The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (42 page)

“Fit as a fiddle,” he said, thumping his cast-iron belly, grateful for these few private seconds before the door opened. He pressed his fingers against his face, smoothing out the deeply lined skin until he looked half his age. When the door opened, he gave the mirror a final jolly wink before stepping into the hallway.

“No, you’re not getting any younger,” he admitted. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”

Rose stared at her key while she listened to the radio. How could she have let Martin go without telling her everything? Everything!

The wafting sounds of the salsa station matched the rhythms of the warm breeze blowing through the open window. It was so beautiful outside. She’d been looking forward to a picnic so much…before Martin started talking. Hell, she’d been looking forward to talking with him so much, but not about this.

She fingered the key, rolling it between her fingers. Her mind drifted back to her mother and the story, to her father, to his letters, to the day he gave her the necklace. She thought of him now. Pictured his kind, loving face. Pictured…the letters.
Words. Phrases. Drifting apart. Recombining.
His voice. A memory
? A warning: “If anyone looks at this necklace like they’ve seen it before, don’t trust them. If anyone tries to take it…run!”

It sounded like an actual shout in her head. It scared her so much she peed on the bed. She ran to the window, then stepped backwards.
Snipers,
she thought, almost hysterical.

She cursed herself for staying behind and plopped down on the bed. On the wet spot. “Goddammit!” she yelled, springing back up.

She paced back and forth, far from the window. She looked at the gun Martin left on the nightstand. Would she be able to use it? After reviewing her performance with the street punks, she guessed the answer was probably yes. Probably. But who knew how many of these creeps were out there looking for this key. Looking for her. And where was Paul right now? What did he want to do with her? Kill her, of course. Kill her and take the key. But if he already knew she had it, if he knew who she was and where she lived, why hadn’t he taken it already? Why was she still alive?

She cursed her predicament again. She thought about her father’s voice in her head. Then she saw the shopping bag with that stuffed dog inside and longed even more for Martin’s speedy return.
I can trust him. He told me all this stuff because he cares about me.
He wants to protect me, just like he said in the…taxi.

Shit!
What if Martin had left her? Hopped in a cab. What if he was gone for good?
Dammit!
What was the matter with her? She should be on the phone with the police right now. How could she still be waiting for her murdering “boyfriend” to return?

Why did Martin leave me all alone? How could he do this to me?

“Because he’s a cold-blooded killer, without a scrap of remorse or compassion?” she offered tearfully. “Oh yeah, that’s right,” she added, slapping her forehead. “Stupid ole me!”

She closed her eyes, wiping the tears away. She felt so desperate that she actually prayed for her father to help her. Guide her. Protect her. Oddly enough, she got an answer. This time it was more than a voice in her head. It was a feeling in her chest, wordlessly saying:

“I’m here…I’ll always be here, but now you have to…
run!”

“
Ouch!”
Her fingers had pressed against the key so hard that her chest was bleeding. “Shit!” She ran to the bathroom and hung her robe on the hook behind the door. She took off the necklace and hung it on the doorknob. She turned on the shower, leaping behind the plastic curtain before the water warmed up, shrieking from the shock of it. Another round of achy tears joined the water pulsating from the shower massage nozzle, joining the even saltier scarlet stream dripping from the gash on her breastbone, leaking down her trembling legs…washing down the drain. She was about to have a full-blown meltdown when she heard the loud knocking.

Bop-ba-ba-da-da…
She leapt from the shower, grabbing her robe off the hook, forgetting all about the necklace swinging from the doorknob, the pistol on the nightstand, rushing blindly to the door, her chest practically collapsing with relief.

Tsk. Tsk. If only Rose had remembered, she might have grabbed the key, or the gun. Because the instant she turned the handle, the knock on the door continued two beats longer than it should have:
…bop-BOP!

And in came Paul.

Something was wrong. Martin was only a few blocks away, issuing a steady stream of saliva at the prospect of all that juicy pastrami, when he suddenly got a very bad feeling.

“
Go back!”
a voice shouted in his head.

He turned around instantly, running back to her while his mind replayed his exit from the hotel with the efficiency of a digital recorder, revisiting every move he made, searching for possible errors. His memory was perfect with things like this—and he was absolutely correct. There was no one in the lobby that didn’t belong there and there was no one watching from outside. Still, something wasn’t right. He went through it again, moment by moment. This time he saw it. The porter. It was the way he looked at him when they passed. He looked afraid. That wasn’t unusual. Most people looked at him that way. What he failed to notice on the first pass was his clammy-faced attempt at a smile.

People smile all the time,
especially porters,
he thought, trying to rationalize it.
Not at you,
came a speedy comeback he had a hard time recognizing as himself. “Shit!” Martin cursed, shifting his legs into high gear. “How could I have left her all alone?”

“C’mon, c’mon,” Martin muttered, pushing the elevator button over and over. He felt the bulging pockets of his leather coat to check his guns almost as many times.

A frowning mother and her small boy were inside the car with him. They kept looking at him like he was crazy. “Stop pressing the button,” the kid said in a canary-high voice.

“Sorry,” Martin said, surprised he meant it.

“It’s okay,” the boy replied, smiling broadly as they exited on the tenth floor. His mother gave him a scolding look and dragged him away.

Martin followed, unsurprisingly, since he’d been pressing the same button repeatedly for the last nine floors. He walked away from them, then sprinted to the stairwell exit when they entered their room. He took the staircase up one more floor, listening for any other footsteps. He opened the stairwell door silently and checked the hallway for any sign of movement. Then he crept up to his room and stood to the side of the door.

Well, this is it. Please be inside.

He drew out the chrome-plated pistol with his left hand and raised his right hand to knock. Then he hesitated. Should he use the key card instead? He told Rose he would be using the special knock and to blow a hole through the door if anybody tried to get in without it. He didn’t seriously think she’d do that, but it was possible. But, if he knocked and Paul
was
inside with her, there goes the element of surprise. On the other hand, if Paul was inside, it would be for one of three reasons: She was already dead and he wanted to gloat; or they hadn’t had time to leave yet; or Paul
wanted
to wait for him. In any case, he would be holding the stronger hand, and a gun or knife pointing to some vital part of Rose’s anatomy. If she was still alive. Was she?

You’re wasting time.
You’ll find the answer soon enough.

Bop–ba-ba-da-da
…he knocked, raising his pistol.

And heard nothing in reply.

Bop–ba-ba-da-da . .
.

Rose was sitting in her robe next to Paul when she heard the special knock again.

Paul told her that if she made any sound at all, under any circumstances, except as a direct reply to a question from him, she would regret it more than anything she could imagine in her worst nightmares. She kept her mouth shut.

Paul walked to the door. He’d been sitting next to her in a matching chair by the window, separated only by a small tea table. On the table were a silver whiskey flask and a bag of Oreos. He picked up the Beretta that had also been resting between them, touched the tip of her nose with the end of the barrel, then shoved it into his pocket.

Bop–ba-ba-da-da…
came the knock again. Rose tightened her lips as Paul slowly turned the handle.

It was the porter. “He’s downstairs,” he told Paul, “back in his room.”

Rose’s head sank to her robe, the last of her hopes deflated. When she had opened the door for Paul, he whisked her away so quickly that she knew Martin wouldn’t make it back from that stupid fucking deli in time to witness her abduction. But when she heard the special knock again—on the door of this gigantic penthouse suite—she thought Martin must have known they were here. He had come to rescue her! Rose was in such despair after seeing it was only the porter that she barely noticed when he began leering at her. It would only occur to her later that “shave and a haircut” was probably not the best secret knock to use with a human life resting in the balance.

The porter began walking inside, but Paul stopped him with a fat hand at the threshold. He gave Paul a knowing smile he assumed all men were supposed to exchange under such circumstances. The knowing part, he guessed, meant knowing that the man on the receiving end was about to have sex with a young, pretty girl due solely to his irresistible powers of seduction, which deserved some special acknowledgment.

“Thank you very much,” Paul said without the accent, enjoying Rose’s discomfort as the porter ogled her. He gave him a few more seconds to enjoy the view before closing the door in his face. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, smiling at Rose.

She managed to remain silent during the entire exchange. That was lucky for her. Her luck ran out soon afterward.

“Let’s give Martin a little jingle, eh?” Paul said sweetly, picking up the receiver. “He must be worried sick about you.” He raised his finger to his lips while the phone rang, reminding Rose of his earlier threat. Or promise.

“We’re in the penthouse!” she cried out as soon as Paul smiled into the receiver. He hung up before the second word left her lips.

“That was a mistake,” he said, handcuffing her wrists behind her back through the rococo carvings of the wooden chair. “I’ll call back in a bit, after I get you quieted down. Then we’ll have a little lesson about following instructions. I hope you like pain as much as you think you do, my sweet, little porcupine.”

Rose did, of course, like pain. But not nearly as much as Paul.