The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (37 page)

“The story isn’t about the treasure, dummy! It’s about…”

Dammit!
He was forgetting again! He closed his eyes, moistening them, then gazed at the undulating trees, deeper and deeper into the shadows between the branches, the waving blobs of charcoal gray, navy blue, and deep, dark green. The darkness shifted and swayed, weaving in and out like a living, breathing tapestry. The shadows. The branches. And after he stared with open eyes for a long, long time, he heard Paul shouting at him again:

“The story isn’t about the treasure, dummy! It’s about…”

That place. That place where Paul took him, when they were standing on the altar, after he made his vow, before Paul killed…No!…don’t go there…focus on the story.…

He paused, breathing in deeply, emptying his mind of everything except the image of Paul in the wheat field, his arms waving wildly as he told his tale. He closed his eyes and the image became so clear it felt like he was actually there again, sitting at Paul’s feet, listening rapturously. He could hear Paul’s booming voice, smell the whiskey on his breath.

The memories came flooding back in a tidal wave: He was remembering everything! Martin tried to stay calm, but couldn’t help gasping as all the jigsaw puzzle pieces rearranged themselves and slipped smoothly into place. He could see it all, his heart beating faster and faster…until there was something moving toward him, coming at the end of the train of memories like a lonely caboose.

This wasn’t a memory…it was a place…the wonderful place where the angel told the boy all his secrets…the same place Paul took him…the place that finally made sense of all the awful things they’d done together. It was coming toward him now. No, it was here…obscuring all the trees and the buildings and everything…a glorious mass of swirling light that was talking to him without words…pumping a completely formed thought into his brain that was even more vivid than a memory. It sounded like Paul, but no, that wasn’t right…it wasn’t a thought or a voice, it was a knowing…a certainty that Martin spoke out loud:

“The story has a purpose. We’re doing something together…something that will change…”

Fuck!
Martin banged his fist on the armchair as the words vanished from his lips, as the swirling waves disappeared with them and washed all the
knowing
away like it had never even happened. It was gone! Every part of it erased in an eye blink.

Martin paced in front of the window.
I need to bring it back!

He forced himself to calm down. To sit down and try all night if that’s what it took. And if that didn’t work, there was still another way. The white room. That was why he made it. To show him the world of dreams. To help him remember…and forget.

The white room would bring it all back. He would clear his mind and stare into all that blankness and concentrate on the one image he could still cling to. The swirling shape that gave him everything and took it all away left one solitary clue behind in its wake: an image of the prize Paul valued above all else…and the key to snatching it away from him.

Yes, there it was, only a few feet away, at the end of a long, gilded chain, gently rising and falling on Rose’s sleeping chest. It was the key to protecting Rose, the key to everything. He wasn’t sure where she got it, but he remembered where he’d seen it before. Even though the one Paul wore around his neck was different, he guessed they both did the same thing.

It was the key. Yes, the key. Now all he needed was the Book.

Bean opened the closet doors slowly. He was glad there was a light in this part of the hallway. Even so, it was still hard to see. He wondered how Paul hooked up his electricity in the long-condemned building. Probably tapped into some live Con Ed lines in the basement. Even more puzzling was why he only had a few functioning lights. Some of the other hallways were so dark you couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. Michael stayed clear of those, retracing his steps back to the big closet the instant he walked in Paul’s front door. The closet that was filled with…

It was empty.
What the fuck?
The wood inside was charred. It smelled like a drowned campfire. He closed the doors to see if there were dents in the wall where Paul had slammed the doorknobs. Yep. Could there be more than one closet? He looked around and saw the room with the couch and the windows facing the street. It was only a dozen yards away. This had to be the right closet. So where were the guns? He opened the closet again, even slower than before…and almost screamed in shock.

The burnt smell was gone. The wood was smooth and clean. The chest was there, open and gleaming with all that deadly steel. Instead of comforting him, the sight threw him into an absolute panic. Was he crazy? What the
fuck
was going on here? He almost ran down to the street and probably would have if not for what he saw inside the giant chest of weapons. He saw three golden coins. Three beautiful glowing coins.

They were sitting on top of a very big book.

Paul watched over the city that never slept and thought about how much they had in common. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. I was already dreaming. And I saw him, sitting in that chair. Watching me.

“William…” he whispered.

“What?”

“Are you ready?”

I couldn’t answer. He knew I wasn’t. He didn’t care.

I saw him smile, taunting me. I saw those long, fat fingers drumming on the arms of his chair. Soft, muffled sausages.
Farump. Farump
. I looked at his face and saw a resemblance to mine I’d never noticed before. My dream-self moved in for a closer look and I watched his expression change by infinitesimal degrees. Softening. Flattening.

As it changed, the resemblance grew stronger and stronger, until finally at the end, just as the sky was starting to brighten in the east, it became frighteningly clear:

I could no longer tell the difference.

I am William’s soul. I am writing this Book from a place you can’t imagine. I found this story rendered whole, complete. It was there before I started.

I dole it out in drips and drabs. Sometimes he listens. Sometimes not. It doesn’t matter. It will all come out eventually. Unraveling, thread by thread.

I am the machine that makes his dreams. I make them fierce and thrilling. Sometimes I tell him things I wish I could take back again. I see the trouble they cause. I watch from my way, way far-off place. I see him try so hard to be good.

I keep talking and he keeps writing. I can’t stop it. He can’t stop it.

Even if I could…make it nicer…make it happy…make it safe…I still wouldn’t. Because I have to tell you…I really like it this way.

“
Picnic,”
Rose whispered in Martin’s ear early in the morning, before he was even awake, as the sun twisted around the corner of their spacious bedroom suite, poking between the hanging plants, filtering through the gauze-sheer curtains, looking for a bed to warm, a face to paint. It found Martin’s stubbly cheek. He hadn’t shaved in one whole day, definitely a record. Rose didn’t mind. She rubbed her own soft cheek against his bristles—up and down, up and down—like she was exfoliating with a dry loofah sponge. She did one cheek and then the other until her skin was red and sore. Rosy.

Martin opened his eyes and looked at her curiously. She grinned and ducked between his legs to rub her newly flushed cheeks against his morning erection.

Rose loved sucking cock. She loved it like other women love baby showers. Not “giving head,” or “going down,” or any of those other sanitized euphemisms her girlfriends sometimes used to describe what in her mind was best defined by the act itself.

“Mmmmm,” she sighed, grabbing the meaty club in both fists. Martin was fully awake now, scrunching a pillow behind his neck to get a better view. She pressed the fat underbelly of his cock down with both her hands, mashing it against his washboard abs, rocking it back and forth like a rolling pin. Martin did a sit-up crunch to heighten the effect. Rose looked up and gave him a beaming smile, then yawned her mouth open and took him inside.

Martin didn’t complain, but what he really wanted to do was fuck. Now that he was getting more practice, he was as excited about fucking as Rose was about sucking. He tried to coax her head away so he could get between her legs. It wasn’t easy. Her mouth clung to him so voraciously it felt like he was trying to pull a bowling ball off a swollen finger. Eventually, he succeeded and climbed on top of her. But even someone as emotionally dense as Martin couldn’t help notice her sad pout as he began thrusting in and out of her in long, even strokes. He was rushing things. Not good. It didn’t take long for him to pump the pout off her face, but it registered nonetheless. So when they finished and she moved back between his legs, he let her do whatever she wanted at her own slow pace.

After twenty-three minutes and nine seconds by Martin’s internal clock, she wiped off her face and led him by the hand to the window. They looked out over the sprawling mass of Central Park, both of them thinking it was the most beautiful sight they’d ever seen.

“Can we go for a picnic?” Rose asked, stroking his back. “Do you still think it’s safe?”

Picnic.
Why did that sound so appealing? And unsettling? He almost heard Norine’s voice warning him, but the switch clicked and all he was left with was a deep longing in his heart.
Picnic
. It sounded so good. So necessary. But what about that other word?