The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (51 page)

Then, in a blinding flash, he was in a small candlelit chapel, staring at a huge cross burdened with a crucified angel.

“Are you ready?” a voice said. It sounded like Paul’s. It came from the cross. The same angel who brought him here was looking down at him, his face contorted in agony, his body pierced everywhere with long, rusty spikes, his skin painted red with blood.

“Do you understand?” the tortured angel asked, his face kind and loving despite his suffering. Martin nodded. The angel smiled and his face changed into his own.

Jolted by the shock, Martin found himself sitting in his chair again, staring into the whiteness. He ran from the room and down the stairs, his feet pumping furiously, streaking to Paul’s apartment faster than he had ever run before.

“Do you understand?” the angel’s voice echoed as he ran.

Yes,
Martin answered silently as his feet flew faster and faster.

I understand.

He knew what he’d hidden from himself for so long. What his vow really meant, what Paul wanted him to do. Even if he died trying, he would never let that happen. Death would be a far better fate. But if today was his day to die, he had one more duty to perform, a responsibility more sacred than any quest he could attempt, any treasure he could acquire. He loved her more than he could ever love anyone. He had loved her for an eternity. Should he survive the battle with Paul, it would mean nothing without her.

He had to save Rose.

Have you ever had a crush on someone who has a crush on someone else? And then you try to get them to like you more by putting down the person they’re crazy about? Doesn’t work too well, does it? I took my chances anyway and sure enough, it made matters worse. Even though I pointed out how loyal I was to stay by her side while Martin abandoned her in a foolhardy attempt to find a remote control that might not even exist and would probably get himself killed in the process like a big, fucking idiot…Rose glared at me with even more contempt. “I can’t wait for him to come back here and kick your sissy ass,” she said defiantly.

She knew what a risk she was taking speaking to me like that, knowing I could end the conversation with a slight tip of her chair. Still, she continued taunting me, making fun of my talents, challenging me to put on a show for her like I was some kind of trained seal.

“Okay, if you can see Paul whenever you want, what’s he doing right now, Kreskin?”

I closed my eyes. “I can’t see him,” I lied, opening them again. “He’s blocking me.”

“Oh, he’s
blocking
you. How convenient. And when your mother begged you with her dying breath to use your amazing powers and search for Martin, which was…let’s see, eight years ago…somehow you couldn’t pick up on his cosmic vibrations until last month, when you found a nice scrapbook about him, which was written by Paul in Martin’s handwriting, in a secret chapel in a squatter slum with a gigantic crucified angel!”

“When you put it that way, it does sound a little…”

“Crazy?” she said, cutting me off again. “Crazy? Crazy? Crazy?”

I wanted to say something equally offensive, but I stupidly kept defending myself. “You think I’m so full of it, but if it weren’t for these visions, I wouldn’t have seen you get snatched by Paul, I wouldn’t have come here and…”

Uh-oh.

“You watched him take me!” she yelled, her face red with hate. “I knew you were in this with him, you fucking liar! How could you let that fucking maniac do this to me? Because you showed me your fucking suitcase? Because I know how fucking sick you are?”

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already,” I pointed out, after she hurled every conceivable invective at me. “Paul has it in for you because you’re Johnny’s daughter. I told you the truth. I saw a flash of Paul grabbing you, then nothing until I saw what he did and where you were. I came here as soon as I could and found Martin cleaning your wounds. He told me to wait with you while he looked for that fucking remote control. That’s it. End of story. I hate Paul as much as he does. As much as you do!”

“That’s not possible,” she seethed, glaring at me like she wanted to pick up those knitting needles and give me a more thorough understanding of what she’d endured.

But she was still in that chair, wasn’t she?

We both remained silent for a moment. She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, which, frankly, seemed like a pretty good deal to me…until she spoke again. “Here’s what I think. I think you’re crazy. I don’t know if Paul is Martin’s father or yours, but I do think you’re his partner. I think you’re a sick, twisted fuck. And a world-class liar.”

I got huffy with her, as liars do, hoping that would intimidate her enough to shut her fucking yap. “Look, I don’t care what you think. I’m not crazy and I’m not a liar. If you want to be pissed at someone, save it for Martin. He’s the one that left you here. Not me.”

I know that wasn’t very nice, but it shut her up. If only for a few seconds.

“Okay, we’ll play it your way,” she said, digging back in. “Let’s assume you do have your weird little visions…and you don’t know where Paul is right now because…how did you put it? He’s
blocking
you? But now that he’s out of range, why don’t you tell me what Martin is up to, since he obviously has more important things to do than protecting me from you.”

I closed my eyes, seeing Martin clear as a bell. He was climbing Paul’s stairwell as silently as a ghost.

“Well?” Rose demanded.

I stared at her blankly. I was getting so tired of this. I looked down at my hands, filtering out more angry insults. If I answered her question, there would only be more. The same thing had happened to me. Questions. Always more questions.

Suddenly, I had a flash of inspiration.

“Once upon a time…” I began, opening my eyes. Then I began reciting, word for word, the story Paul told me. I didn’t say more than six sentences when her eyes lit up and her expression changed from “Who is this fucking madman?” to “He knows it too!”

“My mother told me a story like that!”

“Exactly like that…or kind of like that?”

“Not exactly,” she said, closing her eyes, picturing her mother perfectly. “Her story started out differently. It isn’t about a boy, it’s about…”

“A girl?” I asked eagerly.

“Not just girl…a Goddess.”

Michael didn’t think he had it in him. Neither did I. When the fourth nail came out, it took more flesh with it than the others. He didn’t scream that time. He was in a different state of mind, a more purified consciousness. The only thing he felt was hatred and its ever-dependable sidekick, the lust for revenge. Oddly though, his thirst for vengeance wasn’t directed at the instigator of his current torment, but at the man Paul said would be coming in only a few more minutes…to kill him. Martin. His fucking asshole brother.

“We’ll see about that,” he hissed, tossing the loose clump of flesh to the filthy floor.

He limped over to the lectern, which isn’t too easy when you’re limping on both feet, and placed his bloody hands on the Book. As soon as his red, dripping palms made contact, he felt something very peculiar, first in his perforated feet, then his hands.

He didn’t bother looking at his feet. Why should he? The evidence in front of his face was convincing enough. There wasn’t a drop of blood on the ancient leather hide of the book. There wasn’t a drop of blood on his hands either. Nor were there holes. Or scars. It was like nothing had ever happened to him. A new strength came surging into his legs. His feet felt like a pair of anvils. His arms swung like wrecking balls.

The door was open now. The hallway beyond was as black as a crypt at midnight. But that didn’t bother Michael. He picked up the sleek, cold Beretta, smiled at the angel and walked into the darkness like he was strolling along the Left Bank at sunset. When the darkness swallowed him up completely, that didn’t bother him either. His eyes were shining from the inside now. And Michael Bean could
see.

Martin climbed the stairwell with both guns drawn. They looked the same, but the ammo was different. Which one he’d use depended on what he saw.

When he reached Paul’s apartment, he got his first big surprise. The door was open. That was not good. He stopped and listened. He heard footsteps inside. He waited until they stopped before proceeding. He was ready. No, he was more than ready. He was itching for it. The sooner he smelled gunpowder, the better.

He crept inside, his footsteps silent as a ninja’s. It was quiet now. Very quiet. He moved from room to room. Ready. Tense. Then he heard them. More footsteps. He stood still, listening. He couldn’t tell which hallway they were coming from—the corridor he navigated last night or the one just ahead of him, past the room with the tattered couch.

Was that the hallway that led to…the chapel?

He didn’t move for the longest time. Keening his ears like a dog.

Then he heard them. More footsteps. Soft. Cunning. Light.

They didn’t sound like Paul’s clomping boots, but they sounded much too sly and stealthy for that stupid little creep, which could only mean two things. Either he’d grossly underestimated Bean’s abilities—or somebody else was in there.

He moved between the walls. He didn’t care if he was seen. Or heard.

He trusted in his power. Bullets could come. They would miss him. Nothing could harm him now.

He was here. But elsewhere. He had waited too long for this moment to take any further chances. He peered into the darkness, sensing everything. He felt Johnny watching him too, powerless to reveal his secret intent. His blood vow would always prevent it.

Even Paul, the Great Master, had been deceived. Remained deceived. And now he would have another chance. A slim one, admittedly, but a chance, nonetheless.

Paul would never have allowed it willingly. He had seen through that lie for untold years. But time was worth nothing, if not for planning…and Loren DeVilbiss, The Striker, The Lord of the Twelfth House…was ready to claim his due.