The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller

by Richard Long

  The smoke thickened, but Michael couldn’t cough, no matter how much he wanted. You can’t be dead and want to cough, can you?

  He watched Paul depart and tried to shout, “Please don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me all alone!”

  His lips didn’t even quiver when he tried.

  Twitch. Twitch. Martin’s finger moved like Frankenstein’s monster, tapping against the wooden floor that was only minutes away from total ignition point. The smoke was overwhelming, thick and greasy gray. A section of the floor near Bean’s body was already beginning to flame. It was the second thing Martin noticed when he willed his legs to stand. The first thing was the gel cap pistol Paul had thrown on the floor. Martin pocketed both pistols and crawled on his belly to minimize the smoke inhalation. He was only a few feet into the hallway when he found the second fireman’s body. The heat was incredible and growing worse by the second.

  His one remaining eye stung as though an army of fire ants were biting it. The other ravaged socket hurt even more. He wrestled the oxygen tank from the fireman’s body and stuffed the hose into his mouth. Ahhhhh. He took three deep breaths and stripped off the fireman’s tank, mask, coat, pants and boots in less than half a minute. He put everything back on even quicker, shoving his pistols in the big coat pockets. He was about to make a mad dash down the hallway when he felt an irresistible urge pulling him back to the chapel…and Bean.

  The walls and floorboards were burning, igniting Bean’s army coat. There was a plastic rectangular box poking out of his front pocket. The remote. Holy fuck! How could Paul have left it behind? Had he forgotten it in his haste to escape the fire?

  Bean was even more perplexed when Martin first stood up. Am I the only one who’s dead around here? He watched helplessly as Martin left the room and came back wearing the fireman’s gas mask and clothes. Bean stared in horror as his own jacket began to flame. When his dreads caught fire like candlewicks, he tried to shout at Martin.

  Don’t just look at me! Do something! Martin did. He snatched the remote right before Michael’s pants caught fire, giving it a flip in the air before holstering it in his pocket. He did everything but blow imaginary smoke from his cocked fingertip. There was enough smoke around anyway.

  “Thanks,” said Martin in a muffled voice behind the gas mask, tipping the brim of his fireman’s hat. Then he walked away.

  No! Don’t go! PLEASE SAVE MEEEEE!

  Martin turned around quickly, staring at the kid’s open eyes, studying the grin still frozen on his face. Hmmm. That was weird. He could have sworn he heard somebody screaming. Then he shrugged and walked down the hallway.

  NOOOOOO! COME BACK! DON’T LEAVE ME! Michael tried to yell. But still no sound left his lips. And Martin didn’t come back.

  He could smell his scalp frying like bacon. The smoke grew black. The altar was burning. Now the angel too. The flames from Michael’s clothes and flesh joined the glow. When his skin began melting like candle wax, he realized the biggest truth about his sadly mistimed encounter with Paul.

  There really was a Hell, after all.

  After he shed the fireman’s gear in the burnt out basement of the apartment across the street and whumped his way past the gathering crowd, Paul settled comfortably into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car waiting for him on Ninth Street.

  As the Lincoln sped away, he pulled out his present, wishing he’d had time to wrap it. But it looked so perfect in its natural state that it would be a travesty to conceal its beauty, even for a few moments, regardless of the dramatic effect a slow unveiling would have. He turned it over again and again in his hands, reveling in the cool, round smoothness, the few pebbled buds of texture caressing his blunt fingertips like the bumps on a milk-swollen nipple.

  He put the orb in his top shirt pocket and patted it gently.

  It’s going to make quite an impression. He imagined the look on her face when she saw it. He wondered if she would guess right away where it came from, or whether he’d have to spell it out. She’s pretty clever. I’m sure she’ll know.

  The buildings were a blur as the Lincoln rocketed up First Avenue. When they passed Forty-Second Street, Paul pulled out his gift again, dangling Martin’s eyeball from its severed muscles. So beautiful. So blue.

  It sure would make a nice key chain.

  Martin was barely out the chapel door when he heard more firemen shouting from the hallway. His instinctual reaction was to reach for his guns. Then he had a moment of inspiration. “Down here!” he yelled from behind the mask, his voice so muffled it could have been anyone’s. He walked back into the chapel and rolled Bean’s body on the floor until the flames went out. Then he carried him back into the hallway, almost bumping into the other fireman as they arrived. “He’s alive!’ Martin shouted as they moved to let him pass.

  He made it out of the building so quickly he surprised himself. All the remaining firefighters outside were doing exactly that. Fighting. Every window was gushing flames. He dropped the stiff, charred body onto an ambulance stretcher. “He might be alive,” he lied and trotted away. They looked at him like he was a hero. It felt kind of nice.

  He looked in every direction as he passed the fire trucks and the cop cars. He knew Paul had already gone, but what about The Striker? There was no sign of him and no one else was even looking in his direction. Nice disguise. He took off the mask and tank as soon as no one was watching. He kept the coat, since his own was covered in blood. He doubted anyone in The Plaza would try and stop a fireman from entering.

  As he passed the fire chief’s van, he saw a flash of light in the corner of his remaining eye. Keys. Excellent. “This should cut my travel time,” he said, hopping inside. He grabbed a pair of aviator sunglasses from the dashboard and put them on. Not as dark as his empty eye socket, but they’d do. He felt the guns and the remote in his pockets, stepping on the gas like a drag racer. By the time he hit Avenue B, he was flying.

  I can still make it. All that matters now is Rose.

  Paul was getting close. I’d been blocking him out all day. Didn’t want him taking the helm, or eavesdropping on our mutual yarn-spinning. Now I wanted him to look at her through my eyes. To see she was still alive. And waiting. “Come,” I beckoned, inviting him in to savor the view.

  Then something happened.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” Rose asked, more alarmed than angry. I couldn’t respond, even if I wanted to. I was in the car with Paul, inside his head, pulling in front of The Plaza’s lobby. And I was stuck.

  “Answer me!” she demanded.

  I still couldn’t speak. Now I was in the lobby pressing the elevator button. I looked in the mirror while I waited for the doors to open and saw Paul’s reflection staring back at me.

  “Say something!”

  The eyes slowly opened. “He’s coming,” said the lips beneath them.

  “Martin?” Rose asked desperately.

  “No.” The face smiled. “Not Martin. William.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re William! Do you mean Paul is coming? Is that what you mean?”

  The face watched Rose squirm in her spike-loaded chair before answering. “William…Paul…what’s the difference?”

  The deeper you go, the deeper you get. Paul called me today. On the phone. Told me to meet him uptown…at The Plaza Hotel. He was in the Ambassador Suite. A middle-aged man with thick, red hair ushered me inside, to what I guess was a sitting room. I was floored by its size and opulence. The next shock was bigger.

  Paul looked…incredible. Immaculately groomed and tailored like he just stepped out of a GQ fashion shoot. He was dressed in a dark gray, light, wool suit that had to cost a few thousand. His shirt was black and buttoned to the neck. His hair was shining white and pulled back in a neat ponytail. His mustache was meticulously trimmed, his skin glowing. He looked like a straight Karl Lagerfeld. A big, crazy, straight Karl Lagerfeld.

  Paul introduced me to the lanky redhead—Ryan Murphy, his attorney. Murph
y shook my hand with a big phony smile, like I was someone important. Said I needed to sign some documents. I asked Paul what was going on.

  “Your change of identity,” Paul said proudly. “Your retroactive change of identity. In a few short years, the internet will be the repository of your entire personal history, so before that occurs, we’re making some preemptive adjustments. After we’ve finished, all information and documentation related to you—birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license—will substantiate your identity as William P. Kelly.”

  “What’s the ‘P’ stand for?” I asked needlessly.

  “It sure as hell ain’t Patrick,” Paul laughed.

  “How the hell can you even do something like this?”

  “The common term is connections. The reality is much more complicated, particularly if you want the public record to withstand the scrutiny of any serious investigation.”

  “Why would I be…?”

  “You may find yourself growing more ambitious as time goes by. Wealth and power tend to inspire a passion for more of the same. Should the time arrive when a higher public profile suits your objectives, you’ll have a pedigree suitable for framing…after you’ve fulfilled your obligations, of course. We’ve already contacted any students, neighbors, workmates or anyone else that’s ever had more than a ten-minute conversation with you since kindergarten, and made the necessary…arrangements…to keep the story consistent. In short, you’ll be a new man, William.”

  Ryan handed me a packet containing my new passport, driver’s license, social security card, Tetron ID, medical records…all to be kept in escrow until I “fulfilled my obligations.”

  I could barely keep the pen steady in my shaking hand as I signed the stack of papers.

  “What’s ‘Tetron’? I’ve never heard of it.”

  Paul was about to answer when Ryan took the floor. “It’s a holding company. Armaments, aerospace, real estate, etc., but our deepest interest is in the technology sector—computing, robotics, artificial intelligence and bio-engineering.”

  “Our?” I asked, glancing at Paul, then back to Ryan. “Are you a shareholder?”

  “I meant to say the company’s holdings,” he backpedaled, looking at Paul to check on the extent of damage control necessary. When Paul’s face changed to the dead mask, Murphy was so rattled I thought he might start doing a Rodney Dangerfield with his tie.

  “And the primary shareholder is…?” I prodded, enjoying his discomfort.

  “Why your father, of course.”

  My father. Out of all the Clan Kelly kin, I was in all likelihood the very last person to become privy to that information.

  “So, how extensive are Tetron’s holdings?” I asked, none too subtly.

  “I believe he’s more interested in the current valuation than the portfolio listings,” Paul said to Ryan, with a kingly wave of his hand, authorizing the disclosure.

  “If the market is still up by the end of the day, and this is only a guess, mind you, the company’s net worth should be in the neighborhood of 12.2 billion dollars U.S.”

  “U.S. dollars,” I gulped. “They’re my favorite kind.”

  Ryan smiled. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, sir,” he said, packing his briefcase with the new me. “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call.” He handed me his card and left. The red-and-black Tetron logo looked like it was designed by Goebbels.

  “Nice graphics. Very Bauhaus.”

  Paul smiled and put his big arm around my shoulder. I could feel the fabric of his suit. It was definitely cashmere. I asked him why we were meeting in a hotel suite.

  “This is my home, William, or one of them. How do you like it?”

  I liked it a lot. I was also thinking he looked even scarier in a suit than his usual outfit. Why would someone who usually dressed like a bum maintain a permanent residence in The Plaza Hotel? Paul seemed to hear my question and began talking again.

  “The land beneath these foundations belonged to the first of our clansmen to settle in this brave new world. It was a bog back then, but your namesake William Kelly didn’t mind. He could feel the power flowing beneath his feet like a lodestone. Much has changed since then, except the power. Can you feel it, Billy? Doesn’t it feel like home?”

  It did. I’d never felt so calm and comfortable, and yes, as strong as I did in that room.

  “How did you get so…?”

  “Stinking filthy rich? I’ve made some savvy investments over the years. You could say I have a preternatural gift for futures speculation: currencies, gold, commodities. Plus, we’re sitting on a basketful of primary patents. All of it, everything I have, is yours to share, once you fulfill your duty.”

  My duty. He repeated the scope of my obligation, sounding more like his attorney: “You must, by your own hand, cause the death of Rose Turner on the afternoon of Good Friday. Otherwise, you forfeit your entire legacy. Including your life.”

  “Paul…I don’t want to kill her.”

  “Billy…you have no choice. You’re damned if you do, more damned if you don’t.”

  “If you want her dead so much, why don’t you do it yourself?”

  As soon as I saw the grimace on his face, I knew. “You can’t kill her, can you? The Master made a pact with Morgana and you’re stuck with it.”

  He didn’t say anything at first. His face turned to stone. “If I kill her, there will be extreme consequences. We are too close to the end to take such risks. The vow is only binding on the Master. You are not even a full initiate in the clan. You can, indeed, you must do what is required. It is essential to our success and your continued existence. This is your sole path to awakening, your initiation rite and your membership fee. You must assume your rightful position in the clan hierarchy. You can’t be a ruling Lord without at least one significant kill to your credit and there’s no target more significant or necessary than the girl. Plus, on a purely pragmatic level, I’ll have to kill you if you don’t. Or let you rot in prison. I know it sounds corny, but you simply know too much.”

  “I hardly know anything! Look where we are!” I protested, gesturing at our opulent surroundings. “Besides, you can trust me. I’ll never tell anyone.”

  “Billy, you’re missing the big picture here. You’re still thinking about what you’re going to lose, instead of what you’ll gain.”

  When he saw my eyebrows lift in a spasm of greed, he slapped me on the back. “Come with me. There’s much more to your birthright than wealth, power and influence.”

  He led me to a white door and unlocked it. The room was enormous, filled with sunlight from a row of large windows. Against the far wall was a sight even more unexpected than Paul’s new wardrobe. It was another angel, even bigger and more beautiful than the first. Maybe even older. The paint was dull and worn and chipped away in places, but there were no nails or other disfiguring attachments. It was bound to a mammoth cross by sheets of white linen. I walked closer and stared at the chest. The golden rays shone like the midday sun. I looked at the face and saw the resemblance. It was even more striking than before. I looked away, to the altar in front of the angel. It was covered with a white linen sheet. A cabinet was open beneath. Twelve volumes on one side. The big one on the other.

  The Book of Paul.

  “Pick it up. Put it on the altar.”

  The sensations I felt are nearly indescribable. Like I was on fire. Like I was the angel. After I picked it up, I didn’t want to set it down. I wanted to hold it against my chest forever, embracing it like a lover I would never see again. Paul pointed to the altar. I nodded, setting it down, but I kept my hands on the cover, rubbing my fingers across the ancient leather.

  Paul reached to his neck and drew out a thin chain and the tiny key.

  “This is your inheritance too. All of it.” He made a sweeping gesture from the Book to a wall behind us. I barely noticed it when we walked in. It was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The higher the shelves, the more ancie
nt the bindings looked. On the top shelf were scrolls. This room wasn’t merely a chapel, like its horrifying counterpart. It was a library.

  “Where did you get all these?”

  “Here and there, over the years. It would be more accurate to call me a conservator than a collector. We possess much more than you see here. We will never again risk the dangers of consolidation and wholesale destruction as in the Egyptian cataclysm.”

  “Are you talking about the Library of Alexandria?”

  “Yes, and the Temple of Serapis, also known as the Serapeum. Many of the most important texts were housed there, including the works of Apollonius. After the emperor Theodosius outlawed paganism, Pope Theophilus began destroying all the pagan temples in Alexandria as well as the Great Library. We cleared out the Serapeum first, while the pagan revolt was being crushed. Then under cover of the fire we set, the Library was rescued.”

  “Are you actually claiming that our ancestors burned and looted the Library of Alexandria?”

  “Rescued, not looted. You’re a funny duck, Billy. You look at me like what I’m saying is the most preposterous statement you’ve ever heard, yet you’re gawkin’ at an entire wall of ancient scrolls and manuscripts. Where do you think they all came from? A Sotheby’s auction?”

  I just stood there, unable to speak. He shook his head and marched up to the bookcase, dragging me by my wrist. He pulled out a slim volume and told me to open it. It was the Gospel of Mary. The complete Gospel of Mary. “Hhmmph!” he snorted at my dazed expression. “That couldn’t be an authentic codex, could it? No, that’s impossible! There isn’t a single complete copy of the Gospel of Mary to be found anywhere in the world! Oh, my, but what do we have right here next to it? Well, I guess you can keep that one, Billy, because I have five more copies…in this bookcase alone! Where could they all have come from?”