The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (41 page)

She moved. But only enough so Paul could sit next to her.

“Hhmmph!” Paul “hmphed” with more admiration than he cared to admit. He scrunched his beefy bulk up snug against the still-trembling saint and gave her a shy smile and sidelong glance as he humbly lowered his head, knelt down and clasped his hands in pious prayer.

“Dear God,” he began, muttering in a barely audible voice. Barely audible that is, to anyone except the shrunken figure next to him, who twitched with fear at the sound of it.

“Dear Gawd,” he repeated, louder this time, his brogue more exaggerated than ever, hoping to get another rise out of her. She was steadier this time as he continued:

“Bless da little bunnies in the forest and all da hungry children wit doze great big bellies over dere in Africa dat doan have all dis yummy good food we have over here like da Ray’s pizza and da Slim Jims and da tater chips and da big, tick, juicy steaks you can cook up in your nice, warm oven by da fridge. And bless all da kiddies here too, dat be suckin’ on da crack pipes all day long. And damn deir dirty feckin’ parents all to hell dat send ’em out to live on da streets and fend for demselves while dey sit at home and suck on deir own crack pipes and watch da telly an’ tink up more nasty ways dat dey can get more money to neglect dere little babies wit. And bless all da poor Mick cops dat have to put up with all dis stinkin’ filth and shit and hopelessness so dat it’s no wonder dat dey doan just go out and gun down every last stinkin’ one of dem. And most of all…bless poor, dear Martin who’s gone and turned away from his lovin’ Da, for the sake of a dwarf harlot dat’s got him all mixed up in da head so dat now wit da hour of reckonin’ near, it seems I’ve but one last chance to convince him of da error of his ways, else I’ll be left with no other choice dan to take him out behind da shed and put him down like a dirty, mongrel dog, amen.”

Paul let out a deep, long sigh and slowly opened his eyes, still keeping his head bowed and his hands folded. He looked at the cross and the poor sad Christ with all the beautiful red dripping holes in his hands and feet.

“Tsk. Tsk. Such a shame about that,” he sighed, shaking his head. “If only you’d listened, we could have spared you all that misery. And you ours.”

He slumped back into his pew and gave his murmuring partner a warm crinkly smile as he listened to her mumbled prayers that were faster and more urgent than ever. He watched her pray for a long time, sitting motionless, smiling while her eyelids fluttered open from time to time to make sure he was still there with her.

“You’re a good ole bitch, grandma,” Paul said, nudging the old lady in the ribs with an elbow of genuine kinship.

Her eyes snapped open, filled with a little less fear this time. She was about to speak when Paul held a thick, fat finger to her old, wrinkled lips and said, “Shhhhh…don’t tax your sweet breath, my darlin’, you’ll be needin’ it for that next round of Hail Marys.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but then her face froze in place when she saw the nail was missing from Paul’s still-poised fingertip. “Say a little prayer for me, sweetie,” he whispered in his perfect Irish lilt, “and say a great big one for Martin.”

Then he pinched her cheek, made the sign of the cross, stood up and walked away.

Michael had seen some weird shit already, but this was ridiculous. The cross. The angel. The altar.
Holy. Fucking. Crap.
He looked around and saw all the pictures and carvings and drawings. Everything looked scary, but the angel frightened him most.

“Man, this is some seriously fucked-up shit here!” he said in the flickering darkness. Part of him was curious about the pictures and the books and the other stuff. But not enough to stay in a creep palace like this. He wanted to stop right there, turn around and run away screaming, but the Book wouldn’t let him. It kept pulling him forward, closer to the altar.

As he approached, he noticed a cabinet below. It was empty. The altar wasn’t. There was a single gold coin resting on the blood-caked wood. He hesitated before picking it up. He even let out a little laugh. Then he reached out his trembling hand and raised it to his eyes. On one side was an angel with its wings spread out like the one on the cross in front of him. On the other side was the profile of a face. The head was graced with a laurel wreath, like an emperor. It looked a lot like Paul.

He dropped the coin and ran for the door. But the door wasn’t there anymore. He couldn’t even tell where it had been. Not that it mattered anyway. The shadowy figure blocking his way had a look on his face that said Michael wouldn’t be going anywhere.

When he started to speak, Michael understood why.

Martin was getting dressed. Fast.

“Where are you going?” Rose asked, rubbing her tear-stained cheeks.

“Pastrami,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.

“Well, I’m coming too,” Rose said, shucking off her robe.

“You can’t leave now,” Martin said, hoisting it up again, “not until it’s…”

“Safe?” Rose taunted him, dropping the robe again, tossing it onto a chair. “You’ve been saying that since we got here. You can’t tell me all this shit and then walk out of here like nothing happened. If you’re so fucking hungry, call room service!”

He said he’d rather get pastrami from the Carnegie Deli. Rose had another shit fit.

Martin wasn’t lying about the pastrami. He craved it every time he was within ten blocks of the place. But what he really wanted was to case the lobby and make sure no one had followed them. Without Rose in eyesight. Or gun sight. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said, putting on his jacket, feeling the twin pistols in his deep side pockets. “Twenty tops.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” she said defiantly, “Do you read me?”

Martin grabbed her wrist and plopped the Beretta in her hand. “Listen,” he said coldly, “you need to trust me on this. I know what I’m doing. You’ll be safe here with this. Don’t let anyone in except when you hear this knock.…”

He rapped on the nightstand.
Bop-ba-ba–da-da
.

Rose nodded. The look of determination in Martin’s eyes couldn’t be argued with. She tried anyway. “But why can’t I come…?” she pleaded.

“Snipers,” Martin said simply. So simply, and with such an air of authority that she paced over to the chair, slumped into the seat and cried.

Martin put his hand on her shoulder, like he’d seen other men do in the movies when they were trying to provide reassurance.

“I’m pretty sure we weren’t followed, but I need to look around. You should stay away from the window. It’s not Paul’s style…he uses knives mostly, but better safe than…”

Rose began crying so hard that it took another five minutes before Martin could make another attempt at leaving. “Maybe you could take a bath or something,” he said, stroking her hair, like Norine would have done. He was starting to get the hang of this whole comforting thing. “I’ll be right back. Then we can have that picnic. It’s a nice day.”

“Are you
crazy?”
Rose yelled. “A
nice day?
You think I still want a
picnic?”

“Well, I do. I’ve never had one,” said Martin with such a hurt expression that Rose didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She managed a smile.

“I need to know what’s going on here. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah, but we can talk about that while we eat.”

“Let’s stay here and talk, okay?”

“I’ll be fast,” he said convincingly. “Don’t worry…everything’s going to be fine.”

She nodded, surrendering to the inevitable.

Martin took the elevator to the lobby and gave it a thorough sweep before venturing into the throng. It was bustling with activity, people coming and going, checking in and checking out, sitting in the slightly uncomfortable chairs, soaking in the atmosphere, or walking and gawking the length of the cavernous room so they could tell their cousins back in Omaha that they’d been to The Plaza!

Martin was an expert at spotting anyone trying to “act natural” while they were on the prowl. He scanned the room from every angle and was relieved that not a single person in the shuffling tapestry looked like they didn’t belong there, except maybe for the two plainclothes security guards that were eyeing the breasts of a porn star on the arm of an ancient codger in a navy blue blazer, complete with brass buttons. He gave the room one final pass, then walked in long strides toward the less trafficked exit at 58th Street. He did a quick 360-degree swivel outside the door and a more detailed building-by-building, window-by-window search from the fountain across from the entrance. If he saw any observers, he would make a beeline straight back to the room and stand guard over Rose.

Finally, convinced no one was watching, Martin looked in the direction of the Carnegie Deli, debating the wisdom of his errand for fatty meat and mustard. His heart was calling him back to the hotel, to Rose’s sensible suggestion for room service. His stomach was growling for that pastrami, his mouth watering as he imagined biting down on the thick onion roll and all that succulent meat. His head was pulling him to Paul’s apartment, where he could search for the book, or better yet, to his own apartment, where he could sit in the white room, stare into the blankness, and let all those bottled-up memories flood his mind in one-tenth the time it would take Rose to tell him her story, maybe giving him even more effective ammunition or bargaining chips than the Book could provide.

The white room. Still, a quick trip home was out of the question. It would take him twenty minutes each way, not counting how long it took for him to get beyond the dreamy images he always saw in the whiteness or how big a fight his stubborn brain would put up before surrendering those long-guarded memories…memories of where he’d seen Paul with the Book. Candles? A room full of candles…and something really big on the wall?

Fuck! He could almost see it again! Just a few minutes in the room would bring the rest of it back. No, he couldn’t leave Rose alone that long. Not with that sad, scared look she gave him. On the other hand, it would only take him twenty minutes or less to run a few blocks, grab the pastrami, run back to Rose and have that goddam picnic.

“Twenty minutes,” he said, breaking into a jog. “That’s all it’ll take.”

Just enough time for Paul to do what he came for.

Paul had left the cathedral only minutes earlier when his beeper went off. He looked at the green screen, and watched the message scroll across:
Elvis has left the building. Alone.

“God, I hate it when people try to be clever,” he grumbled, wump-bumping into even more pedestrians on his way back to the hotel than he had while going to church.

He stared in the mirror while he waited for the hotel elevator, studying the lines around his eyes. The other people waiting gave him an unobstructed view, crowding together in clumps on either side of him at least five feet away.

You’re not getting younger,
he thought, smiling wider to accentuate the wrinkles—and in sheer anticipatory glee of the encounter awaiting him upstairs.

When the elevator arrived, no one entered the car with him, which gave him another opportunity to admire his reflection in the elevator mirror…and his cunning. These last few months had taken a toll, but here he was in the final stretch with more than enough get-up-and-go to finish his task. Everything was ready.