The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (25 page)

Martin didn’t look back as he cleared the underpass and straightened up. He didn’t look back as he ambled down the grassy slope to the highway below, searching the horizon for oncoming headlights. There were none. He adjusted his backpack and slowly plodded down the road, glancing behind every ten seconds or so to see if a car was coming. He was almost a quarter mile away when he finally thought of something to say, but when he looked up at the underpass, no one was there.

Martin finally let the tears fall. He allowed himself ten full seconds before he turned the switch and snuffled up the snot with his coat sleeve. “G’bye Daddy,” he said to the wind.

In the many years since their farewell, Paul popped up from time to time, usually when Martin was thinking about him, seeking guidance, like today. Now here he was again with his hand stretched out, ready and willing to help.

But things have changed, haven’t they?
he thought, looking at Rose supporting his arm.
And other things haven’t,
he realized, feeling the blood flow from his gunshot wounds into his pants. Looking from Rose to Paul, he was more inclined to say no than yes. Then he lifted his shirt to check his back. The blood was coming out fast. Too fast.

“Okay…c’mon up,” Martin finally said, his knees ready to buckle.

When he started up the stairs again and saw the way Paul was staring at Rose, his bones ached even more with dread.

I watched Paul trudge up the stoop behind Martin and Rose. Michael trailed behind him with his head bowed and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Paul never even looked in my direction. Oh well. I let out a blended sigh of relief and disappointment. All he cares about is Martin. Martin. Martin. Martin.

I parted the plastic curtain of the deli’s outdoor flower section and strolled back onto the sidewalk, walking at a leisurely pace, wondering what Paul was going to do next, when a hand gripped my arm as tightly as a tourniquet, yanking me down the block as easily as a toy poodle on a choke-chain leash.

When I saw who it was I felt relieved and terrified in nearly equal measure. Relieved that it wasn’t Paul. Terrified because I was being pulled along helplessly by the long, bony fingers of The Striker.

Before I showed Rose my suitcase, as our work together was drawing to an end, I could detect a sadness in her voice that seemed to be about more than the loss of income.

“I’m gonna miss you, William, but there’s nothing more I can do,” she said with a sweet smile as she finished the final inscription running across my waist like a belt. “For the rest, you’ll have to go to The Striker.”

I didn’t know what I loved more, hearing her say that she would miss me, or hearing her use my name. When I opened my mouth to speak, I didn’t make any reference to either observation. At least I’m not that clueless.

“Why do they call him The Striker?” I asked instead, suddenly feeling shy and tongue-tied again. In other words, normal.

“You’ll see,” she said with an odd grin, wiping the last of my blood away and hanging up the tattoo gun.

Yes, I saw. It was The Striker who set the final gears in motion. After that, all the other pieces fell smoothly into place. Paul, Martin, Rose…and Norine, of course. I’ve debated it for a while, but now my course seems unavoidable. I’ll have to show you the journals.

Just do me a favor, please. Don’t tell a soul!

The Striker. With a name like that I was prepared for anything. Anything, except for what happened. When I called to make an appointment, I heard someone pick up the phone and then…nothing. No voice, no hello, just dead air. I waited for a second in the silence and then, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, I spoke first. “Hello?”

Nothing. “Hello?” I tried again. I could hear someone breathing. I was about to hang up, when I felt a prickly urge to say what I would have said if he had bothered to answer.

“I’m William. I’m looking for The Striker. Rose sent me. Is this the right number?”

“Yessssss,” his voice slithered into my ear. It was so creepy I wanted to hang up right away, but I hadn’t come this far for nothing.

“I’d like to make an appointment,” I said, half-hoping he’d say no.

“Did she give you my address?” His voice was so deep, it reminded me of Lurch in
The Addams Family
. When I told him she had, he said, “Come over now.”

“Now?” I asked, totally thrown off.

There was no one on the other end to hear me.

The Striker’s “office” was a boarded-up storefront on Third between C and D. It was filled with junk and he threw some porno mags off a rickety chair to make room for me to sit.

Again, he didn’t say anything. In the silence I heard a skittering sound coming from inside the plywood walls. “What’s that?”

“Rats,” he said, sitting on a wooden three-legged stool that was full of nail holes.

I was glad he sat down. He was slightly less intimidating. Not only did this guy sound like Lurch, he looked like him too. He was really tall. His head was huge and out of proportion to the rest of his bone-thin body. His skin was waxy looking, pale with a hint of yellow, like parchment. His head was long and rectangular until it reached the top where his ridiculously high forehead became more domelike. Blue veins snaked up the side of his skull, which was a more apt description than head. He had long, white hair with a three-inch lock of jet-black hair dangling over the side. It looked like a cross between Cruella DeVille and Riff Raff from the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
.

He sat down and adjusted his loincloth. His
loincloth.
He answered the door naked, except for the brown leather rag, which was obviously handmade, but so old and worn maybe the hands were Geronimo’s. He didn’t have many tattoos. The few he had were simple black patterns around his skinny arms. I wondered whether he was a junkie, because the veins on his arms looked so thick and inviting. I couldn’t see any needle marks, though his body was covered with piercings. His nipples, his chest…his throat. Not that many in his face. Except the nails driven into his temples. Yes, the nails.

“I talked to Rose,” he said in that Frankenstein-deep voice, yanking my bulging eyes away from the nails. “Why don’t you show me the work she did?”

I wanted to correct him and say, “the work
we
did,” but I just took off my shirt. He was impressed. He didn’t say much, but I could tell. Impressing a guy like this made me feel pretty special. He didn’t just give it the quick once-over. He looked
.
He studied it. “Nice work,” he said finally, nodding with half-closed eyelids. It sounded extra flattering in that deep, deep voice of his. “What do you need me for?”

“Implants,” I said.

“Rose does implants,” he said dismissively.

“Not the kind I want.”

He asked for details and I gave them. He nodded as I spoke, When I finished he said, “It’ll take a few weeks.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Five thousand. In advance.” I was expecting more, though not in advance. Could I trust a guy with a loincloth to deliver the goods after he’d been paid?

“That’s a lot of money. How about half and half?” I asked, wincing.

“I don’t negotiate,” he said, standing up, knowing the effect it would have.

“Okay,” I said, looking up. Unfortunately, given his height and the angle of my chair I was looking up under his loincloth. Holy shit. I wanted to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. He noticed my eyes popping and laughed. It sounded like Hell’s Bells.

I blushed and leaned back farther so I was looking into his face and attempted a nonchalant segue: “When can we start?”

“When you give me the money,” he said, letting me off the hook. He walked over to a dingy refrigerator, picked a wooden box off the top and carried it back to the stool.

He sat down again, but not before I noticed an odd little lamp on the table next to the fridge. The lamp wasn’t really that odd, in truth. The lampshade was. I recognized it.

“Is that a Gein?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding with the first real enthusiasm I’d seen.

“I have one too.” I said, watching his eyelids rise to the point where you could rightfully call them open. “I was thinking about selling it to pay for this work.”

I was taking a pretty big risk telling him. I didn’t want it getting back to Rose, or anyone else for that matter. I probably wanted to show off a bit and increase my bad-boy status. My biggest motivation though, was working out a barter arrangement.

“Perhaps the man who gave me this would be interested. He’s a real…collector.”

“What’s his name? I might know him.” He looked at me suspiciously. I could tell he was about to close the subject so I blurted out, “There’s a guy I sell things to that I met on the web. I mail things to a post office box and he mails me the cash.”

The Striker kept listening…and watching.

“I’ve never met him but his cyber name is King of Spades.”

The Striker’s eyelids rose again, more slowly this time. “Yes, that’s the same gentleman. You know, I think you two should meet.”

“Why?” I asked, my turn to be suspicious.

“Well…” he began, his voice coolly condescending, “…you obviously share common interests. Aside from that, I think he’d enjoy what you’ve done here,” he said, pointing to my chest.

“Really?” That got my attention.

“I’ll see if he’s interested,” he said, like he was suddenly bored. “Now let’s get back to your request.” He reached down and opened the lid of his box. “Were you thinking about something like this?” he asked, the light flashing off the metal inside.

Wow.
“They’re beautiful. I’ll see if he wants the lamp.”

“Don’t bother. Just bring it back here.”

“It’s worth a lot more than five,” I said, nervous again.

“I know. I’ll keep it here as collateral until I can arrange a meeting.”

“Okay,” I said uncertainly, but my heart was soaring. We were ready to start! Then I remembered the question I promised myself to ask from the moment Rose first mentioned his name.

“Why do they call you The Striker?”

His eyelids drooped even lower. Then he spread his legs wide apart, so the fringe of his loincloth draped over the edge of his stool like a theater curtain. “Well I’m a blockhead, for one thing,” he said, taking a four-second pause to see if I got it. He could tell I didn’t, so he picked up a four-inch-long carpenter’s nail from a junk-filled toolbox on the floor. Then he picked up a hammer. He took the nail, pushed the point into his nostril and began pounding away.

“See?” he said, after driving the nail three inches into his face.

“Yep,” I grunted, trying to catch my breath.

“I do private performances on occasion. There’s even audience participation.”

He pulled the loincloth over his thigh and gave me an unvarnished look at what I thought I’d seen before, but didn’t think possible. Now I knew where all the holes in the stool came from.

“Go ahead,” he said, yanking the nail from his face with the claw of the hammer. He handed them both to me and pointed back down between his legs. “That’s a good spot.”