"It's all right," said Kline.
"If it was our choice," said Gous, "it might turn out differently."
"But it's not our choice," said Ramse.
"I understand," said Kline.
"Very kind of you," said Gous. "You always were considerate."
"Don't overdo it, Gous," said Ramse.
"Sorry," said Gous.
"It's the thought that counts," Kline offered.
"I hope so," said Ramse, "because there's nothing beyond that."
"No?" asked Kline.
"No," said Ramse.
"Ah well," said Kline. "I had a good run."
But he wasn't thinking that. What he was thinking was, When do I try to crash the car?
The city had faded entirely behind him, miles back. The road was dark and deserted. When? he wondered. When? But every time he felt almost ready, he felt the presence of Gous' pistol just behind his ear.
"What are you?" Ramse asked after a few dozen miles. "A four still?"
Kline thought it over. "Yes," he said.
"But it's the whole arm," said Ramse. "Shouldn't it count for more? See what I'm saying? Shouldn't an arm count more than a hand?"
"I don't know," said Kline.
"Sure," said Ramse. "And shouldn't a hand count more than a few fingers?"
"Ramse," said Gous. "You know that's not how it's done."
"I'm not challenging the doctrine," said Ramse. "I'm still faithful. I'm just asking."
They drove for a time in silence. After a while, almost without knowing it, Kline dropped off, jerking awake some time later when they turned down a dirt road.
"Almost there," said Ramse when he realized that Kline was awake again.
They went down the dirt road, the car jouncing with each dip and bump.
"It's nothing personal," said Ramse. "Gous and I both like you."
"Yes," said Gous. "We do."
"But we have our orders," said Ramse.
Gous didn't say anything.
Kline said, "I'd prefer not to die."
"No," said Ramse, distracted. "But we all die when it's our time."
Gous was still there, still always alert. I'm running out of time, Kline thought. He would have to reach over, pistol or no, and pull the steering wheel sharply, try to jam his foot onto the accelerator as well. How much time was there?
"Almost there," said Ramse. "Mr. Kline," he said, "I have nothing but regrets."
"Then let me go," said Kline.
"Ah," said Ramse. "If only we could. But alas we cannot."
"Speak for yourself, Ramse," said Gous.
"Excuse me?" said Ramse. His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, then his face went slack. "You wouldn't," he said.
Kline half-turned to see the gun pointed no longer at himself, but at Ramse.
"I wouldn't like to," said Gous. "Pull over."
Ramse took his foot off the accelerator an instant, then put it back again. "What's this all about, Gous?" he asked.
Gous rapped him sharply on the shoulder with the butt of his gun. "Pull over, Ramse," he said. This time Ramse complied, letting the car grind slowly to a stop and then, on Gous' command, handing over the keys.
"I can't say I'm not hurt, Gous," said Ramse. "After all we've been to each other."
"It hurts me more than it hurts you, Ramse," said Gous. "Now suppose we all get out," he said. "I'll go first, then Mr. Kline, then finally you, dear Ramse."
The car swayed slightly as Gous made his way out, leaving the door open. "Now you, Kline," he said, and Kline opened his door and climbed out as well. "In front of the car," said Gous. "In the lights. Put your hand on the hood and wait."
Kline nodded and did as he was told, looking in at Ramse who was pale and silent, lips tight. The hood was warm under his palm.
"Now you, Ramse," said Gous. "Right beside friend Kline."
"You're planning to kill me?" said Ramse.
"Why would I want to kill you?" asked Gous. "I have no desire to kill you. But yes, if you don't get out now, I'll have to kill you."
"You'll kill me anyway," said Ramse.
Gous sighed. "Ramse, don't you know me better than that?" "Apparently I don't know you at all."
Gous gestured impatiently with the gun. "Ramse," he said, "please."
Ramse sighed and clambered out.
"Turn around and raise your hands," Gous said, and when Ramse did so he stepped quickly forward and struck him in the head with the butt-end of the pistol.
Ramse crumpled quickly. Gous prodded him with his foot, then came back to the car.
"You'll have to drive," said Gous. "Get in."
Kline did, and Gous clambered in beside him, looking suddenly worn and tired.
"Think you can manage?" he asked.
"I can manage," said Kline.
He reached across and turned the key, then awkwardly levered the car into drive, started slowly forward.
"Try not to hit Ramse," said Gous.
"All right," said Kline, and turned the wheel a little more sharply.
Gous pointed and Kline spun the car awkwardly around, almost driving it into the ditch. He got it straightened out, let himself go faster.
They drove in silence for the better part of an hour, Kline letting his gaze flit occasionally over to Gous, who hardly moved.
"What's this all about, Gous?" Kline finally asked.
"Please," said Gous. "Call me Paul."
IV.
How much weirder, thought Kline, is it possible for my life to get? And then he pushed the thought down and tried to ignore it, afraid of what the answer might be.
They stopped for gas and Kline thought briefly about making a break for it, but Gous stayed right beside him, gun hidden in the pocket of his jacket, as he pumped the gas and then took the money Gous gave him inside to pay. He was still in his robe, but it was dirtier now, and bloodstained. The attendant looked them over carefully as he took the money. He couldn't stop himself, before they were even completely out the door, from reaching for the telephone.
"Ah hell," said Gous, rolling his eyes and turning around long enough to shoot him.
"You'd think he'd have at least some discretion," said Gous on the way back out. "You'd think he'd at least wait until we'd gotten in the car."
"Did you kill him?" asked Kline.
"Probably," said Gous.
"What if he was only calling his girlfriend?" asked Kline as they climbed in and started to drive.
Gous gave him a disgusted look. "Why would you say that to me? Are you trying to make me feel bad?"
"I'm sorry," said Kline, surprised.
"What's done is done," said Gous.
"What exactly is it that's being done, Gous?" asked Kline.
"Paul," said Gous, absently. "Call me Paul."
They drove for some time in silence.
"How'd you become involved with the Pauls?" asked Kline finally.
"The usual way," said Gous.
Kline said nothing.
"I was a one," Gous said. "I'd cut off the proper hand, joined the brotherhood. Then I was approached. What Paul had to say seemed to me correct. It struck a chord."
"But you're no longer a one," said Kline.
"No," said Gous. "They needed someone on the inside. After a while it became clear I'd have to have additional amputations or else become suspect." He turned toward Kline. "I'm still a Paul," he said. "Only more so."
Gous had him pull off the freeway and into a small town, kept giving him instructions on where to turn.
"Of course I've rendered them a few invaluable services," said Gous.
"Is that right?"
Kline didn't say anything, just kept driving. After a while things looked vaguely familiar. Soon after, Gous had him pull to a stop beneath a streetlamp and they got out, walking half a block to the lobby of the Pauls' compound. The doorman raised his missing hand in greeting.
"Well met, Paul," said Gous.
"Well met, Paul," said the Paul. "Hell
o, friend Kline."
"Cheers," said Kline.
"Just here to report," said Gous.
"Of course," said the Paul. He excused himself, went behind a desk, lifted a telephone receiver, spoke into it. A moment later he was back, unlocking the heavy door at the back of the lobby.
"Paul's expecting you," he said, holding the door wide. "Go right in."
They met the chief Paul in a room very much like the one that had been used for Kline's convalescence, the bed replaced by a sort of Victorian fainting couch, a few additional wing-backed chairs thrown in as well, the sort of room a group of nineteenth-century gentlemen would retire to after dinner to smoke their cigars. The Paul was at the piano when they came in, playing a stylized version of a song Kline knew but couldn't place. The Paul watched him, kept playing. Kline settled into one of the wing-backed chairs and listened. It was, he suddenly realized, Hank Williams' "Hey, Good Looking," reworked to sound like a German cabaret number.
When the Paul was done, Gous thumped his hand against his thigh, applauding. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Kline couldn't help but think. The Paul stood and gave a little bow, then came over near them, stretching out rather effetely on the fainting couch.
"Ah," he said, smiling. "Here we are again. What bliss."
Gous nodded and smiled. Kline didn't do anything.
"You are, friend Kline, I must say, a charmed man," said the Paul. "It appears you can't be killed. Though the same unfortunately cannot be said for almost anyone who comes in contact with you."
"I suppose not," said Kline.
"I see that Paul," he said, nodding at Gous, "has had to come in from the cold, so to speak. And yet I suspect, Mr. Kline, that even had he not been readily available, you would have managed to extricate yourself."
He got up and crossed to Gous, moving behind him to stand behind his wing-chair. He placed his hand and stump on Gous' head and closed his eyes. Gous too, Kline saw, had closed his eyes.
"Our father who art in all things," said the Paul sonorously, and Kline realized with surprise that this was a sort of blessing. "We ask thee, in gratitude and humility, to look kindly upon this thy servant Paul, to arrange the trees and flowers, the rocks and fields, the buildings and bodies that constitute the expression of your being here upon this earth so as to cradle him and shelter him and shield him from harm." The Paul's eyes squinted, his brow tightening. "He has gone into the mouth of affliction for thee; he has given thee not only one hand but the better part of another, more than thou doest require. Now take him into thy bosom, dear Lord, and hereafter protect him. Amen."
He lifted his hand and stump away and opened his eyes. Gous opened his eyes and looked around, as if slightly disoriented, then smiled. The Paul came back toward the fainting couch, stood in front of Kline.
"And now," he said, "Your turn, friend Kline."
"Absolutely not," said Kline.
"Why ever not, friend Kline? What could you possibly be afraid of? That you might actually feel the holy spirit?"
"None of this has anything to do with me," said Kline.
"But it could have something to do with you, friend Kline," said the Paul, regarding him steadily. "And if not, what do you have to lose? It's only a man putting his hands on your head and nothing happening at all. But what if it does have something to do with you? Wouldn't you care to know what you're missing?"
Kline let his gaze wander the room, trying to look anywhere but at Paul. He shook his head.
"Have it your way, friend Kline," said the Paul. "Nobody can be forced to believe." He sat down on the fainting couch. "And now," he said. "We've saved your life, friend Kline. The least you can do is hear us out."
"Just like Paul here," said the Paul, nodding at Gous, "I first began as part of the brotherhood. I was one of the founders, one of the first group that included, among others, Borchert and Aline, both of whom I believe you've had the pleasure of meeting. It began at first as idle speculation, an interest in certain early Christian gnostic groups followed by a fascination for certain passages of scripture, followed by the notion that indeed our hand did offend us and thus it needed to be cut off. But the leap from this conclusion to the actual physical removal of a hand itself is perhaps more difficult to explain. These were heady times, friend Kline, and had there been one less of us to spur the others on, or merely a slight shift in the atmosphere, things might well have turned out differently."
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Kline.
"Be patient, friend Kline.
"Things turned out as they were meant to turn out, and it took only the removal of the first hand--which to my eternal shame I must admit was not my own--to realize we had struck on something divine and inspired and profound." Paul stood up and paced the room, settling finally in front of the portrait of the man with his face bored away. "Before we knew it, we had begun to gather around us others, a society of men willing to go to extremes to demonstrate their faith. There were, you'll be surprised to know, Mr. Kline, more than a few. For a moment we were happy, all equals, developing a new gospel intended, through self-sacrifice, to bring ourselves closer to the divine."
"Sounds like paradise," said Kline.
Gous looked at him sharply. The Paul just turned away from the picture, smiled.
"But every paradise must end," he said. "Even a one-handed one."
"What ended this one?"
"This one?" asked the Paul. "Oh, the usual thing," he said, waving his stump.
"They went too far," said Gous.
"Yes," said the Paul. "As Paul says, they went too far. If the loss of one limb brings one closer to God, they reasoned, additional losses would bring them even closer."
"Less is more," said Gous.
"Less is more," Paul assented. He sat back down. "And everything appended thereto."
"Ramse felt that way," said Gous.
"The hierarchy, the judgment of others with fewer amputations, servitude, holier than thou. They became coarse, greedy. A real shame."
"But you didn't go along," said Kline.
"Oh, I went along," said the Paul. "At first. I had reservations but I lopped off my own foot."
"You did?" said Gous, surprised.
"It's not common knowledge as you see, friend Kline." He turned to Gous. "Just like you, Paul. I did it because I had to." He turned back to Kline. "Or you, friend Kline. I keep it covered, shoed, like you with your toes. I'm not particularly proud of it, Mr. Kline."
"And then?" said Kline.
"And then, the others kept letting more and more of themselves go. I stayed a two, and as their own amputations increased they began to separate themselves from me. Finally I gathered who I could and left."
"I'm surprised they let you leave."
"Let probably isn't the best word to use," Paul said. He pulled at his shirt until it came untucked, then reached across his body to tug it up. On his left side Kline saw four scarred divots, bullet wounds. "Like you, friend Kline, they didn't want me to go. Had I not already converted others to my cause I would have died in a ditch. But as it was, my comrades took me and healed me and now here we are."
"Here we are," said Kline.
"But you, Mr. Kline, made it out entirely on your own, and left them more than a little to remember you by."
"A conflagration," said Gous.
"Fire from heaven," said the Paul. "Though they themselves surely didn't see it in those terms."
"No, they didn't," said Gous.
"But we know who you are," said the Paul.
"You come not with an olive branch but with a sword," said Gous.
"You can't be killed," said the Paul. "You are the Son of God returned."
"You've got to be kidding," said Kline.
"Far from it, friend Kline," said the Paul. "We know thou art He."
"Then why don't I know?" asked Kline.
"Deep down, you know," said the Paul. "You just won't let the scales fall from your eyes."
"You're here for a pu
rpose," said Gous.
"Yes," said the Paul.
"And what," asked Kline reluctantly, "could that purpose possibly be?"
"Mayhem," said the Paul, his voice rising. "Holy wrath. Cast down the false prophets. God wants you to destroy them. Kill them all."
Gous and Paul were close behind him, calling to him, begging him to listen. He kept moving, running as fast as he could. Doors were opening, the heads of Pauls popping out, watching him rush past.
He came to the T-intersection and went left, followed it to the second intersection, turned right, rushed down the spiral staircase, hand sliding along the heavy lacquered banister.
There was the door to the outside, the Paul he had knocked unconscious before standing in front of it.
"I'd like to leave," said Kline, breathless.
"Leave?" said the doorman Paul. "Now why, friend Kline, would you want to do that?"
"Open the door now."
"We haven't made you welcome?" asked the Paul. "Is it because you're not a Paul? I'm sorry to hear it." Lifting his hand, he turned toward the door, then paused, turned back.
"Do you have my key?"
"Your key?" asked Kline. "What do you mean?"
"To the car," said the Paul. "The one we loaned you."
"Mr. Kline," called a voice from behind him. "Surely you're not thinking of leaving us?"
He turned and there, on the stairs, a turn up, looking down, was the chief Paul, Gous beside him, dozens of Pauls clustered behind them.
"I thought I might," said Kline.
"But surely you must see, Mr. Kline, that what happened before can only happen again. They'll be waiting for you, they'll find you, and they'll kill you."
"You just said I couldn't be killed."
The Paul came down another turn, the others following. "As long as you are following God's will, friend Kline. But even God sometimes becomes impatient. You know the story of Jonah, friend Kline? How many whales do you suppose God will deign send to swallow you? When does God run out of whales?"
He came the rest of the way down until he was standing in front of Kline. "How long do you keep running, Mr. Kline? Is that really how you want to live? Listening for the sound of footsteps, heart leaping every time you see someone missing a limb? Like an animal?"
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