Paul. "It's holy wrath."

Kline stared at him for a long moment and then began to pace, first in one direction then in the other, the crowd of Pauls rustling out of his way.
What sort of life do I have left for myself ?
he wondered. There was still the satchel full of money, secure in a safe deposit box, assuming he could still locate the key. He could simply leave here, get the money, and vanish.

But they'd be waiting, he knew, they'd try to stop him before he could even get the money. Could he make it? Could he really vanish? Even if he did, would he still flinch every time he saw the absence of a limb?

"But of course, there's always vengeance as well," said the chief Paul, and there was a rumble from the Pauls behind him. "Wouldn't you like to kill the man who took your arm?"

"He's already dead," said Kline. "I already killed him."

"Borchert?" said Gous, and laughed. "He's far from dead."

Kline stopped moving, his missing hand tightening into a fist. "You're lying," he said.

"I assure you, he's not," said the chief Paul. "Borchert survived your little fire."

"He was dead before the fire," said Kline.

Gous shook his head. "If he was, he came back to life again," he said.

"This is a trick," Kline said, voice rising, "just to get me to kill them."

"It isn't," said the chief Paul. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Kline started to pace again.
Curiosity is a terrible thing
, he was thinking.
How is it possible to stop oneself from needing to know?
He moved back and forth, trying to figure the best way out. Was it possible simply to walk away and disappear, to leave all this behind forever?

For him, for this, he realized, it wasn't. At least not yet.

"If I do this," said Kline. "I want never to see any of you ever again."

"Agreed," said the chief Paul.

"Even me, Mr. Kline?" asked Gous, a hurt look on his face.

"Even you, Gous," said Kline.

"Paul," said Gous.

"My point exactly," said Kline raggedly. "All right," he said, "so be it."

PART THREE

I.

What is the fewest number of them that I will have to kill?
Kline wondered as he drove.
Just Borchert? Will that be enough to keep them from coming after me?

No, he thought. At the very least he'd have to kill the guards at the gate, then three or four guards in the building. And what about the other high-level amputees? Would one of them be poised to take over from Borchert, and would he continue to hunt Kline? Would he be safe if he killed everyone with twelve amputations or more? Ten? Eight? Could he risk stopping before they were all dead?