The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (50 page)

Paul daintily held the remote between his fat thumb and forefinger, wiggling it in front of Michael’s face before sliding it halfway into the right pocket of his faded corduroys.

“This is a special remote control unit,” Paul said, rubbing his hands together. “What makes it so special is the gadget it controls—a rather ingenious impaling device I’ve attached under the chair his pretty girlfriend is presently handcuffed to. Martin is going to come crashing through this wall in about twenty-two minutes, guns blazing, in the hopes of rescuing her with that item I stuffed in your pocket. Of course, he’ll want to kill you before or after he takes it, so all you have to do is kill him first, this being a contest, essentially, and like any worthwhile duel, a fight to the death. If by some miracle you manage to pull it off, you’ll seize a fortune that would spin your head around like Linda Blair if only I had the time to list its precious inventory. You get all that?”

“What happened to all that shit you said about protecting me?” Michael yelled.

“I have been protecting you lad, for all your life,” Paul said with a solemnity that caught Michael so off guard he forgot about how much the nails hurt…for a second. “It seems we’re long overdue for a father-and-son chat…with me doing most of the talking.”

“Did you just say you’re my
dad
?”

“That’s the sordid truth, though we haven’t the time to get weepy about it. Yes, you’re the fruit of my very own loins and as such you’re entitled to a fair crack at your inheritance. However, Martin claims the same birthright, which puts you pretty far back in the queue.”

“That fuckhead is my
brother
?”

“Correct again. Even though Martin cares not a fig for his legacy, he’s nonetheless entitled to all he’s due, which is a hefty package. And you, sharing the same noble ancestry, have a miniscule window of opportunity to claim your bequest, though your chances of survival are slim and none, according to my reckoning. You had a crack at him last night but tripped me up instead. Fate is clearly on his side and I have no reason to assume the tide has turned in your favor. Yet regardless of the odds against you, I’d be remiss in my parental duties if I didn’t offer some helpful tips in this, your hour of mortal peril. So if you can keep your mouth shut for a few more minutes, you might actually learn something that could save your hide…and claim the ultimate treasure.”

“I don’t want any gold! Just get me the fuck out of here!”

“Sorry, lad,” Paul replied, sadly shaking his head. “You play a significant role in the grand design and though I seriously doubt you’ll ever be taking a stroll down the red carpet, it’s an important part nonetheless. If Martin fails to fulfill his obligations, I’ll need another young buck to rely on. You’re Plan B, son…assuming you survive this arduous challenge.”

“You promised you’d help me,” Michael cried, testing the grip of the nails, wincing with pain as he pulled his left palm up a fraction of an inch.

“Why, you ungrateful wretch!” Paul spat at him. “I’ve held back on your training until the last possible moment. All your other siblings save one have endured the most grueling labors imaginable to prove their worthiness…most of them dying in the process! I’ve spared you countless duels, wrapped you in a big, warm, fuzzy blanket. Even now, when my associate here would like nothing more than to practice his finely honed craft with you until the second before Martin arrives, I remain by your side, shielding you from the pain your brothers gladly welcomed. And you have the nerve to
complain
?”

“Please!” Michael yelped. “Just get me the fuck off this table!”

“Get yourself off,” Paul snarled. “The Striker told you how. If you had an ounce of testosterone between your shivering legs, you’d have made some decent progress already. But before you make a wholehearted effort, let’s quickly review your options, or you’ll have no time left to choose between them. Option one: You can remain in your current position and extract only one hand, pretending you’re still fully subdued and helpless when Martin busts in here, your body blocking his view of this pistol,” he said, concealing the loaded Beretta on the altar between Bean’s left hand and waist. “If he looks away, thinking you can’t move a muscle, you just grab the pistol and shoot him in the back.

“The other, more courageous—or cowardly option—depending on your viewpoint, would be to yank all four limbs off and hide in the darkness of the hallway, firing as many rounds as you can when you hear footsteps coming, praying one of them finds its mark.”

“How about this option? How about you pull these fucking nails out?”

“Think about what you’re saying,” Paul replied calmly. “What makes you think it’ll hurt any less when I pull ’em out than if you tug your limbs free? Remember lesson one: It hurts a little less when you do it yourself. However, if you choose that alternative, you’ll pass up your only real chance at ambushing a seasoned veteran that you have virtually no other possibility of defeating. I’ve thought long and hard about this, it’s a brilliant plan! If you don’t wet your panties and have anything resembling a decent aim, you could actually pull it off. You could win!”

“I don’t want to win,” Bean whined, almost in tears. “I want to get out of here!”

“Is that what the Book told you?” Paul challenged him. “Is that what it said as it led you to this holy place? You have the power inside you, boy. If you didn’t, you never would have heeded the Book’s magic call. Remember how good it felt to hold it in your arms? To follow its tug? It was leading you, son, like it’s led so many others. If you listen again, it might even lead you to freedom and glory.”

Michael stopped moaning. Stopped caring. He was doomed. Doomed. But as he experienced that ultimate surrender, another part of him shrugged it off like a mother lifting a car to rescue her trapped baby. Michael stopped…and stared at the Book.

Paul smiled at the change in him, at his own little
Turning
. “Good luck, lad…I wish you all the best,” he said, backing out of the portal. The Striker followed wordlessly like a pale shadow. “You’ve always meant a great deal to me, son. Just not as much as Martin.”

Martin picked up the top footlocker and slammed it on the floor. It weighed a ton. He opened the footlocker below and pulled out six ammo clips for the pistols (three painted red, three blue), four slim throwing knives and a CO2 cartridge ice-pick injection device of his own invention. That was for Bean. Martin found it very useful for interrogations where time was a critical factor. Once he explained what the CO2 would do upon being injected directly into the bloodstream, the subjects were remarkably compliant and confessed with a 96.5% accuracy rate. He’d bet every coin in his treasure chest that the kid would tell him where the remote was hidden in less than thirty seconds. Even if he didn’t, Martin would still get the satisfaction of watching his frantic expression as his brain exploded.

Martin put on his custom-made, fatigue-green, pleated nylon vest and slipped all his accessories into their sewn-in sheaths, feeling a sharp twinge of anxiety that he didn’t have two injector units to balance the symmetry. He groaned and took out one of the throwing knives on the left side, substituting the prick-pricker in its place, then rushed to the bathroom mirror to see how it looked.
Fuck.
It would have to do.

He quickly threw on his jacket again, pulled out the pistols and loaded the new clips of ammo into the chambers, red for one pistol (right pocket), blue for the other (left pocket). He holstered them in their interior straps, in case he had to pull a Wyatt Earp, did a few quick-draw warm-ups just to make sure they were perfectly positioned, and once he was satisfied that he had completed his preparations with the utmost attention to detail, he bolted into his blindingly bright room, sat in his white-on–white chair and closed his eyes.

Martin breathed slowly and deeply, ridding his mind of his previously frantic internal dialog. When he opened his eyes again, this is what he saw:

It may not look like much to you, but in that calm blankness Martin witnessed something so astonishing all he could do was gape. And blink. And gape even wider than before. The place he always called the dream world appeared, but now he could see where it was and what it was and what it had to do with him. He saw beyond the curtain of dreams into the other place. The wondrous place. Then the voice in his head started up again, but this time it wasn’t Paul, or Johnny, or the “new” him shouting with another walkie-talkie message.

It was the voice of the angel.

“Come,” the angel said. Everything was golden. The sky. The clouds. The angel’s face. Suddenly, more clouds gathered and the sky grew dark…darker…black. When the light returned, it was flickering. Candles. Groans. Crying.

He was in the castle of Lord Firth. Firth and his son were lying in a bloody heap. His daughter was crying, pleading for her life. Paul was too strong to be stopped, so Martin begged him to spare her. To his complete surprise, after much shouting and ridicule, Paul agreed, but only if he would swear a blood oath of unending loyalty.

Martin made his vow to save the girl. In blood. In the Book. Paul embraced him and said he was going to take him to the special place, as he had promised so long ago. The girl was bound and gagged, for her own safety, Paul assured him, and they entered a chapel where Paul tied her to the foot of a cross burdened with the nailed figure of an angel. Together, they climbed on the altar. Paul taught him the chant and they traveled beyond the curtain of dreams to that wondrous place he called the Maelstrom. When he and Paul returned, Paul kissed both his cheeks in congratulations.

The girl looked up at them, still bound and whimpering, her eyes soaked with fear. Paul opened his sickle. Martin thought he was going to cut her bonds. He slit her throat.

“You promised!” Martin cried, falling to his knees.

“I promised to let her live. I didn’t say for how long. You’ll have to toughen up if we’re to finish this quest. You won’t fare too well against Johnny’s seed if you’re getting all weepy for this mongrel.”

Martin wanted to hit him, to kill him, but he was too distraught to do anything but cry. Paul let him sob for a moment. Then Martin flipped the switch, stood up and walked from the chapel without another glance back at the girl. He never even knew her name.

“Come,” the angel said again. The castle of Lord Firth disappeared and he was in an underground temple, carved from the living rock of the cavern. The Master had been chained to the altar by a group of armed, angry men. Suddenly a girl appeared from out of nowhere, weeping with fear. Next a boy appeared, but he didn’t look fully human. What they did to him was so awful Martin looked away, silently asking the angel to spare him the rest.