The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (8 page)

The man was tall and thickly built with deep blue eyes. Momma made Martin call him Daddy as soon as he moved in. It bothered him at first, but after a while he began to like it. The man was nice and would smile at Martin and give him hugs and tell him what a big strong boy he was. Martin didn’t know where Momma met him or what his real name was because she always called him Daddy too.

They lived on a farm somewhere, but Martin wasn’t sure where. They didn’t do any farming at the farm and there were big rusty machines sitting behind the house and in the broken-down barn. They never had company, except for the other men that came before, none of them staying as long as this one. He could see other houses that were far, far away, but he wasn’t allowed to go near them or talk to any people who came to the door, though no one ever did except salesmen. “Don’t talk to strangers,” Momma said. Everyone was a stranger.

Martin had never played with another child. He knew he was missing something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He only knew there was a big hole inside and he felt sad almost all the time. But Martin wasn’t allowed to cry. Every time he cried, even a little, Momma always said the same thing: “I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Then she did. Each time the “something” got worse. He hardly ever cried anymore.

Momma didn’t have any women friends he knew about except for Norine, who was really Momma’s sister. Norine wasn’t allowed to come to the house because, Momma said, “She’s a nosy bitch and I don’t want her snoopin’ around!”

Martin went to stay with her once in a while when Momma had to “take a rest” from him. She lived on the same big farm in another house down the dirt road and it only took a few minutes to rumble over there in Momma’s old truck and drop him off. Every time Momma came back to get him he wanted to cry, but he knew things would be even worse if he did.

Most of the times Momma went out, he didn’t get to go to Norine’s. When he was smaller, Momma just put him in his crib. The crib was a five-foot-tall box of raw plywood with splinters everywhere. Martin would just sit there in the lump of his worn-out blankee and stare at the knots in the wood till Momma came home again. Sometimes she didn’t come home for a long, long time. If Martin went to the bathroom, Momma would be extra mad so he tried as hard as he could not to do a number two. But sometimes she would leave for two days or more, and he would have all that time to think about what was going to happen when she came home and saw the mess he made.

When he was old enough to climb out of the crib, Momma locked him in the cellar until she came back, leaving a jug of water and some cold cuts and bread. There was a bucket in the corner for him to “empty himself,” but he tried not to because the smell got so bad. He hated the cellar more than anything. It was where she took him when she said he’d been really bad, even though he wasn’t sure what he did to make her mad. He tried so hard to be good all the time, but no matter how good he was, he wasn’t good enough for Momma. He needed to be punished. He needed it all the time.

“If you ever tell Norine, I’ll find out and lock you down here for the rest of your life. You’ll never, ever see her again.”

He never, ever thought about telling Norine. Or any of the men that came to visit.

When the big, blue-eyed man came to stay, Momma didn’t hit Martin or say the bad things for a little while. But soon she started up again, bit by bit, like she was slowly sticking her toes into a steamy bathtub to make sure the water wasn’t too hot. One day while he was roughhousing with Daddy, Momma started laughing really loud. “He’s such a little shrimp!” Momma yelled. “You could throw him across the room like a bundle of dirty laundry!”

Martin got really scared when she said that. But the man didn’t seem scared at all. Instead, he looked at Momma like he’d never seen any other Daddy look at her. He looked at her like he was mad.

The old pickup truck bumped and rattled down the dirt road like a circus ride. They turned onto a smooth black highway that seemed to stretch out forever in a straight line. After a while they turned onto another dirt road.

The smell hit them about a minute before the mountains of stinking oil cans, rotten food and battered refrigerators came into view. The truck screeched to a halt and it only took a few seconds before signs of life started to appear. The rats were bold and big as possums. Fat, greasy rats, shiny with the stink of old meat. One even stopped and stared right at him. Martin would have jumped back into the truck if hadn’t been for the voice calling out to him, “Hey, little man, gimme a hand with this gear!”

He was in the back of the pickup making lots of clunking noises. Martin darted over in a flash, eager for his noisy bulk and fearlessness. Daddy put his arm around Martin in a hug that was the nicest thing Martin had ever felt from anyone besides Norine.

“Don’t you worry about dem filthy, stinkin’ rats, m’boy. You’ll be seeing in just a teeny weeny bit that they’re no match for a big strong lad like yerself.” He squatted down until his big blond head was only inches away from Martin’s tiny face. Martin smelled something sour on his breath, but compared to the dump it smelled like sweet perfume. “After today, you’re not gonna be afraid of anything, anymore, ever. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Martin smiled a great big smile that was as honest as it was happy. “Yes!” he cried.

Daddy smiled back and began his lesson:

“The thing…
blam!
…about rats…
blam!
…you see…
blam!
…is that rats…
blam!
…are a whole lot better at runnin’…
blam!
…than they are at fightin’.”

Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!
Each
blam!
punctuated the explosion of a cat-sized rat. They were frantically scurrying everywhere, torn between the fear of the cannon-loud shots and the hunger for all the newly fresh meat of their fallen brethren. The
blam!
generators were a pair of brushed silver, .48 magnum revolvers that were actually shooting out two-foot long flames from their barrels with each blast. The kick was so great that the pistols practically hit the man in the forehead each time he fired. It was incredible to Martin that he could control each one with a single hand.

“The other thing about rats…
blam!
…is that they’re such hateful…
blam!
…dirty…
blam!
…filthy…
blam!
…creatures…
blam!
…that killin’ the little bastards…
blam!
…feels good right down to the marrow of your bones!”
Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!
Rat guts, bones and clumps of fur painted the side of an old washing machine like a vintage Pollock. “So what do you think, buddy boy? Ready to give it a try?”

Martin shook his head and turned his face to the ground, expecting the sharp blow that always came when he said no to Momma. He didn’t want to see it coming from a hand this big. To his complete amazement, the hand came down and gently lifted his chin so he could see the big man leaning over to kiss his forehead.

“Don’t you worry, now. You don’t have to do anything ’til you’re good and ready.”

Martin stood up straight and beamed at the man with such a smile that he couldn’t resist picking up the tiny weight of the boy and giving him a growling bear hug. “You’re a very special boy, Martin,” said the man softly. “A very special boy, indeed.”

Martin was bursting with joy. He wished and wished with all his might that this one would never ever leave. “Will you be my for real daddy?” he asked shyly, turning his head away again, bracing himself for an even bigger blow. But the big man didn’t say the words he expected…the push-away words that hurt even worse than the slaps and shoves and names Momma called him. What he said was this:

“Yes, I’ll be your daddy. I’ll be your daddy for ever and ever and ever.”

Daddy pointed at the cargo in the truck bed and Martin shouted, “Wow!”

“You bet your ass ‘Wow!’ little buddy!”

Martin stared at the green metal footlocker. There was a rifle with a really long barrel that had holes drilled in the side and made a loud
ca-chunk
sound when Daddy showed him how it worked. “Special forces riot shotgun,” he said dryly. “Semi-automatic with a twenty-four-round chamber of armor-piercing titanium slugs.”

“Uh-huh,” Martin nodded, pretending he understood. And there were more: a dozen pistols in all shapes and sizes, resting snugly inside gray plastic cases with foam rubber cut to the exact shape of each shiny weapon. More rifles and shotguns too. They were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. There was one that made him gasp out loud. It had a black matte finish and looked like a cross between the pistols and the rifles.

“Excellent taste,” Daddy said approvingly. “Sawed-off, pistol grip, twenty gauge, side-by-side shotgun. Easily concealed for close-quarter fighting and convenience store stickups.”

“I want that one!” Martin shouted with a grin too wide for his face.

“Welllll…I don’t want to discourage such noble instincts, but I’m afraid it would rip your little chicken wing right out of its socket.”

Martin pouted and scuffed his sneakers on the dusty ground.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Daddy smiled. “Let’s do it together. Put your hand under the barrels like this,” he said, curling Martin’s fingers beneath the twin pipes. It was a stretch, but the span of his palm finally managed to contain them.

“Good,” said the big man eagerly. “Now put your other hand here,” he instructed, wrapping Martin’s small fingers around the pistol grip.

“Now listen carefully,” Daddy said slowly, his head resting on his shoulder. Martin could feel his blond mustache grazing his cheek. “A shotgun isn’t a rifle. It’s a clumsy, brutal weapon. All you have to do is point it in the general vicinity and ahead, always
ahead
of the way the dirty beast is runnin’.”

“But how do I point if I don’t look down the barrel?” Martin asked, more uncertain than ever. It was probably the most words he’d said to anyone but Norine.

“You move your arms…” Daddy answered, steering their joined hands on the shotgun toward a particularly plump specimen waddling between a box of laundry detergent and a Big Wheel tricycle, “…and you point with your eyes…(Martin followed the slinking rat with more intensity than he thought he was capable of)…and when it feels just right…(just a little more to the right)…and you get a tingle in your stomach…(almost there, just a little more)…and a little voice whispers in your ear…(yes, that’s it!)…then slowly squeeze the trigger…(now! now! now!)…and…
BLAM!

“Wow!” Martin yelled, watching the rat explode with so much force that its guts made a hula-hoop around the Big Wheel’s handlebars. “Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!”

Martin jumped up and down like he might have done on Christmas morning if he ever had the chance. It didn’t matter that Daddy had helped him point it or even that he squeezed Martin’s finger on top of the trigger. It didn’t matter! He had done it too! He had killed the rat.
Killed
it! Wow! It felt strange and confusing and powerful and exciting and…yes…there was no doubt about it…it felt good.

It felt really, really good.