The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (57 page)

It sure would make a nice key chain.

Martin was barely out the chapel door when he heard more firemen shouting from the hallway. His instinctual reaction was to reach for his guns. Then he had a moment of inspiration. “Down here!” he yelled from behind the mask, his voice so muffled it could have been anyone’s. He walked back into the chapel and rolled Bean’s body on the floor until the flames went out. Then he carried him back into the hallway, almost bumping into the other fireman as they arrived. “He’s alive!’ Martin shouted as they moved to let him pass.

He made it out of the building so quickly he surprised himself. All the remaining firefighters outside were doing exactly that. Fighting. Every window was gushing flames. He dropped the stiff, charred body onto an ambulance stretcher. “He might be alive,” he lied and trotted away. They looked at him like he was a hero. It felt kind of nice.

He looked in every direction as he passed the fire trucks and the cop cars. He knew Paul had already gone, but what about The Striker? There was no sign of him and no one else was even looking in his direction.
Nice disguise.
He took off the mask and tank as soon as no one was watching. He kept the coat, since his own was covered in blood. He doubted anyone in The Plaza would try and stop a fireman from entering.

As he passed the fire chief’s van, he saw a flash of light in the corner of his remaining eye. Keys. Excellent. “This should cut my travel time,” he said, hopping inside. He grabbed a pair of aviator sunglasses from the dashboard and put them on. Not as dark as his empty eye socket, but they’d do. He felt the guns and the remote in his pockets, stepping on the gas like a drag racer. By the time he hit Avenue B, he was flying.

I can still make it. All that matters now is Rose.

Paul was getting close. I’d been blocking him out all day. Didn’t want him taking the helm, or eavesdropping on our mutual yarn-spinning. Now I wanted him to look at her through my eyes. To see she was still alive. And waiting. “Come,” I beckoned, inviting him in to savor the view.

Then something happened.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Rose asked, more alarmed than angry. I couldn’t respond, even if I wanted to. I was in the car with Paul, inside his head, pulling in front of The Plaza’s lobby. And I was stuck.

“Answer me!” she demanded.

I still couldn’t speak. Now I was in the lobby pressing the elevator button. I looked in the mirror while I waited for the doors to open and saw Paul’s reflection staring back at me.

“Say something!”

The eyes slowly opened. “He’s coming,” said the lips beneath them.

“Martin?” Rose asked desperately.

“No.” The face smiled. “Not Martin. William.”

“What are you talking about? You’re William! Do you mean Paul is coming? Is that what you mean?”

The face watched Rose squirm in her spike-loaded chair before answering. “William…Paul…what’s the difference?”

The deeper you go, the deeper you get. Paul called me today. On the phone. Told me to meet him uptown…at The Plaza Hotel. He was in the Ambassador Suite. A middle-aged man with thick, red hair ushered me inside, to what I guess was a sitting room. I was floored by its size and opulence. The next shock was bigger.

Paul looked…incredible. Immaculately groomed and tailored like he just stepped out of a
GQ
fashion shoot. He was dressed in a dark gray, light, wool suit that had to cost a few thousand. His shirt was black and buttoned to the neck. His hair was shining white and pulled back in a neat ponytail. His mustache was meticulously trimmed, his skin glowing. He looked like a straight Karl Lagerfeld. A big, crazy, straight Karl Lagerfeld.

Paul introduced me to the lanky redhead—Ryan Murphy, his attorney. Murphy shook my hand with a big phony smile, like I was someone important. Said I needed to sign some documents. I asked Paul what was going on.

“Your change of identity,” Paul said proudly. “Your
retroactive
change of identity. In a few short years, the internet will be the repository of your entire personal history, so before that occurs, we’re making some preemptive adjustments. After we’ve finished, all information and documentation related to you—birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license—will substantiate your identity as William P. Kelly.”

“What’s the ‘P’ stand for?” I asked needlessly.

“It sure as hell ain’t Patrick,” Paul laughed.

“How the hell can you even do something like this?”

“The common term is connections. The reality is much more complicated, particularly if you want the public record to withstand the scrutiny of any serious investigation.”

“Why would I be…?”

“You may find yourself growing more ambitious as time goes by. Wealth and power tend to inspire a passion for more of the same. Should the time arrive when a higher public profile suits your objectives, you’ll have a pedigree suitable for framing…after you’ve fulfilled your obligations, of course. We’ve already contacted any students, neighbors, workmates or anyone else that’s ever had more than a ten-minute conversation with you since kindergarten, and made the necessary…arrangements…to keep the story consistent. In short, you’ll be a new man, William.”

Ryan handed me a packet containing my new passport, driver’s license, social security card, Tetron ID, medical records…all to be kept in escrow until I “fulfilled my obligations.”

I could barely keep the pen steady in my shaking hand as I signed the stack of papers.

“What’s ‘Tetron’? I’ve never heard of it.”

Paul was about to answer when Ryan took the floor. “It’s a holding company. Armaments, aerospace, real estate, etc., but our deepest interest is in the technology sector—computing, robotics, artificial intelligence and bio-engineering.”

“
Our?”
I asked, glancing at Paul, then back to Ryan. “Are you a shareholder?”

“I meant to say the company’s holdings,” he backpedaled, looking at Paul to check on the extent of damage control necessary. When Paul’s face changed to the dead mask, Murphy was so rattled I thought he might start doing a Rodney Dangerfield with his tie.

“And the primary shareholder is…?” I prodded, enjoying his discomfort.

“Why your father, of course.”

My father. Out of all the Clan Kelly kin, I was in all likelihood the very last person to become privy to that information.

“So, how extensive are Tetron’s holdings?” I asked, none too subtly.

“I believe he’s more interested in the current valuation than the portfolio listings,” Paul said to Ryan, with a kingly wave of his hand, authorizing the disclosure.

“If the market is still up by the end of the day, and this is only a guess, mind you, the company’s net worth should be in the neighborhood of 12.2 billion dollars U.S.”

“U.S. dollars,” I gulped. “They’re my favorite kind.”

Ryan smiled. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, sir,” he said, packing his briefcase with the new me. “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call.” He handed me his card and left. The red-and-black Tetron logo looked like it was designed by Goebbels.

“Nice graphics. Very Bauhaus.”

Paul smiled and put his big arm around my shoulder. I could feel the fabric of his suit. It was definitely cashmere. I asked him why we were meeting in a hotel suite.

“This is my home, William, or one of them. How do you like it?”

I liked it a lot. I was also thinking he looked even scarier in a suit than his usual outfit. Why would someone who usually dressed like a bum maintain a permanent residence in The Plaza Hotel? Paul seemed to hear my question and began talking again.

“The land beneath these foundations belonged to the first of our clansmen to settle in this brave new world. It was a bog back then, but your namesake William Kelly didn’t mind. He could feel the power flowing beneath his feet like a lodestone. Much has changed since then, except the power. Can you feel it, Billy? Doesn’t it feel like home?”

It did. I’d never felt so calm and comfortable, and yes, as strong as I did in that room.

“How did you get so…?”

“Stinking filthy rich? I’ve made some savvy investments over the years. You could say I have a preternatural gift for futures speculation: currencies, gold, commodities. Plus, we’re sitting on a basketful of primary patents. All of it, everything I have, is yours to share, once you fulfill your duty.”

My duty. He repeated the scope of my obligation, sounding more like his attorney: “You must, by your own hand, cause the death of Rose Turner on the afternoon of Good Friday. Otherwise, you forfeit your entire legacy. Including your life.”

“Paul…I don’t want to kill her.”

“Billy…you have no choice. You’re damned if you do, more damned if you don’t.”

“If you want her dead so much, why don’t you do it yourself?”

As soon as I saw the grimace on his face, I knew. “You can’t kill her, can you? The Master made a pact with Morgana and you’re stuck with it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. His face turned to stone. “If I kill her, there will be extreme consequences. We are too close to the end to take such risks. The vow is only binding on the Master. You are not even a full initiate in the clan. You can, indeed, you
must
do what is required. It is essential to our success and your continued existence. This is your sole path to awakening, your initiation rite and your membership fee. You must assume your rightful position in the clan hierarchy. You can’t be a ruling Lord without at least one significant kill to your credit and there’s no target more significant or necessary than the girl. Plus, on a purely pragmatic level, I’ll have to kill you if you don’t. Or let you rot in prison. I know it sounds corny, but you simply know too much.”

“I hardly know anything! Look where we are!” I protested, gesturing at our opulent surroundings. “Besides, you can trust me. I’ll never tell anyone.”

“Billy, you’re missing the big picture here. You’re still thinking about what you’re going to lose, instead of what you’ll gain.”

When he saw my eyebrows lift in a spasm of greed, he slapped me on the back. “Come with me. There’s much more to your birthright than wealth, power and influence.”

He led me to a white door and unlocked it. The room was enormous, filled with sunlight from a row of large windows. Against the far wall was a sight even more unexpected than Paul’s new wardrobe. It was another angel, even bigger and more beautiful than the first. Maybe even older. The paint was dull and worn and chipped away in places, but there were no nails or other disfiguring attachments. It was bound to a mammoth cross by sheets of white linen. I walked closer and stared at the chest. The golden rays shone like the midday sun. I looked at the face and saw the resemblance. It was even more striking than before. I looked away, to the altar in front of the angel. It was covered with a white linen sheet. A cabinet was open beneath. Twelve volumes on one side. The big one on the other.

The Book of Paul.

“Pick it up. Put it on the altar.”

The sensations I felt are nearly indescribable. Like I was on fire. Like I was the angel. After I picked it up, I didn’t want to set it down. I wanted to hold it against my chest forever, embracing it like a lover I would never see again. Paul pointed to the altar. I nodded, setting it down, but I kept my hands on the cover, rubbing my fingers across the ancient leather.