Secret Dead Men (3 page)

Mercifully, before I could feel myself burn alive, I vomited one final time--blood, I think--and my head hit the steering wheel and I died. Possibly from the beating, maybe from gasoline poisoning, but most likely from sheer terror.

* * * *

Not long after, my soul was collected.

One moment, I was trapped in a useless, burnt pile of flesh. The next, I was looking back down at it, full of pity. Was that me? That broken, pathetic skeleton-man at the wheel of a baked Chevy Nova? It's quite amazing what a change of perspective can do for you. You feel it in tiny ways. When you look at photograph of yourself, for instance. Distance gives you power. Or at least it allows you to place yourself in the past, where you didn't know any better.

I heard a voice in my head, and that's when I realized I was in someone else's body.

Relax, Del Farmer,
the voice said.
You're gone, but not forgotten.

An odd thing to say, don't you think? But to this day, I can't think of anything more appropriate. So that's what I say whenever I collect a new soul.

Later, after I'd had a chance to settle down, my collector introduced himself. His name was Robert. He too was interested in the criminal organization I called "The Association," and had collected my soul (after trying in vain to save my life, of course) to see if I would be willing to help him.

Are you kidding? Me, a kid raised on
Shock Suspense-Stories
and
Vault of Horror
comics, turn down a chance to avenge myself beyond the grave? Please. I was happy to tell him all that I knew, even to the point of re-typing some of my stories on a Brain Underwood he'd provided. In time I came to be much more than a source; I became a vital part of Robert's investigation. For three years, Robert showed me the ropes--how to collect a soul, how to build additional rooms in the Brain Hotel, and much more.

Eventually, Robert allowed me to assume control, before he left the hotel for the nicer neighborhood of the Great Beyond. He didn't explain why, or give me any kind of warning. All I found was a note taped to the door of my Brain room:

Del:

Took a bunch of the souls on to a better place. It was time. But not for all of us.

Keep up the good work, will ya?

Yours,

Robert

I understood that Robert was leaving me with a mission: to continue soul-collecting until I had enough information to stop "J.P. Bafoures" and his Association, once and for all. And after two years of dogged investigation, I thought I had finally collected the right soul for the job: Brad Larsen.

Robert would have been proud.

Four

Fieldman's Trip

With Brad Larsen's soul safely checked into the Brain Hotel, I started back toward the deck. I figured I would thank the Feds for their Midwestern hospitality, catch a free ride back to Chicago, use the bureau files to enhance my own Association case file, enjoy a tender slab of porterhouse steak somewhere near Lakeview Drive, then catch a plane back to Vegas and drink a couple of those miniature bottles of free booze they give you.

A few steps away from the house, I heard voices above me:

"Where is he?" (I recognized it: Nevins.)

"Nobody's seen him. He must have jumped into the creek." (Unidentified male.)

Oh boy. I slunk back beneath the deck, and wedged myself between two wooden supports.

"I don't believe this," Nevins said. He paced a few steps, directly above my head. I could make out his stocky shape between floor slats. "You telling me this guy just sailed through your office? Without any of the usual..."

"He had clearance."

"
Had
being the operative word, asshole."

Damn. They knew. A voice in my head taunted me:
I told you they'd find out, jerk!
The voice belonged to the real Special Agent Kevin Kennedy.

"Be quiet," I muttered.

Take it from me--Feds don't enjoy being dicked around. They're gonna skin you and hang your skeleton out to drip-dry.

"Quiet," I repeated, then heard the footsteps above me stop. A whisper I could barely make out: "He's nearby." Then, the snapping sound of pistols being removed from their standard issue leather holsters. Cautious steps to all sides of the dock.

This was beautiful. I tried to put together some options. I soon realized I didn't have any. My only chance was to sneak around the 20-man FBI team, steal a car, then motor my ass out of here.

I stepped through the mud, using the dock supports to brace myself, trying to not make a sound. Once I reached the edge, I looked up, and saw a single leg swing over the side of the dock. Someone was coming down to have a look. My eyes scanned the ground for anything weapon-like--a stick, a rock, a chewing gum wrapper, anything. But no luck. I balled up a fist, wondering if I could hit fast and hard enough to knock the agent out before he could cry out--and without the sound of the blow reaching above. Not likely.

I shrunk back against a support, then slid myself around it. The agent hung from the rail for a moment, then dropped to the muddy ground, just as I had. He removed his pistol from its holster.

I sucked in my gut and tried to make like a pole.

The agent spun around, checking his surroundings. He missed me on first pass. Then, he started walking away, down the creek, toward the recently-reanimated body of Brad Larsen.

Okay, this was it. Fight or flight. In about thirty seconds this guy was going to see the body, yell for his buddies, and I would be swarmed. I wouldn't be missed a second time. So I took a chance and started a slow jog upcreek, hoping nobody was looking. Each step felt a week. I sensed eyes behind me, watching me dance up the mud like an idiot. Any second now I was going to hear Nevins bark, "Freeze" and I'd turn around to see the sun glinting off 19 shiny pistols, each one pointed my way.

I dove behind the first shrub I encountered. Looked back; nobody had spotted me. I had to run further ahead, ducking trees until I found a way to the main road. I tried to remember it from the ride down. There weren't too many houses around, which meant not too many cars. I thought about tuning out for a second, and checking the files in my office--you see, back in my Brain office, everything I see is instantaneously recorded in the form of typewritten logs, for later study. Consider it a highly organized version of the human subconscious.

But there was no time for that now. What would Robert have done?

Then it came to me.

* * * *

I closed my eyes and pictured a phone. I dialed a nonsense number, and thought about who I wanted to reach: Harlan, the gluttonous bookie. Deeper, somewhere beyond my ordinary range of hearing, I heard a phone ring.

Then a voice answered the phone in my head.

Yeah?

"Harlan," I whispered. "It's me. You've gotta do me a favor. But hold on first."

What?

I opened my eyes, then peeked over the top of the shrub. Nobody looking. I shut my eyes again.

"Okay. You still there?"

Whaddya want?

"I'm going to give you a chance to earn your room back, fat boy," I said. "Listen carefully. In a few seconds, the door to your interrogation cell will pop open. I want you to walk to my office and open the file in my cabinet marked with today's date. Go the stack of papers for the past hour. Within the text, you should find a detailed account of the area surrounding the safe house in Woody Creek."

So?

I couldn't believe it. The pudgy bastard was still busting my balls.

Then, I heard a sharp cry: "Nevins! Get down here!"

Uh-oh.

"Harlan, you tub of shit, go in there and study the area. Help me the hell out of here. Find a car, and lead me to it."

I heard him laugh. A deep, phlegmy chuckle.
I'm going to need more incentive than that, Chief.

"No, you're not. Because if I don't escape, I'm going to be caught by the FBI. And most likely, I'm going to have to make a run for it, because it's my only chance to save the investigation. Even more likely, some sharp-shooter is going to put a bullet in my head before I escape. Which means you and five other souls are going to be wandering a muddy creek in Butt-Hump, Illinois until the end of time."

On my way, boss,
Harlan said. He might have been a greedy bastard, but he knew when to listen to common sense.

I opened my eyes to see a swarm of Feds hopping over the rail. Until Harlan found what I needed, I had to improvise. I climbed the steep, rocky hill along the side of the house, then crouched down next to the front porch. Took a peek over the rail; nobody there.

I listened for voices, and heard some fevered yelling, but couldn't make out anything. There were about ten meters between my current position and a tree. I decided to go for it. I stood up, looked behind me--just to make sure no agent had doubled back and found my footprints in the muddy bank--and started to run.

"Freeze!" a voice yelled. I indeed froze. Slowly, I turned my head around to see Agent Fieldman, clipboard-carrier, holding a gun larger than his hands and pointing it at my chest.

"Don't move, Kennedy. Down on the ground. Hands behind your head."

This was not good. Fieldman was green, and twitchy on the trigger. I didn't want to have the investigation end right here in Woody Friggin' Creek. "Excuse me!" I shouted. "Did you tell a Special Agent to drop to the ground?"

"You heard me. Down." Fieldman scanned my body, looking for a hidden weapon. Of course, I had none. Unless you counted my eyes.

"Look at me, Fieldman," I said.

He did.

And that's when I grabbed his soul.

In my years of soul collecting, I'd only worked with the recently dead, or the near-dead. It was weird snatching a live one. Kind of the difference between shucking crab meat from a dead shell and ripping live, functioning tissue from a pissed-off crustacean. Fieldman fought it every inch of the way. He may not have known what was happening to him, but I'm sure he knew it wasn't a good thing. Fieldman's body collapsed to the ground in pieces, like a puppet with cut strings: first the gun, then his knees, torso, arms, shoulders and finally, his head.

I'd always wondered what would happen to a live body if its soul were to be removed suddenly. I wanted to observe how long his vitals would maintain themselves, but there was no time. Fieldman's colleagues had surely heard him cry out, and would be back in no time. I had to work fast.

I closed my eyes, lay down on the ground, and surrendered control of my physical body.

To do this, I relaxed a certain part of my brain. It's hard to describe to someone who's never known about it being flexed; trust me, every human being does. Until someone makes you aware of it, you have no idea you're holding it tight, even when you sleep. If people were aware of it, suicide would be a hell of a lot easier than razor blades and unlit ovens.

Then, as usual, the blackness started to pulse with waves of deep light--like when you close your eyes and press your palms into your eyeballs.

An instant later, the lights came up. Walls, ceiling and not-so-tasteful Oriental carpet formed around me. I was standing in the lobby of the Brain Hotel, right in front of the entrance. This was the symbolic gateway between the Hotel and the real world; whenever I wanted to go back, I simply walked out the front doors. If any other soul tried it without permission, they'd run into a brick wall. Literally. (My touch. I couldn't resist.)

Fieldman's soul was standing in the lobby, too, holding an imaginary pistol. His soul had arrived a second or two earlier.

"Relax, Agent Fieldman," I said.

"Wh-Wh-Where am I?" he stuttered. The poor guy. One minute he's having his soul removed from his body; the next, he's standing inside the lobby of a cut-rate Holiday Inn.

"You're having a bad LSD trip. Some jokester in the unit laced your coffee; you're going to wake up in an extremely bad mood. In fact, you're going to want to pummel the first agent who crosses your path." I had no idea if a hypnotic suggestion given to a discorporated soul would work, but what the hell.

"I am?" Fieldman asked.

"Yep. And you're not going to remember any of this, either." I cold-cocked his soul with my spectral fist--you can do that, you know--then walked through the front doors and back into the real world.

I stood up and dusted myself off. Then I closed my eyes again, and visualized Agent Fieldman. Once I had him, and started to feel the weight of his conscious mind, I popped open my eyes and flung Fieldman's soul back into his physical body. A moment later he popped back to life, choking and writhing. In my professional opinion, he'd live.

I started to run down the road. My head pounded something fierce. I wasn't used to collecting and flinging souls around like that. About twenty yards later, I heard Harlan's voice in my head.
Uh, boss? What am I looking for again?

Boy, was I going to hurt that fat bastard when this was all over.

* * * *

Two miles and four pounds of sweat later I found a black Dodge, recent model. My dress shirt was drenched. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around my elbow, smashed the passenger window, unlocked the door, brushed broken glass off the seat with my jacket and slid across the seat. I couldn't stop sweating. My head felt like a garden hose with a hundred leaks. I wiped my forehead with my coat sleeve. Wonderful. Another $35 investment down the tubes.

It was time to call for back-up. I closed my eyes, and visualized a microphone with a big black button on its base. I mentally depressed the button--which triggered a set of speakers in the Brain Hotel--and started thinking out loud.
Doug Isom. Paging Doug Isom.
Doug was this hippie who used to steal stereos to buy marijuana. I'd absorbed him for moments like this.

Hey, Del!

"Hi, Doug," I said. "No time to chat. I'm going to surrender control to you in three seconds. I need you to start this car."

Right on, man.

Since Doug could grow all the Brain pot he could ever use in the comfort of his own room, stealing was now strictly for fun. In many ways, reality was a bigger high for Doug--especially parceled out in tiny snatches, here and there.