The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (35 page)

I didn’t speak, didn’t nod. He was looking inside me.

“The Master has entrusted you with an enormous responsibility, yet he has given you neither the training nor the resources necessary to ensure the required outcome. He knows the power lying dormant within you and the darkness he seeks to awaken. His plan is a sound one. It should have been simple enough—it
still
should be simple enough, and he believes you will come to your true self in time to succeed. But I harbor no such delusions. Without assistance, you will fail. In doing so, you will jeopardize everything we have fought so long to attain. He wants all the pieces to fit together, but he has taken enormous risks in doing so. He is old and his powers are weak.”

“
Weak?
Are you
kidding?”
I asked too loudly. A dozen heads turned.

“Be quiet, you fool,” he hissed, glaring at the eavesdroppers with a blood-curdling snarl. They all snapped their heads away at the same time. He went back to staring in the mirror for a long time, then whispered, “You’ve never witnessed his full capabilities, but I have. Many, many times.”

I waited for him to say something more, to get to the point so I could get the fuck out of there, but he kept staring into the mirror. I opened my mouth to ask another question. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, nudging his chin at the smoky glass. I glanced behind, watching all the creeps milling around, talking in whispers. Looking at me like nobody ever looked at me before. With respect. With fear?

I turned my head and gazed with him into the vastness. There was so much to see.

I saw Martin and Rose walk up the steps of The Plaza Hotel. I saw Paul dump his bike on the curb across the street and follow them inside. I saw Martin slip his key card into the door of the honeymoon suite. Saw Rose follow him into the room. I saw it all from my stool, wincing at the dangers neither of them could see. I closed my eyes and saw even more terrible things, but when I opened them, I saw what I knew I’d see from the instant I stepped into the cigarette-stained air of the most aptly named bar in the universe. I saw Paul staring right back at me, his eyes rolled backwards in his head. He was smiling. Beckoning me to join him.

I didn’t heed his call. I left that awful place without another word to The Striker, but I knew why he had brought me there. He wanted me to see all the vultures waiting in the wings should the Great King fall. Wanted me to witness the power he held over them, to see the ease with which he could protect me, to know the real truth of my circumstances.

Paul was vulnerable. And Loren could help.

The room was more beautiful than Rose had imagined. The sheets were softer than any Martin had felt. Except his own, of course.

“What are you thinking about?” Rose asked, needing to talk. Needing him to talk.

“Luck,” Martin said, after another uncomfortable pause.

“Good or bad?” she asked, sitting next to him on the bed.

He looked in her eyes for the first time since the taxi and said, “Good, I think.”

“Does that mean we’re safe now?” she asked with a guarded hopefulness that hurt Martin more than the nail or the bullet or the sutures.

Pause. “Yeah,” he lied, “we’re safe.”

“Martin, what’s going on here?” she asked, her frown rolling in like an undertow. “Who the hell is Paul? What’s the story with you two?”

The story. Martin shuddered at the mention of it.

“I can’t tell you,” he said, turning his head.

“Martin, he wanted to kill us. I deserve to know.”

“If he really wanted to kill us, he would have.”

“Are you guys mercs…or in some kind of mob? Are you…a hit man?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Listen, mister, I took some pretty big risks with you…”

“I know that. That’s why I told you to go home. I don’t want you to be part of this.”

“Part of what? Martin, I need to know. I’m…
with
you.”

“You don’t need to know. You don’t want to know. If you don’t know anything, maybe I can protect you. You want me to protect you, right?”

“Yes. I want that very much.”

They settled back into silence again.

“So what’s the plan?” Rose asked, after another long minute passed.

“Relax. Lay low,” he answered, glad to be telling the truth again, or at least part of it.

“Okay.” Rose nodded, forcing a smile, placing her hand on his thigh.

Martin nodded back, his cock rising like a movie crane. Rose wanted to feel the lump, but wanted to keep talking even more. “Why do you think we’re lucky?” she pressed.

Another pause. “Martin, I need you to talk to me.”

Martin let out his own big sigh and finally said, “We’re lucky because we’re alive.”

Rose wanted him to say more. Wanted him to tell her everything—about Paul, about Michael, about the gold and the guns and the stuffed dog and the pillow in his shopping bag. She wanted to ask him about all those things, but his earlier warning and the poignant sadness in his voice made her think about her father, instead…and her mother.

Yes, it was good to be alive. It was good to be here together. Now the quiet between them didn’t bother her as much. It felt almost calming. Respectful. The door was less than twenty feet away from this glorious bed. There wasn’t any lock on the inside. Nothing was holding her here. Nothing except…

She stopped thinking and kissed Martin softly on the lips, nodding to him with a lump in her throat that matched the one in his pants.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” she said, a tear streaking her cheek as she pictured her mother lying on that soft, satin bed in the mortuary. “I think we’re lucky too.”

Martin wasn’t as lucky as he thought. Neither was Rose. None of us were.

Paul stormed into the The Plaza’s lobby with both fists clenched. One of the porters rushed over to stop the huge, crazy homeless man from going any farther…until he saw his face.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you.”

“I can see that,” Paul barked without a trace of an accent. “Are my rooms prepared?”

“As always,” he said brightly. “Do we have any luggage this evening?”

“
We
don’t,” Paul hissed, rumbling past him, making sure that he kept the sides of his overcoat closed. “Bring me my key.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, scrambling over to the registration desk like a Jack Russell terrier. He whispered something to the desk clerk and scampered back to Paul’s side.

“Right this way,” he said, bowing this time. Paul had already passed him into the elevator. He pressed the penthouse button as soon as he got inside and the porter had to rush to keep from getting caught in the closing doors.

“Beautiful evening,” he said, trying to brighten the gloom.

Paul ignored him. “A tall man checked in with a short girl. Lots of metal in her face. See them?”

“Yes,” he snickered, eager to please. “Quite a pair, they were.”

“Find out what room they’re in,” he snarled. “Keep me informed: who comes, who goes and when. Use this number,” he ordered, scribbling on a slip of paper.

“Certainly, sir,” the porter said, forcing a smile. Paul said nothing, snatching the key card from his hand as soon as the elevator door opened.

The porter started to follow, but Paul blocked him. “I’ll find my way just fine, son,” he said, slipping on the brogue like a pair of well-worn slippers. “Don’t let me down, now.”

Paul entered the dark room and didn’t bother turning on the lights. He sat in his favorite chair by the window and tried to sense where Martin was at this very moment. Was he right below him? Had he changed his mind and checked out again? No, he was here. He could feel it, yet he couldn’t
see
him. Very strange. But now his other eyes and ears were open. Martin and the girl might as well be tagged with a radar beacon. The porter would tell him their room number in minutes, if not seconds, and then…

He rubbed his hands together, then took a long deep sniff of his armpit. Ripe. Very ripe. He debated whether to take a shower. Decided against it. Why bother at this point?

He closed his eyes instead and searched for Martin again. Still nothing. Was Johnny blocking him? Raising a cloud of mist, a bubble of safety? If so, the bubble would burst soon enough.

“Martin, Martin, why hast thou forsaken me?” he implored, raising his hands in supplication. Then he laughed so hard he hocked up a green one on the clean, white carpet. He stared out the window into the darkness of Central Park and thought about Martin and all the others that had come before. Now this new boy too. He tried to picture what Michael was doing and was pleased to find their connection still intact.

At least he made it home.

“Every mistake is an opportunity,” he reminded himself, wincing at his foolish errors. Then he congratulated himself on the fact that he was here right now…and so were they. All the players were in motion. The
Turning
was upon them. He smiled. Then frowned. Martin had been impeccable tonight. His uncanny displays of providence were even more astounding. Looking at it from one angle, he was magnificent, confirming his most hopeful assumptions about Martin and his power. Never had there been a more worthy candidate. On the other hand, what of his own unforeseen miscalculations?

He thought about Johnny again. In his isolation had he somehow gained in strength? Was it…the girl? Even Michael and those stupid cops seemed to be pitching in, albeit unknowingly. Michael, tripping him up, the cops pressing those buzzers right on cue. Could something else go wrong? Was his power truly waning?

No. Despite all his sins, he was still the one, he had always been the one, he
would
always be the one. The scales were tipped in his favor. Who held the upper hand? He did. They had come to this place—his stronghold, his fortress—of their own accord, like lambs to the knife. Yet who made the decision? Had Martin awakened to his memories? Had he told her all he knew? Were they seeking the portal, to unite and defeat him? Could Martin betray his clan and his vow so completely? And if this destination was her choice, who had lured her? Was the
Intelligence
steering her? Was Johnny springing a trap?

There was too much at stake to rely solely on his intuition or logic or conjecture. He had to know exactly what had occurred and why. It was an incredible risk to take on the eve of battle. It would weaken him greatly. Still, he had to know for certain what had transpired before planning his final moves. He rose and walked to the other room, to the white door. He unlocked the door and turned the handle. Soon afterward, he crossed a second threshold. The crushing force required every ounce of his considerable power to endure, until he reached the Axis and
saw
what had thus far escaped him.

When he returned, he was exhausted, but he
knew
. The girl made the choice to come here. Martin was still asleep. He had told her nothing, still loyal to his vow whether he knew it or not. Johnny was pushing them to travel west, as far away and as fast as they could travel.

Ha! Johnny had failed. Again. And the
Intelligence
? Did it even care? Had it ever cared? The Maelstrom certainly didn’t. He had just witnessed that undeniable truth with the same clarity he had seen on every occasion he breached its unquenchably hungry maw. It churned on and on, devouring all, creating all, grinding the gears inexorably forward, shaping, molding, driving to the Singularity, when the
Becoming
would occur despite all their plotting, their misguided loyalty, their quest for participation, despite any aid or resistance from all of them, all the Clans, all the Kings and Masters, all the Knights and Lords and Druids, all thinking their path was the righteous one, their knowledge and wisdom the soundest, their goal the noblest. All of them had made the sacred vow, to guide, to protect the
Intelligence
and its intent, to safeguard the knowledge they had been given. But that knowledge was corrupted at every turn, just as he had been in the end—he the longest to resist those urges, the longest except for Sophia’s children. Now only Johnny and his bitch were left. By sundown tomorrow there would be only Johnny, trapped in the prison of his own choosing, free to weep at his leisure for the loss of his final treasure all the years he remained alive. For the loss of love itself. Just as he had done.