The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (69 page)

I was back!
Back!
I felt like Scrooge on Christmas morning. It seemed like I’d been gone for years…for eons…and I couldn’t find my way back. Then
wham!
I fell to the floor, right on top of Paul’s lifeless body. My head where his used to be. I looked up. Martin was standing above me. He was holding Paul’s head. He must have pulled it away from me—broken the connection. I stared at the head in his hand and gasped with another surge of panic. But when I looked at Paul’s battered face, when I saw his empty eyes, I knew that it was over. He was dead.
Dead!
We did it. We did it! We killed him. Together. Okay, it was Martin mostly, but still, I played my role.

Martin put the head on Paul’s lifeless chest and offered me his hand. I grasped it gladly. As he pulled me up, I heard Mother’s voice, “Save Martin and you’ll save yourself.”

I smiled. Martin and Rose were staring at me strangely. Why not? It had been a very strange day. I didn’t pay much attention to them, to be honest. There was still so much more work to be done. Some part of me wanted to stop and think about what I had seen when I was…away…but another stronger part stopped me and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I was back! I felt so happy and fearless and
big!
I rubbed my hands together and looked around the room at the shelves and shelves of books. They were mine now. Mine! When it finally sank in that he was really gone, I thought of my favorite line from an old Mel Brooks movie.

He was right!
It’s good to be the King!

“Are you sure he’s alive?” Rose asked from the doorway as Martin checked The Striker’s pulse.

“Uh-huh,” Martin nodded, straightening up.

“What are you doing?” I asked anxiously, all my excitement snuffed out as I watched Martin turn toward Rose.

“Leaving,” he said, not looking in my direction. Rose was waving impatiently for Martin to get moving, her robe spattered in blood, clutching the key (my key!) nervously.

“You can’t leave,” I said desperately, following him around like a…well, like a kid brother…while he packed his bags for summer camp. “The cops, Paul’s soldiers, they’ll be here any second. We need to get our story straight.”

“No one will come until the sun sets. You should know that.”

“Are you kidding? After all this noise? There’s no way to keep a lid on this. We have to do something!”

“No one heard a thing,” Martin said, walking to Rose. “You should know that too.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, totally dumbfounded.

He shook his head and opened the door. “See?” he asked, pointing to the hallway.

My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know what I was expecting…a SWAT team, hostage negotiators, knights in shining armor…but the hallway was completely empty. Quiet as a tomb. “What’s going on?”

“Save your questions for him,” Martin said, nudging his chin toward the Striker’s body. “We’re leaving.”

“You can’t go. We’re not finished here!” I yelled, sounding a lot like
him.

“Yes, we are,” Martin said, frowning at me.

“Please…just wait a minute,” I pleaded, pulling him away from the door, pointing to the shelves of books and scrolls. “We need to learn what’s in here.”

“
We?”
Martin said with a frown. Obviously the word had never been part of his vocabulary.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” I said conspiratorially, not quite sure why I cared so much where he went, but feeling to the marrow of my bones that if Martin didn’t stay with me, didn’t keep an eye on me…that something terrible was going to happen. “There are more of them. More of Paul’s…friends. They might be coming after us.”

“
Us?”
he said, squinting at me like the gunslinger he was.

I took a deep breath, ready to explain it again, using single syllable words if I had to. I opened my mouth to speak, when Martin raised his hand to stop me.

“I don’t need those books and I don’t need you. I know all about the Clans. The only reason I’m not killing you is because Norine is inside you.”

“She’s inside you too,” I said, wanting to point out again that we were
full
brothers.

“You don’t understand. And I don’t have time to explain it. We’re leaving. You’ll have to find your own way now…in or out of this.”

I nodded, wondering who I was speaking to. He sounded so different. So mature.

Martin turned toward the door. “Don’t look for us. If I want you, I’ll find you. By this time tomorrow, we won’t exist.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling panicky again.

“Try and find me in any record database in the world. In a few days, she won’t exist either. If anyone ever asks, she died today, just like Paul wanted. Right?”

I nodded and Martin grabbed the doorknob, placing his other arm behind Rose’s back. She hadn’t said a word since she touched the Book, but she gave me that look one more time before turning away. Oh, well. You can’t control what people think. Most of the time.

“What am I supposed to do about him?” I asked, pointing at The Striker’s stiff body. There was hardly any blood beneath his long, limp body. Even the bullet hole looked smaller.

“Use him. But don’t make any promises you aren’t prepared to keep.”

They were almost out the door when I called out to him again, even more desperately than before. “What about the Book? Don’t you even care?”

“It’s yours. It was always yours. The only thing I can tell you is…it doesn’t have to be the way it’s been for so long. You have a choice. You’ve always had a choice.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I know. But you will.”

“Please stay. Help me.”

He smiled at me. With kindness? But he didn’t say a word.

“When will I see you again? Where are you going?”

“Home,” he said simply, ignoring the first part of my question.

I felt a searing jolt of trepidation. “Don’t go back there. It’s dangerous.”

“I know. It always is.”

Just so you know, lifting a heavy dead body onto an altar is not an enjoyable experience. Nailing it down with railroad spikes is a little more fun. I didn’t have to do that, but it was a real stress-buster. Opening the blood-soaked shirt of his headless corpse was a mixed bag…gross, but interesting. I stared at the scars on Paul’s chest. Their resemblance to my implants was even more pronounced than I’d remembered. Weird. I opened my shirt to compare them and got a shock that almost knocked me off my feet. My implants were gone!

Not only were they gone, there were no scars, no marks, not even a blemish. It was like they never existed. I ripped the shirt from my back and got another jolt. My tattoos had disappeared too! Part of me was freaking out, wanting to find a mirror so I could see my entire back, but another part snorted with laughter, looking down at my chest, flexing muscles I never had before.
Not bad, not bad.
I didn’t question my miraculous transformation. I was much more excited to move on to the main event.

I stared at the key. When I put it on, I half-expected a chorus of Halleluiahs coming from the angel. I looked up anyway. Then down at Loren. His arms and legs were splayed in all directions, his face and chest pressed against the floor. I could see his back rise and fall with shallow breaths. I guess he wasn’t conscious. Not that I cared. I smiled and looked at Paul’s body again. Something still needed to be done. I looked back at the angel. The rays on his chest surrounded a round casing I’d never seen before. A tabernacle.

Just so you know, opening Paul’s ribcage with a hammer and chisel was not an enjoyable experience. But cutting out his heart, wrapping it in the flayed skin from his chest, stepping on Loren’s spine, right on the bullet hole, and stretching way up high to put that fat chunk of muscle inside that lovely, gilded tabernacle…well, that part wasn’t too bad.

I set the Book gently on the lectern, rubbing the worn surface with the palms of my hands. The key dangling from my neck felt like it was vibrating with eagerness, aching, almost demanding to be used. “Not yet,” I said with a chuckle, not sure how or why I suddenly had this vast reserve of patience.
All in due time, all in due time,
I thought, trying out a bit of Paul’s lilt to see how it sounded. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I stripped off my clothes and unashamedly stood in front of the window, looking out into the park, so confident and relaxed, savoring the last golden glow on the treetops. The sun had peeked out again, just in time.
Good. Good Friday. Very good, indeed.
I waited for the light to fade, then went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. It felt like I hadn’t bathed in months. I dried off with a big, fluffy towel and put on a suit I found in the closet, the same one Paul had worn the first time I met him here. I was surprised by how well it fit. Even the shoes. He always seemed so much bigger. I guess it’s a matter of perspective.

I was rubbing my hands on the soft lapels when the doorbell rang. It was Ryan. Since I was expecting a contingent of angry cops, his ruddy face came as a welcome relief. I knew why he was dropping by. Paul must have told him that he’d be safely ensconced in Martin’s thoroughbred body by now and his corpse would need some attention.

He must have been shocked to see me opening the door instead of Martin, but he did a good job of disguising it. When he saw Paul’s headless, heartless body nailed to the altar, he nodded his head somberly, but I saw a smile creep into his face when he thought I wasn’t looking. Maybe that’s not so strange either. Can you imagine working for Paul?

He didn’t speak. Neither did I. I could have explained the circumstances. I could have told him the long, stiff man on the floor was responsible. I could have said how important it was to keep all this out of the papers…but I kept my mouth shut. So did he. Instead, he just nodded again and pulled out a piece of paper. The death certificate. It was already filled out, complete with some doctor’s signature. Cause of death: brain aneurysm. Cute. Finally, he said, “Would you mind the intrusion if our people retrieved his body immediately?”

“What about the police?” I asked, astonished at his offhand demeanor.

“Since he died of natural causes, I don’t think that will be problem,” he replied, completely straight-faced. “May I have your permission to proceed?”

I looked at Paul’s decapitated corpse, his gaping chest cavity.
Natural causes?
Still, I wasn’t about to argue. The sooner the evidence disappeared, the better. “Be my guest.”

“Very good. They’ll do a thorough job cleaning up after themselves.”

Less than ten seconds later, four men in red-and-black jumpsuits barreled through the doorway with a hospital stretcher. I followed them into the library and watched them slip a black plastic body bag filled with ice under Paul’s bulk and place him gently inside. Then they added the head, fitting it neatly into place.

They were starting to zip up the bag when I stopped them. I asked everyone to leave the room. They shuffled out like cockroaches as I leaned over his head. It was a mess. I dragged my new key out from under my shirt. I felt it in my fingers. It seemed so small. Almost weightless. But it was mine now. Like everything else. I dangled it in front of Paul’s lifeless face, grinning from ear to ear. For once, he didn’t grin back. I tucked the key under my shirt, called in the jumpsuit crew and told them to take him away. They zipped up the bag and set it almost reverently on the gurney. Two of them pushed it out of the room, while the others began scrubbing down the altar. Ryan pointed to Loren’s body on the floor and asked, “May we take care of that as well?”