The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (31 page)

“Get moving,” Martin said, breaking the spell, still squeezing, every bit as perplexed as the others, but a thousand times more baffled by the look on Paul’s face.

Get moving?
On any other occasion Paul would have called Martin’s bluff, disarmed him, confronted the intruders, and dragged the girl away for a much needed spanking. But not tonight. Not after an omen like this. So hopeful. So threatening. No, he had much bigger fish to fry, and a risky struggle was not on the agenda. Just one stray bullet and…

“Unlock the door,” Paul grunted to Michael.

“But what about the gold…?” Michael whined, his voice wimping out even faster than the rest of him when he saw the glare in Martin’s eyes and the arc of his shotgun inching in his direction. Bean scuttled over to the door, hiding behind Paul’s bulk like a hermit crab. He unlocked five of the seven bolts before Paul spoke again, this time to Martin.

“Where’s your emergency exit?” he demanded. “And don’t even think about fibbin’.”

“Use the roof. It’s a short hop down to the building next door.”

Paul looked into Martin’s eyes, probing him. Satisfied he was telling the truth, he moved backwards through the door Michael had so clumsily opened. Bean was already out the door and sneaking up the staircase. Paul lingered for a moment in the doorway, then spoke with an ache in his voice Martin had never heard before.

“Join me now and all is forgiven. Your fate lies with me…not her.”

Martin shook his head almost imperceptibly, his silence more cutting than words. Paul glared back, first at Martin, then at Rose. In the heat of his rage, he almost pulled the trigger. It took every ounce of restraint to remind himself how much was at stake. He paused one more instant, until he heard the sound of buzzers braying from all directions again. Then he shrugged his shoulders, gave a doomsday grin and took the stairs three at a time like an Olympic hurdler.

The pain in my chest is still incredible, the ache in my heart even more excruciating. Why did I do it? Why did I go back? Because I had to. What were my options? Run away? That was my initial plan, after our first meeting: buy a plane ticket and fly off to Pago Pago. But what would I do there? Lie in the sun with all my beautiful black ink fading into a sickly blue color? With three metal implants nailed into my chest?

Besides, if I ran away, I knew what would be waiting for me if I ever came back—an FBI Most Wanted picture taped to every customs agent counter, complete with a detailed description of my so-called crimes. No, I had to go back. They knew it too. Because…and this is as crazy as crazy gets…they knew I couldn’t stand to leave my implants unfinished. That’s why they didn’t show me the site until the first ones were attached.

As much as I felt compelled to return, every cell in my body was filled with dread. When I finally managed to push myself out the door and made my death march back to The Striker’s, I wasn’t particularly shocked to see Paul open the door. What did surprise me was the reception I received. When I walked in the door, the two of them welcomed me like one of the family. Given the dearth of those specimens in my life, it felt almost…nice. When we settled in for the main attraction, the attachment of two more implants, Paul was every bit as gleeful as his lanky pal, leaning over the table, his chin nestled in his meaty fist, oohing and aahing and chuckling with every
whack!
and
clang!

The Striker really put his heart into it today
. Bang!
My chest was getting slammed so hard it felt like I was being resuscitated by a CPR trainee.

“You’re crazy as a bedbug for doing this,” Paul said, “especially when you could be doing it to someone else and having twice the fun. Even so, it tickles me pink to watch!”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I grunted between
clangs
, both annoyed and amused by his jolly commentary. After The Striker finished, I had to lie down for a long time. When I finally stood up, Paul put his arm around me and said, “Good work.”

I felt proud when he said it, which made me cringe. It was confusing. Disturbing. How could I have any positive feelings at all for these psychos? What’s the matter with me? I feel sick just writing it down. The only shred of self-respect I can cling to is that I’m still trying to figure out how to fuck them back even harder than they’re fucking me. Which is not going to be easy. They’re both smart as hell, but I know there has to be a way out of this, if I can only keep them talking. So far that’s been surprisingly easy. What a couple of chatter bugs. It seems the only thing they enjoy more than hammering is yammering.

I kept asking questions and they kept answering. After The Striker bandaged me up, we all went online together…so they could, “more effectively illustrate the situation.” How can they be so cavalier about the most indictable criminal evidence on the planet? Then again, why not? I had everything to lose. And they, or at least Paul, were untraceable.

The members are divided according to a ranking system. The Striker is in the top tier, along with the Turley Twins, Morris Keifer, Alexander Pate, half a dozen creeps named Kelly, and in a category all by himself…Johnny the Saint. Profiles are scant or nonexistent for the big shots. My profile is lumped in with the peons, all of them trying to outdo each other with video clips of their crimes that go on and on and on. Ick. Notably absent from the site, in any category, is Paul.

“How come you’re not on here?” I asked, genuinely baffled by his absence.

“Modesty prevents,” Paul answered with a sweeping bow. “The Striker rules this roost, but I offer my support in other less tangible ways. There’s no need to give such gullible types as yourself any superfluous information to distract you from the mission at hand.”

“The murder mission?” I asked, posing the question that had been burning inside me. “You wouldn’t go to all this trouble just for that. This can’t be just an experiment.”

“Oh, you’re a sly fox Billy. Of course it’s about more than that. I did all this for The Striker…and you.”

“For me?” I was so bowled over by his statement that I had a hard time paying attention to his explanation. Little snippets registered: “…a part of you that’s missing…another part of you…still asleep…your love affair with death…when you fully awaken…unimaginable power…help you see your true nature…help in other ways…a loyal army of enforcers…terrorists…sworn allegiance to The Striker…they think he’s a daimon…their Lord of Darkness.”

“Lord of darkness?” I blurted out, feeling like I was going to faint.

They both looked at me like they didn’t know what I was talking about. Like they hadn’t been saying any of the shit I heard. Like all of it was coming from inside my head.

“Ahem…as I was saying, they come in quite handy,” Paul continued, rolling his eyes. “Let’s say we need some help around the house, you know, move the couch a few inches to the right…get a lift to the airport…it’s always nice to know there’s a helping hand ready to pitch in, without the grumbling you’d expect from someone less burdened with a proper sense of duty. And because our membership includes some rather aggressive personality types, we’ve found them to be quite useful when any security issues pop up, or if we require a convenient scapegoat. When you’re as busy as we are, it helps to keep the wolves far away from your door…forcefully when necessary…and knocking at someone else’s.”

“So we’re all slaves for you,” I grumbled.

“Indentured servants would be more apt. But we also provide a valuable service.”

“Indeed,” The Striker chimed in. “Through the miracle of modern technology, they don’t have to suffer in solitude. We even have our own clubhouse…The Dead End. They can have a friendly chat over cocktails, hone their craft, and best of all, get support and encouragement. And after they’ve submitted proof of their first unassisted murder, we charge no additional membership fees!”

They both doubled over in laughter again. Incredible. Now that I was part of the club it seemed like they were having the time of their lives. Which gave me another opening.

“Your social club, The Dead End…can you take me there?” I asked as casually as I could after putting on my T-shirts. I thought if I knew the location of their serial killer saloon, I could leave an anonymous tip at the nearest police precinct and then…

“Oh, I’m afraid you wouldn’t enjoy that field trip very much,” Paul chortled. “At least not until you have a firmer grasp on your role in this grand tradition.”

Grand tradition? “I’m listening,” I said, trying to remain reasonably calm in the face of my mounting anxiety. I had no idea what his response would be, but I remember physically bracing myself against the back of my chair.

His response was extremely anticlimactic.

“I’d prefer a more intimate setting for that discussion,” Paul replied dryly, denying my curious prodding for the first time today. Then he turned his back on me and The Striker, and with a tiny wave that looked more like a salute to himself, he bade us both farewell.

Forgot all about me, didn’t you? Don’t feel bad. I’m used to it.

The Striker dragged me down the street in long, swooping strides. I had to take two steps for every one of his to keep up. Not that I had much choice. His fingers gripped my arm with so much strength that I was trotting along just to keep the painful pressure of his squeezing, tugging hand to a tolerable level.

He was wearing a slick 1950s black suit and a white shirt. As we crossed the street and turned up Avenue B, I looked at the shiny fabric and wondered what he was dressed up for, given his more casual, though every bit as eccentric attire on all our previous encounters.

“Where are we going? What’s the rush?” I shouted, trying to shake off his iron grip.

“Our little clubhouse,” he answered in that deep, hollow voice. “For members only…”

Oh, God. We were going to The Dead End.

The outside looked like a boarded-up saloon, which it was, I soon learned. The plywood was painted black. A rusty gate blocked the entrance. The door was a dark, sickly red. The color of dried blood.

“Open up,” The Striker hissed in a raspy whisper. What, no secret password?

A shadow passed in front of a small peephole and the door creaked open. The man who opened it didn’t look as creepy as my host, but he was no slouch, with a bristly flat-top, two barely open slits for eyes and a tattoo on his neck with three neat rows of boldface letters, written in the language I’d most recently studied: Gaelic. The man said nothing, but nodded to The Striker with obvious deference. The gate parted with a loud metal screech that made my teeth hurt and before I could slow the pounding of my terrified heart, we were inside.

On the stoop outside Martin’s apartment, O’fficer O’wen O’Donnell folded his arms across his chest after pounding on all the buzzers and waiting almost a full minute for someone to answer the intercom so he could feed them his long-practiced but thus far never uttered line: “Open the door, this is the police!”

All he wanted to do was ask a few people if they’d seen who was firing all the shots outside, and nod his head gravely while they all replied, “No.” Then he could wait for the ambulance, have a cup of joe while they shoveled the bodies inside and head back to the precinct with a lot less paperwork staring him in the face. He would have turned around and done exactly that were it not for the faint shouting he heard, coming from the lone window in the building with a light on inside.