The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (22 page)

I briefly considered a brisk stroll back home to the safety of a more remote viewing location. Then I looked farther up the street and saw the distant silhouette of a tall man walking with confident strides. It was Martin, coming right towards them.

I eagerly receded into the shadows again, hungry for the show to begin.
Now this is going to be interesting
.
Too bad I didn’t bring any popcorn.

Paul reached carefully into the deep pockets of his coat and felt around for his knife. His pocket-sickle. He had it custom made in Germany, where they still knew a thing or two about craftsmanship and cruelty. The long semicircular blade was hinged in two places and attached to a stainless-steel handle with a 360-degree rotational swivel joint, so he could open it with one swift whip-crack motion, whereupon hidden metal dowels would lock all the hinges in place. It was a scary piece of steel even when it was closed…the razor-sharp edges facing in on each other. You had to be careful just reaching in to grab it because the hair-trigger spring could instantly turn it into a bear trap in your pocket. Ouchy, wowchy.

Paul gingerly patted his pocket from the outside and smiled to himself. Ah, the simple joys of the hunt. He stared at the open chest, looking at all the shiny toys, debating whether there was anything else he wanted to bring. “Hmmm,” he murmured, eyeing the Uzi as he twirled his mustache. He was a knife man, rarely used pistols, but it could come in handy for crowd control.

“Uh, could I have a look at that?” Michael asked tentatively, pointing at a nickel-plated Luger Parabellum. It looked like the gun in the old James Bond movies, only cooler. Paul lifted it from its foam-cushioned box and placed it into Bean’s grateful palm. Michael’s eyes widened in delight as he hefted its sleek weight a few times. “Is it loaded?”

Paul laughed and shouted, “Is the Pope a theocratic despot who only cares about filling the coffers of the Holy Roman Empire while undermining all the fundamental teachings of the Good King Jesus the Christ?”

“Uh, I guess,” Michael replied, squeezing the grip of his super-cool pistol.

Paul grabbed Michael by the shoulders and gave him a heartfelt hug. “I like you, boy. And because I’m so curiously fond of you, I’m going to make you a special offer.”

“What?” Michael asked, his face suddenly flushed with anticipation.

“If you manage to show me some spine tonight, I’ll give you a peek at the greatest treasure in the universe.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked greedily.

“Why, the Book, of course,” Paul said with a strange light in his eyes.

“The Book?” Bean asked, pouting with disappointment. “I thought you said it was like a souvenir or something.”

“I lied,” Paul said, grinning like a maniac while he strapped the Uzi to a Velcro harness on the inside of his coat. “The Book can give you anything you’ve ever desired. Power. Wealth. Riches beyond imagining. How does that sound, laddie? Does that make your little pecker go pitter-pat?”

Michael nodded vigorously. “But what do I have to do?”

“We need to move fast, so there’s no time for details,” Paul continued, hustling down the hallway, Michael trailing behind like a bobbing dinghy in his wake. “Let’s just say there’s a level of risk proportionate to the rewards.”

“Uh, all right,” Michael stuttered, his legs struggling to catch up, his nostrils flaring with exhilaration and far less unease than he would have expected.

“Good, good,” Paul said, guiding Bean’s hand and the pistol it held into the pocket of his beat-up army jacket. “Then saddle up, doggy, we’re going for a walk!”

Michael was so excited that he almost wagged his tail.

All Martin wanted to do was go home. He was less than a block away when he saw the crowd of neighborhood punks huddled around the stoop they always used as their drug distribution/intimidation post. There were five of them tonight. Not his favorite number.

Martin had seen them plenty of times before. They never said a word to him or even looked in his direction. Wisely. But tonight Martin knew it would be different. They were predators and would surely sense his weakness. He was hurt, he was tired and he was stupid. He hadn’t brought a single weapon into Paul’s apartment, because it was forbidden. He also hadn’t left one hidden outside. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He thought about crossing the street. But he was so close to them now they’d see his maneuver for exactly what it was—a simple act of cowardice. Not only would they come after him in all probability, but even if they didn’t, he’d never be able to live with himself. No, his course was clear. He had to keep walking. Past them.

Yes…just a little farther…a few more steps and…past the stoop…they’re behind me now…almost there…almost home…not a fucking peep and…

“Yo, bubblehead!” the leader called out—and Martin stopped dead in his tracks.

Rose was sizing up the kitchen window curtains when she spotted Martin standing motionless under the streetlight, glowing like her candles. What was he doing? Then she saw the five brutes ambling up behind him, all rolling arm movements, fingers splayed, heads cocked this way and that, like they were in some gangsta-rap monster movie.

“Martin!” she screamed, trying to lift the window. It was painted shut. Her fingers clawed at the frame and her wrists bent with the effort of trying to free it. It wouldn’t budge. She slammed her hands against the window in frustration, but even the glass taunted her with weaves of chicken-wire reinforcement.

She sobbed and screamed his name again, hoping he could hear her, hoping he would do
something
. Why was he just standing there? Couldn’t he hear them coming up behind him? Why didn’t he move? What was wrong with him?

The gang pressed closer. “Move
,
you son of a bitch! Turn around!” she screamed through the chicken-wire window. “Run, Martin!
Run!
”

Martin knew what was happening behind him. Knew they were on the move, knew they would be on him in only a few more seconds. He was so tired. He wanted to go home.

“Yo! Bubblehead!” the leader repeated. “If you a lighthouse, why don’t you blink?”

Martin remained perfectly still. The other gang members chimed in raucously, “Yeah, Carlos, make that muthafucka blink!” and “Yo! Fuck
you,
bubblehead!” Carlos silenced them all by calling out to Martin in his flattest, bad-ass voice: “Turn around, punk.”

When Martin moved, his only thought was speed. Paul’s voice whispered in his mind as he tensed his body for action. One of the first rules he learned from Paul was: “Never, ever get into a fight. Fighting is for sissies—for little boys who need to prove how big and strong they are. Real men don’t fight,” he said dryly. “They attack, they maim, they murder.”

“Cut off the head, and the body dies,” he advised on another notable occasion, immediately conducting a practical demonstration by throwing a fifteen-inch Russian military bayonet directly into the drunken heart of the leader of a local biker gang that had surrounded them outside a honky-tonk in rural Tennessee. The “fight” ended quickly.

Martin acquired firsthand knowledge of the wisdom in that saying on many subsequent occasions and was anxious to test its validity again. If he could take out the leader, there was a good chance the others would scatter.

Martin leapt into a flying roundhouse kick straight to Carlos’s chin. He missed. His boot sliced through the air directly on course, but two inches below Carlos’s stubbly beard. Oops. Nobody laughed at Martin’s mistake, least of all Carlos. The strength, poise and authority of his movements were much too impressive for ridicule. However, they didn’t start applauding either. They pulled out their guns. Not all five of them. Just Carlos and the bald-shaven, dark-skinned guy on the stoop directly above him to his…left.

Shit.

When Rose saw Martin kick and miss, her knees practically gave out. When she saw the two guys pull out their guns, they instantly straightened up again.

“Fuck this!” Even though she knew it was crazy…that she could be killed…she had to do something. She had to try to save the man she loved.

She
loved?
I couldn’t believe it either, but who else even thinks about doing something so reckless? If I’d been with her,
really
with her, I would have tried to talk her out of it. Risk your life…for
Martin?
“Wait a few more seconds,” I’d say, “while you still have the view.”

Would she have listened? Does anyone listen when they’re all pumped up with hormones? Not anyone I know. Certainly not Rose.

She ran down the stairs so fast that her hand got brush-burns from the railing.

“What you gonna do now?” Carlos asked theatrically, waving his pistol in circles.

Good, Carlos was talking instead of shooting. Martin would have kissed the ground in gratitude if he had the time. Unfortunately, like every other variable in the equation, time was against him. He sized up the other gunman on the stoop and saw more cause for optimism. He was scratching his face in the unmistakable manner of someone with an armful of low-grade Mexican heroin. Excellent. He had the itch. If he had the itch, that meant he was moving slow.

Now he was faced with a big decision. He could keep Carlos yakking until he picked the perfect moment to disarm him…or…he could jump to his left, snap the junkie’s wrist and hope that Carlos was too slow on the trigger to plug him before he gained control of the other weapon. He knew the latter option was his best bet. But it meant he had to jump to his
left
.