Secret Dead Men (8 page)

I stored everything else in my Brain library. I knew someday I would have to present evidence to a judge in a court of law, and it bothered me that I couldn't crack open my brain for everyone to read. But I guess when the time came, I could always rent a Dictaphone and hire a stenographer. Maybe even the Sherman Oaks girl would lend a hand. I'd take her out to a beef and beer dance to celebrate.

I chuckled at the thought, then sealed both boxes with large strips of masking tape. I stuffed a stray pair of black dress socks in my trash bag, then spun the bag and twist-tied it. There. Packed.

All that remained was to slip the front desk a final payment, another call to the Sherman Oaks girl to let her know I'd be travelling, a walk to my nearby travel agent to retrieve my tickets, and ... Oh, yeah. The important business of taking everything else--random notes here and there, doodles, old clothes--out to my Datsun and blowing the thing to smithereens.

Paul After, soul #13, had shown me a neat variation on the Molotov cocktail a few weeks back. Even though I eventually built the thing, I didn't know how it worked. Paul had guided me through, piece by piece, using ordinary items available from any decent hardware store.

It was a flashy way to make an exit, but necessary. This way there would be no trace of me. No trail for anyone to follow. Not the FBI, not the Association, not even my mother, God rest her soul. Everything I owned would go with me to Philadelphia.

I collected a trash bag full of the things I was torching and stuffed it in the trunk of the Datsun. I grabbed my trash bag wardrobe and a box of possessions and hauled them through my motel door.

On this second trip, somebody was waiting on the landing, and it didn't look as if he was there to help with the luggage.

"Hold it right there," he said, leveling a .45 at my chest.

* * * *

I didn't recognize him at first. He was a lean guy; dark hair, neatly parted to the right, strong jaw, mirrored sunglasses. He wore jeans and a brown button-down with goofy gumdrop designs on it. The shirt almost negated the gun.

"Whatever you're thinking," he said, "
don't.
"

"I'm not thinking anything." Actually, I was thinking about hurling my bag full of clothes at him, but what would that do? Mess up his hair part?

"Good," he said.

"Can I ask one thing?"

"What's that?"

"Who are you?"

The man half-smiled--that is, one corner of his mouth curled up, while the other stayed put. "Funny. I was going to ask you the same question."

"Look--"

"What I mean to say is," the man continued, "I believe we've already met, but I'm not entirely sure. We're going to go back into your room there and talk about it."

"Where did we supposedly meet?"

"Woody Creek, Illinois."

Finally, it clicked. Special Agent Fieldman. Eight months had aged the guy. Last time I'd seen him he was clipboard boy to Dean Nevins. Now he looked and talked like Lee Marvin's younger brother.

"Hands on your head, and step back into your room," Fieldman said. "Now."

"I think you've got the wrong guy," I said. "I'm just a traveling man." I'd meant to say "traveling salesman," but I got the Ricky Nelson song in my head by mistake.

He ignored me. "Both hands, on your head."

This was not good. Fieldman was wearing those ridiculous sunglasses, so I couldn't use my trusty yank-his-soul-out-of-his-body trick. For some reason, eye-to-eye contact is necessary for soul collection. I'd always wanted to ask Robert about that. Does this mean we could never collect Stevie Wonder? Not that it would be likely to come up, but it would be good to know.

I was forced into my standard fall-back position: surrender consciousness, transport myself to the Brain Hotel, and regroup. Back in reality, my physical body would collapse, and be at the total mercy of Agent Fieldman. But it would give me some time to think. It was a chance I had to take.

"I don't feel too hot," I said, taking a few wild steps backwards and mumbling something else about a lousy open-faced roast beef sandwich.

Fieldman must have smelled a rat, because he stepped back, too, and took better aim. That was the last thing I saw before my vision went woozy and I snapped awake inside the Brain Hotel.

* * * *

The lobby was deserted, which was not unusual. None of the souls drifted down here unless something interesting was happening in the real world: a soul collection, a fist fight, or a good movie. Especially movies. Last summer, a few of the souls--Doug, Old Tom and Genevieve--made me sit through
Jaws
four times.

I walked over to the lobby desk and picked up the black courtesy telephone, which sat next to the huge silver microphone. This was my polite way of summoning the souls, you see. I could bark commands like an angry god, but they wouldn't appreciate it. I know I wouldn't.

I dialed an imaginary number for Paul After, happy I had finally collected somebody who could handle this kind of thing. Doug was fine if you were shoplifting or breaking into a car. Harlan was great if you needed someone to eat a large sandwich. But Paul ... Paul was the real deal.

He answered on the second ring. "Yes, Del?"

"How did you--"

"Who else would it be? Avon?"

"Listen," I said. "I could use your expertise. I've got a real world situation I'd like you to handle. Come down to the lobby, and I'll give you control of my body."

Paul cleared his throat. "Tempting offer, but you're not my type."

"You know what I mean."

"Okay, okay. What's the situation?"

"Uh," I stalled, thinking of the best possible way to put this. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. "An angry FBI agent has confronted me. To buy some time, I passed out in front of him. He probably has smelling salts under my nose as we speak, trying to bring me around. All you have to do is snap awake, deck him, bind him, gag him, lock him away for a while, whatever. Do your stuff. I'll take care of it from there."

"Mighty white of you," Paul said.

"Can you help or not?"

"It'd be my pleasure, Mr. Farmer. God knows, I don't see any action in this freak motel of yours. I'll be right down."

I was still trying to figure out if Paul was being sarcastic when he appeared beside me. He must have cheated and ported his soul along instead of walking down the Brain Hotel staircase. "When my massah calls, I come-a-runnin'," he said.

"I appreciate that," I said. "Now all you have to do is step through those doors and say the secret phrase." He gave me a quizzical look. I checked to make sure no one was spying, and then told him. "It's three words:
Owatta. Goo. Siam.
"

"You're kidding me."

"No, I'm serious," I said. And I was. That was the same phrase Robert had taught me back when he first trusted me to take over the physical body from time to time.

"Jesus Christ. It's a nursery rhyme. A joke. A
bad
joke."

"Well, it does the job." I didn't feel like justifying it to him. What did it matter what the phrase was? Do the ridges on a key mean anything? Does the spinning wheel on a telephone have any great cultural significance?

"Go ahead," I said. "And good luck."

"You're insane."

"Just say it."

"Oh, what a goose I am," he said, then stepped through the front doors and into the real world.

* * * *

On the lobby screen, blackness fluttered and finally opened up. Light poured in, then adjusted. We were sitting upright. The view snapped to the left, then the right, where Agent Fieldman was sitting on my motel bed. He was pointing his gun at us.

Good morning,
Fieldman said, somehow looking more imposing up on the silver lobby screen.
Have a nice nap?

The view snapped back to the left again, then right, up, down and behind. The view wobbled. Angrily. What the hell was Paul doing? Neck exercises?

Finally, a hushed voice:
Goddamnit, I'm handcuffed to a chair!

Fieldman said,
You are observant, Mr. Larsen.

Whoops.

Ten

The Thing in the Trunk

Agent Fieldman had grown an attitude over the past eight months. Maybe the experience of having your soul yanked out of your body changed you fundamentally. Made your mind stronger, your senses sharper. Or maybe he had been hanging around Dean Nevins too much.

So what kind of drug was it?
Fieldman asked, pacing around the room.

I wanted Paul to follow him with his eyes, but he refused and kept staring forward. I probably should have let him off the hook, stepped back into the body and tried to handle this myself ... and I would have, had I a single idea on how to handle this. I hoped he was cooking up something good.

Fieldman came back into view. He crouched down, and looked us right in the eyes.
I asked you a question, Larsen. What ... kind ... of ... drug?

Drug? What in the devil was he talking about? Did he think Brad Larsen was into trafficking? This was getting weirder by the second. And Fieldman's goofy gumball shirt was really starting to bug me.

Paul said nothing. I depressed the button on the silver mike and quietly asked: "Are you okay there, buddy?"

He said nothing.

Fieldman stood up, then chuckled.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, I'm going to stay quiet and plead the fifth and wait until some lawyer bails my butt out of this. Right? As soon as I keep my trap shut in front of this agent of the law, it'll all be cool. Right? Huh?

Paul said nothing.

Well, I've got a surprise for you,
said Fieldman in a faux-whisper, as if he were sharing some great secret.
I'm not here as an agent of the law. That's right. I filed form EL-6 last week. Official Federal Bureau of Investigation Extended Leave of Absence request.

This time, Paul's eyes twitched to the right. The view on the lobby screen jumped.

That got your attention, didn't it? That's right, friend. I'm not here as a federal agent. I needed time off from that scene. Needed to catch my breath, take a look around. A mental health break, you might say.

Couldn't blame the guy.

I was having too many sleepless nights, too many strange thoughts going through my head. Strange thoughts about a hotel lobby, and conversations with a ghost. Maybe you've been there, Larsen. Maybe you know this hotel. Maybe you are this ghost. Are you a ghost, Larsen? Because last time I saw you, you were three shades of blue and wearing a toe tag on your way to the county freezer.

He was right. Brad Larsen's body was deader than Mama Cass.

And yet ... and yet, I keep hearing these reports. Brad Larsen spotted near Hagertown! Brad Larsen, spotted near Cooper's Mill! Larsen alive and well and bouncing around, buying Datsuns! 1972 Datsuns! Blue!

Uh oh. I suppose it wasn't paranoia, after all.

And all this time, I'm having nightmares and sleepless nights and endless days and horrible nights...

I was right. Having your soul yanked out of your body does change you fundamentally. Not to mention psychologically. If Fieldman kept this up, soon he'd be in a rubber room writing home with Crayolas.

Because the Brad Larsen I saw was dead and buried, and yet here's Brad Larsen buying Datsuns. So, I'll ask you again. What kind of damned drug was it?

I wondered what Paul was making out of all of this. I hadn't clued him into my investigation of the Larsen murders. Or the reasons why I was being hunted by the FBI

I hit the silver mike again. "You sure you're okay? Give me a nod or something, buddy. Let me know you're alive up there."

Fieldman kept on truckin'.
You know what I'm talking about. The mickey you slipped in my coffee. Or should I say the one your buddy Kennedy slipped in my coffee? Yeah, I know all about him, too. The Vegas office had their eyes on him for months. There he was in Woody Creek, cozying up with Agent Nevins, bossing people around...

I/Kennedy did no such thing!

...and all the while, trying to figure out a way to cover your tracks. Can I ask how you did it? You find some poor slob who looked a little like you, poison 'em, give 'em post-mortem surgery and leave him there in the river? Where did you hide all the while? Did you let your wife die? Or did you kill her because she found out what you really do? Or was she in it from the beginning, and you and Kennedy decided to double-cross her?

Questions, questions, questions ... oh, I've got a million questions. I could go on for hours, and rest assured, I will, until every single question is answered to my satisfaction. You wait. You're going to be telling me what kind of underwear your great-grandmother wore before we're through. But don't worry. I'm going to ask you an easy one first. Something you can probably tell me in a few words.

What ... kind ... of ... drug?

I had a question for Fieldman: Why ... do ... you ... keep ... asking?

He continued as if he'd heard me.
In case you're curious, it's highly effective. Stays in your system for months. In fact, it's still probably worming around in my system right now. At first I thought it was some kind of hallucinogenic, what with all of the out-of-body experiences I'd been having. Acid-flashback kind of stuff. But test after test came up negative--no trace of any known drug in my system--and the nightmares kept coming. All about that goddamed hotel lobby.

So
that's
what this was about. When I had yanked Fieldman out of his body, he must have endured a serious shock to his system. And now he was after Brad Larsen and "Agent Kevin Kennedy" to find out what kind of "drug" we'd given him so he could find an antidote and go back to his calm, pressed suit and brown-bag lunch existence.

Larsen,
Fieldman said, putting his face within breathing distance of ours.
I'm not going to ask you again.

Paul didn't say a word.

Instead, he breathed in sharply, then smashed the top of our head directly into Fieldman's nose.