The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (27 page)

“So, Martin…how did you meet your little friend here?” Paul asked sweetly.

Martin’s eyes narrowed at Paul’s none-too-casual inquiry. He was too exhausted to make up a story, but he also didn’t want Paul to spend another second contemplating the proximity of their apartments. “We met in the park,” he said.

Rose didn’t know why Martin was lying, but she was smart enough not to betray his instincts, good or bad. She backed up six feet from the table as Paul came closer.

“You met in the park…well, isn’t that sweet,” he drawled, smiling at Martin’s clumsy lie. “I know how much you love the park, son. And when did this meeting take place?”

“This morning,” Martin said, propping himself up on his elbows, hanging his feet over the edge of the table, preparing for what might happen next.

“So you had a nice little chat, did you?” Paul asked Rose, turning his sinister bulk toward her. “What subjects did you cover? Current affairs? The Mideast?
Family matters?”

“We didn’t talk much,” Martin cut in, grunting as he sat up squarely.

“Uh-huh.” Paul nodded, turning back to him. “Then I guess what puzzles me is why on earth this little darlin’ would risk her neck to help you battle a gang of gun-toting junkies, when she only met you this morning and you barely said two words to each other.”

“Because she likes me,” Martin mumbled childishly, turning his face to the wall.

“Oh, my!” Paul laughed. “Is that the God’s honest truth? Does she really
like
you?”

“Yeah, I like him a lot,” Rose cut in, stepping forward with a swell of reckless courage fueled by a much more predictable surge of anger. She squeezed Martin’s hand, much to his undisguised surprise and Paul’s palpable loathing.

“Fair enough, fair enough, he’s a likable lad, God knows,” Paul chortled, pacing away, then circling back like a shark orbiting two bleeding dolphins. “But what about you, Martin? Frankly, I don’t get it. Besides fucking, what on earth do you want with her?”

“Stop it!” Martin yelled, ripping out his IV and leaping off the table. He stood facing Paul in the small bright kitchen, naked from the waist up, muscles rippling, bandaged and bruised and ready. Ready for anything, except the look on Paul’s face. It was a look he’d never seen. Shock. Absolute shock. And maybe fear? Martin took a step closer to test that theory, his fists clenched like rocks at his waist. Paul didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t blink. Whatever expression had been on his face was completely erased beneath the dead mask.

“I suggest you relax,” Paul said softly. “You’re no match for me on a good day.”

“Leave him alone!” Rose cried, tugging on Paul’s sleeve.

Martin quickly grabbed Rose by the shoulders, yanking her to the side and out of Paul’s wheelhouse. But Paul’s reaction to that maneuver was even more unexpected than the shock. He didn’t swing at Rose, or spit out more invective. He stepped up and hugged him.

“I’m so sorry,” Paul said, stroking the stubble on Martin’s head. “So you two angels are in
love
, is that it? Maybe you could get married, eh? Make a wedding album with some news clippings from all our adventures.”

Martin stiffened. Rose felt beads of sweat accumulate on her upper lip as she watched his silent reaction. Fuck. It was true. He was a criminal. Paul was his cohort, or worse, maybe an Irish mob boss, which seemed plausible from the way he was swinging his dick around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“And what about you, dearie?” Paul grinned, turning to Rose. “I’ll wager Martin isn’t the first ruffian that’s plundered your grease-hole, but even if you’ve gang-banged the Hell’s Angels clubhouse, you might be a teeny bit over your head with this one. I’m sure you noticed the practiced and quite heartless ease with which he dispatched that riff-raff below. Are a few more thrill-fucks with a cold-blooded killer really worth five to ten in a cramped metal cage with a 250-pound bull dyke sporting a shag carpet between her legs? As you may have read in the papers, murderers have a tendency to get caught and punished, and seeing how careless your hero has been tonight, it would be a far more sensible choice for you to find a good-sized rock to hide under, instead of hunkering down with your gun-slinging beau in this blood-splattered kitchen like Bonnie and Clyde, waiting for the sheriff and his posse to ram down the door.”

Rose looked at Martin with absolute panic. She became even more wigged out by the cringing look of acknowledgment Martin returned, a look that stated more potently than the simple words could convey.

He’s right.

Paul grinned with delight at their nervous expressions, relaxing his grip on Martin’s shoulders, walking to the window, parting the curtain an inch, peering at the street below.

“Ahhhh…just as I predicted. Our little blue friends have arrived. I’m sure they’ll be making the neighborhood rounds to see who made that big mess downstairs, so I sorely suggest you abandon your wounded paramour, go upstairs and lock yourself inside. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe there, like all the other cowardly citizens who don’t want to get involved after witnessing such a horrible crime.”

Abandon him. Paul had chosen his words wisely. When Martin saw Rose glance reflexively at the door, then back at him, looking first at the escape hatch, he became instantly crestfallen. She was going to leave him.

“He’s right. It’s not safe. You shouldn’t stay here with me,” Martin said quickly, his voice croaky, hoping to cut his losses.

“No,” she said resolutely, not sure where the resolve came from. Was she really prepared to throw her life away on another murdering crackpot like her dad? Did she really feel what she thought she felt every time she looked at him? Why wasn’t she halfway up the stairs already? Had she been hypnotized? Brainwashed? Possessed?

I don’t know. I don’t care. I have to stay. I have to be with him,
she decided, her heart vetoing the urge to throw a few more rationalization logs in the furnace. Instead, her brain synapses ignited like a brushfire, assessing a dozen possible outcomes of the police presence on the street, the possibility of eyewitnesses who may have observed the melee, the likelihood of anyone recognizing them on a street illuminated by only one feeble streetlight, and the even more remote possibility of anyone giving a shit. Who were those punks anyway? Drug dealers. What do drug dealers do? Shoot each other. End of story.

“They won’t come up,” she said quickly and confidently. “And if they do, we turn off the lights and don’t open the door. Those guys were scumbags. The cops don’t care. They don’t want to do the paperwork. It’s all a formality.”

Paul stared hard at her.
Johnny really put his dick into it when he made this pistol,
he thought with begrudged admiration.
She’s got balls like a bull and thinks fast on her feet.

“I agree with your assessment,” he said with a new formality and respectfulness that had Martin and Rose staring at him in something akin to wonder. “Just the same, I’d like a word alone with Martin to discuss other strategic options should your theory be flawed.”

“It’s not flawed and it’s my idea, so we can all discuss it together,” she said defiantly.

Martin saw the veins bulge on Paul’s forehead and quickly intervened. “You can go back there for a few minutes,” he said, steering her to an open door at the end of the hallway.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rose said, standing her ground on tippy-toes
.

“It’s okay. It won’t take long,” Martin said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her closer to his side as Paul took a measured step toward her.

Rose squeezed Martin’s hand a few seconds longer, then with a worried look at him and a suspicious scowl at Paul, she walked down the hallway, Michael slinking in tow.

Martin followed her with his eyes, seriously regretting his decision to let her come upstairs. He wanted to tell her to leave, to get the hell out of here right
now
. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the police they needed to worry about, it was Paul. He wanted to warn her not to say another word to him. To even look at him. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Not with both of their lives at stake. Not with Paul listening.

Shit. She had no idea who she was dealing with. No idea at all.

Dear Diary, my life is officially over. Why bother saying more? Oh, right —because I’m an asshole. Too bad I didn’t remind myself before I went back. Asshole! I’m not sure I’ll be able to get all this down the way it happened, so I’d better have a stiff one first.

Okay. The Striker told me to come back as soon as I wanted, so I went back the next day. I brought the lamp. When I knocked at the door, I thought there was no one home. I waited and listened and thought I heard some people talking inside, but when he opened the door he was alone. Still wearing that stupid loincloth too. Jesus. I’d hate to be his drycleaner.

He smiled when he saw the lamp, then put it next to the other one and plugged it in. The sixty-watt bulb cast a warm glow through the skin of the lampshade—made from human skin. I always wondered if Eddie Gein came up with the idea on his own, or whether he was inspired by reading all those books about Nazi atrocities. When you think about the belt he made out of nipples or the shoebox filled with vaginas, it’s hard to tell.

Anyway, The Striker looked pleased as hell, and let loose with another of those deep Lurch laughs. Then he led me into a back room where all the windows were painted black. A green, padded table filled up most of the room, and he threw open a big white sheet to cover it. I was surprised at how clean it was. He handed me a towel and told me to take off my shirt and lie on my back. Then he left the room. When he came back he had the wooden box and a fistful of shiny steel tools wrapped in another white sheet. He told me everything was sterile, and if I had any doubts he’d use the autoclave again while I watched. I don’t know why, but I trusted him. He asked me if I wanted to do any dope beforehand; he said it was going to hurt like hell and he included it in the price.

I asked him if most of the people he worked on used it. He just laughed that laugh and shook his head, so I shook my head too.

Well, he was right. It hurt like hell, and then some. It still hurts now while I’m writing. I have to say, though, I feel pretty proud of myself. The Striker talked the whole time, I guess to keep my mind off the pain, or maybe because he likes to talk. He’s really smart and funny, which took me by surprise. I asked him if he made all his money doing this kind of stuff. He told me he spent a lot of his spare time writing. I asked him what he wrote about and he said, “Porno.”

“Does it pay well?” I asked, not knowing what else to say, blushing with embarrassment, trying not to show it.

“It pays well for me,” he said, giving me a frown and another extra hard
whack!
with the hammer. “I actually get more satisfaction from the fan mail.”

“You get fan mail from porno?” I asked, as shocked as I was from the
whack!

“Rabid fan mail. Not so unusual, I’m told, for the type of stories I write.”

Whack! Clang!
I bit down on the leather strap he gave me to keep from screaming. I had to breathe for a few minutes while he wiped up the blood before I could ask the dreaded follow-up question. “What kind of stories do you write?”

“Snuff,” he said, as carefree as you please.

I could tell he was daring me. But I didn’t know what the dare was. To be outraged? Terrified? Titillated? All of the above? I was more curious than anything, so, as befits my nature, I asked him the next question that came to mind. “Where do you sell your stories?”

“A very private website…and given your taste in furnishings, one you might enjoy.” He said it as smoothly as a carnival barker, waiting for me to take the bait.

I wish I had shut my mouth right then, but like the asshole I so clearly am, I asked, “What makes it so unusual?”

“Talking about it would hardly do it justice,” he said, putting his instruments down into the bloody tray. “It might be better if you had a little peek.”

I assumed from the way he said it that he was finished with my implants for the day. As it turned it out, my implants were the only thing he was finished with. He sprayed me with antiseptic and put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves and rubbed generous dollops of antibiotic ointment around the base of the three implants he’d installed. He dressed the area with a thick layer of gauze bandages. Then I put on a clean white T-shirt that I’d brought along on his instructions and covered it with a second, extra-large one. He told me the blood would probably stop at the first shirt.