The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller

by Richard Long

  As much as he wanted to, Martin couldn’t keep avoiding the subject. “Where did you get that necklace?” he finally asked, pointing to the key dangling from Rose’s neck like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  “My father gave it to me. It used to be my mom’s,” Rose said brightly. Wow. He was asking a question. They were having a conversation. No, even better: a normal conversation!

  “What are your parents’ names?” he asked haltingly.

  She wanted to avoid answering him—her father’s name was more recognizable than David Berkowitz’s. “John and Kathy Turner,” she said with a weary sigh.

  “Johnny Bones,” Martin breathed, looking away.

  “Turner,” Rose said curtly. She felt ashamed. Ashamed of her name, ashamed of her nakedness. She went into the bathroom and put on her complimentary robe. It was so long on her that she looked like a Jawa from Star Wars.

  Martin sat on the bed. He’d been bracing himself for this, but now that she’d said it, he felt like he’d been kicked in the guts. She was the same little girl he saw wearing that necklace when they led Johnny away in shackles.

  “That girl is not for you!” Now he knew why Paul yelled with such vehemence. Why hadn’t he come right out and said what he meant? It wasn’t like he ever restrained himself from expressing his loathing for Clan O’Neil. There was a lot Martin couldn’t remember from their time together, but he always remembered the feuds and duels. Of all the clan chiefs they fought against there was no one Paul regarded as a more hated adversary than Johnny the Saint. And there was absolutely nothing Paul regarded as a bigger betrayal than what Martin had done years after they parted ways. He helped Johnny. Befriended him. Defended him.

  Rose came out of the bathroom and watched him sitting there, shaking his head.

  “Why are you so bent out of shape?” she scolded, “Look at the people you hang out with!”

  “No, no, no,” Martin sputtered, as shaken by her outburst as he was by her familial lineage. “I’m not…I don’t think anything bad about him.…”

  “Then why are you sitting there, shaking your fucking head?” Rose challenged him, half steaming, half grateful for his stammering attempt at reassurance.

  “I knew him…your dad…a long time ago.”

  Now it was Rose’s turn to sit on the bed. “How did you know him?” she asked with a grimace, like she was pulling the trigger in a game of Russian roulette.

  “San Francisco,” Martin said, stifling a fake yawn, growing more anxious with every word. “Met him in a bookstore. I was looking at an old map. We started talking.”

  “And…” Rose pressed impatiently.

  “We talked a long time. Became friends, I guess.”

  Martin talked a long time? They were friends? She was fucking her father’s friend?

  “So you knew him when…it happened?”

  “Yeah,” he said, standing up, putting his robe back on.

  “Oh, boy,” she said, tightening her lips. A wave of grief washed over her before she could think of anything else to say or ask. Martin looked out the window, thinking about the last time he saw Johnny and the little girl he kissed good-bye. She sure looked different now.

  “Johnny’s a good man,” he mumbled, facing her again.

  “For a killer?” Rose shouted. “I guess that doesn’t matter, since you’re a killer too!” She wasn’t sure why she felt so angry with him. She wasn’t sure about anything.

  “Johnny never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it,” Martin replied without emotion.

  “My mother too? She deserved it?”

  “He didn’t kill Kathy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he told me. But he’s crazy!”

  “He isn’t crazy. He never was. And he didn’t kill her.”

  “How do you know that? What did he tell you?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me,” Martin said, still strangely calm.

  “Because…?” Rose asked, totally unnerved by his expressionless tone.

  Martin turned toward the window again.

  “How do you know he didn’t kill her?” Rose shouted, going over, pulling his sleeve.

  “Because I was there.”

  Rose staggered backwards, holding her thighs for support. “You did it?”

  “No…no…not me!” Martin stammered, holding her, easing her back onto the bed.

  “Then who?” Rose demanded, almost choking with shock and grief.

  “I don’t know. But I know it wasn’t Johnny. We were together when he found her. I saw…his reaction.”

  “Together? What were you doing? Why didn’t you tell the cops? How could you let him go to that awful place? Why didn’t you help him?”

  “He wanted to go there,” Martin replied, avoiding the more troublesome questions.

  “He wanted to go to the nuthouse?” Rose spat back.

  Martin nodded. “He said it was the only place he’d be safe.”

  “From who?” Rose sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her terrycloth robe.

  Martin turned to the window. He had to stop talking…

  “From whoever killed your mother,” he whispered, in spite of himself.

  “Martin, who killed my mother?” she asked, sounding out each syllable. “You know, don’t you? You’re lying!”

  “I don’t know,” Martin lied, while a memory tugged at him more urgently than Rose. The memory of Johnny making him promise never to tell his daughter who did it. He couldn’t tell her. He swore he wouldn’t. He thought about what happened the last time he broke a vow of secrecy, when he told Norine about Momma and the cellar. Momma said she’d know if he ever told anyone—and the next morning Paul came and took him away. If Momma knew what he was saying when she wasn’t around, Johnny would too. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew Johnny could do lots of things that weren’t possible.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” Rose yelled, “Your buddy! Paul!”

  “No,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Whoever did it wanted that key. And Paul…” He cut himself off again.

  “And Paul…” Rose prodded, waving her arm in circles, begging him to speed it up.

  “Paul already has one.”

  “Oh, he already has one. That makes sense,” Rose muttered, collapsing onto the bed. “Martin, what the fuck is going on here? Why would someone kill my parents for this key?”

  Martin grunted, turning away.

  “Stop holding out on me!” Rose shouted, startled by the strength in her voice.

  “Okay…” Martin began, gritting his teeth, pointing to her “lucky charm,” amazed he was even remembering all this. “There are two keys. You have one. Paul has the other. He wears it around his neck all the time…like you.”

  “What is it for?” Rose asked, a chill racing up her spine. “What does it open?”

  “A book,” Martin whispered, breaking the final taboo of his secrecy oath. “At least, I think it does. I’m not sure if your key fits the same lock…but Paul’s key…it opens a book.”

  “A book,” Rose repeated, completely dumbfounded. “Are you saying my mother was murdered and my father is in a lunatic asylum because of a book?”

  “Yeah…more or less,” Martin replied.

  “What kind of fucking book is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin answered, his cheeks turning red. “I can’t remember. I did for a little while last night…then I forgot again.”

  “Are you fucking with me? You can’t remember any of it?”

  “No. But I know the Book is more important to him than anything.” Or anyone, he wanted to add. “The Book might be our way out of this. If I can find it…take it from him…and your key fits…maybe we could barter with him.”

  “Barter with him? That maniac?”

  “It’s our best shot. I could try to kill him, but I’ve seen a lot of people try and they’re all dead. He’ll probably kill me just for making a grab at it. Anyway, it’s a shot,” Martin said with a shrug, predictably
oblivious to the calamitous effect his matter-of-fact explanation was having on Rose’s frantic mind.

  “Who are you people?”

  “Clan Kelly,” Martin answered simply, taking her question literally. “Paul’s my…”

  Martin paused for a moment, so motionless it seemed he’d been frozen in space by a ray gun. Another dim recollection nudged him, prodding his brain like a warm, wet finger.

  “Paul is the High King of the clans,” Martin continued robotically, flipping the switch, forcing the foggy words and images back into the dark, dank cellar of his subconscious.

  “Oh, my god. I’m with a crazy man. Just like my crazy dad. I must be crazy too!” she cried, hanging her face in her hands.

  “I’m not crazy. Johnny isn’t crazy. And you’re not crazy,” Martin said, sitting next to her like he actually knew how to comfort someone.

  Rose sobbed for almost a minute and Martin managed to hang in there the whole time, stroking her hair. It helped that her hair was so soft.

  “Paul…he knows my father, doesn’t he?” she managed to say, knowing the answer already, bracing herself for even more terrifying revelations.

  “Yeah,” Martin said, grimacing. “That’s why he’s been looking at you that way. He must know you’re Johnny’s daughter. Johnny is the king of Clan O’Neil…and Paul really hates the O’Neils.”

  “My dad is the king of Clan O’Neil? This is insane!” Rose screamed, out of her head with fear. “This can’t be happening!”

  Martin held her by the shoulders, trying to calm her down, saying nothing, taking long, slow breaths until she seemed calm enough for him to continue.

  “Do you remember any stories your parents told you? Like a really long story you never heard anywhere else?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sniffling into her terrycloth robe. “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “Everything, I think,” he said, feeling hopeful for the first time. Maybe he didn’t need the white room. Maybe he didn’t need the Book. Maybe her story was the same as Paul’s. “We better have that picnic. I’ll tell you everything I can remember. Maybe your story will help me remember the rest.”

  “Picnic! You still want to have a picnic? After all the shit you’ve said?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said, completely unfazed. “I’m getting hungry and this is going to take awhile. But I have to tell you…some of this stuff is going to sound really weird.”

  “Weirder than everything else you’ve been saying?” Rose asked, recalling all her father’s insane, ranting letters. “How weird could it be?”

  “Weird weird,” Martin said, trying to think of a more apt description. “Religious.”

  Paul bumped his shoulders into as many of the hustle-bustlers choking the aircraft carrier width of Fifth Avenue in front of St. Paddy’s as he possibly could. Bump. Wump. It was morning rush hour on the sidewalk, and some of the more pissed-off jostled pedestrians gave him the old “fists clenched like they’re really going do something” look. A few of the ballsier women gave him the old “Hey, watch where you’re going!” shout of indignation. Once they got a load of Paul, they kept on walking.

  Paul looks even scarier than he is, if that’s possible. He has that longshoreman, teamster, biker, ’Nam-Vet, might-be-homeless, might-be-crazy, definitely-dangerous look down to such a T that the entire crowd would have collectively walked across the street to avoid him if they had seen him coming. Wump. Bump. Too late.

  Paul walked up the cathedral stairs in his big clunky boots, making as much noise as he could with each thudding step. Whomp. Clomp. He went out of his way to thud into two more tourists on their way out the massive bronze doors, quickly erasing their “Wow, what a great big fancy place!” grins with twin shakes of their heads that said, “See, it is true what they say about these goddamn New Yorkers.”

  Paul sneered with equal contempt. People. Can’t live with ’em…can’t kill all of ’em.

  He paused in the vestibule to soak in the candlelit, incense drenched air and gulped down as much of the musky scent as he could manage. He stuck his bald fingertips into the Holy Water and half-expected to hear it hiss and bubble. It was crowded today, as he expected. The altar was draped in purple. There were flowers everywhere. He made the sign of the cross, gave an inch-deep genuflection and clomped down the center aisle to his regular seat, a pew three rows from the front, on the left-hand side.

  Someone was sitting there. Paul took a deep breath and stared down at the small gray-haired lady, with her white lace shawl and black, shiny rosary beads. She didn’t seem to notice. Her tightly combed bun and happy-sad, creamy-puffy cheeks were bobbing rhythmically in deep prayer, her lips moving in a whispery quiver, mouthing out the time-honored blur of sound that passes for The Hail Mary in marathon rosary specialists:

  “HailMaryfullagracetheLordiswitheeblessdrthouamongwomenanblessdisthafruitathywombJesusHolyMaryMothaGodprayforusinnersnowanatthehourofourdeathamen.”

  Pause. Repeat.

  Paul was having none of it. “That’s my seat,” he rumbled in a low, raspy grunt that only a gawking, T-shirt-clad couple walking down the aisle took any notice of. They quickly rolled their eyes and waddled away, but the little old lady, her eyes seemingly welded shut, showed no sign of acknowledgment whatsoever and wheezed in enough wind to motor her way through another black bead.

  Paul stuck a chisel-hard finger in the square of her hunched back and pressed it in like a fleshy harpoon. “Ow!” she said, her eyes fluttering open in fear and dumb surprise.

  “That’s my seat,” Paul repeated.

  The poor, sweet, frightened lady was torn between feelings of fear, rage, shock and disbelief. She felt like running, but her fear and proud anger kept her rooted on the spot. “No sir, this is my seat,” she finally managed to croak with all the courage she could muster, her voice trembling like a butterfly’s wings.

  “Darlin’, you can move now or I’ll wait here all day and then follow you home.”

  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 dri
pping 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.