Secret Dead Men (14 page)

Of course,
she said.

Paul walked us into the bathroom, closed the door, flicked the light over the mirror and stared at himself.
What is it?
he whispered.

I carefully reminded Paul about the personal dangers of alcohol consumption. He sighed, then shook his head.

What do you think I am? A rube? I wasn't planning on drinking.

"Then what's the gin for? Window-washing?"

Alcohol is a social lubricant. If Ms. Winston thinks I'm intoxicated, she'll relax and become intoxicated, too. Most likely, she'll pass out and I'll have the rest of the day to kick back and relax.

"How professional."

Hey--you have your ways of running things, and so do I. Now if you're through with the A.A. lecture, I have our client to attend to.

"Cheers," I told him.

I flipped off the lobby mike and watched Paul turn away from the mirror and flick off the lights. He walked back into the living room where Susannah was waiting for him with a drink.
Here you go,
she said.
Bottoms up.

Tough assignment.

I tried going back to study my Association notes, but the thought of what was happening in the real world kept me distracted. In the end, I retreated to Old Tom's for a Brain drink. Fuck the Fresca.

Sixteen

Deja Rendezvous

The first week continued in a similar vein. Paul would jerk me out of my slumber, having already seized control of my body, and I'd be forced to wander down to Old Tom's for a morning pick-me-up. Tom made a mean order of scrambled eggs and greasy, fatty bacon, along with a big tumbler of cold tomato juice. However, I started to miss waking up in reality. Damn--after a few days, I realized I missed taking my first morning leak. A Brain piss didn't cut it. Someday, I was sure, some psych researcher would confirm that the male urination ritual set the tone for the day to follow: a healthy, horse-powered piss would indicate a take-charge day, while a sporadic, split-stream piss would indicate a day of indecision and discontent. Lord knows what a researcher would think of a piss in one's own mind.

Most of the residents in the Brain Hotel didn't bother installing a bathroom in their quarters. I was one of the few; I aimed for verisimilitude whenever possible.

While Paul spent the day with Susannah drinking (or faking it), shopping, or watching movies at one of the many theaters within walking distance of the hotel, I'd be compiling and organizing evidence. I needed to see everything laid out in front of me, so I spent a lot of time re-typing and editing the daily accounts stored in my numerous filing cabinets. It was amazing how fast they filled--every second I spent in reality translated into a few words, maybe of sentence, or notes. Already, there was a folder full of notes from Paul After's case. Incredible, the Brain's storage system.

"Which, of course, lends credence to the fact that you are one self-contained mega-sped processing computer from the future," said a voice. The Ghost of Fieldman. Uninvited as always.

"The human brain can't handle all of this information?"

"No, a human brain certainly can. Just not in this orderly system. The brain links information casually, not logically. A heard song can instigate an emotion which in turn instigates a memory. In here, you have no songs. You have no emotions. You have, simply, notes that you can look up in alphabetical order."

"I like things simple. Before you go interpreting the filing cabinets as a sign of me being a dead piece of machinery, don't forget all the improvements I've made to this hotel over the years." It was true. Robert had been a complete slob. When I was absorbed, everything was spread out and random. I spent most of my time creating a logical space for my soul to inhabit, and it wasn't easy.

The Ghost of Fieldman frowned. "Don't go bad-mouthing your precursor, oh Great One. You never did understand his system, did you? He had music and dancing..."

"Wait one second," I said. "You didn't know Robert. He was gone years before you came floating into the picture."

"Remember: I exist out of time," the Ghost said. "Robert understood how the Brain worked. You only think you do."

"Don't you have a mission to complete, or something?"

"I do. Which is why I worry about you."

* * * *

Every so often in that first week I'd tune back into reality to see what Paul and his client were up to. Then I'd go back to work. Which wasn't going all too well, to be honest. Nothing at all seemed to connect Ray Loogan or Leah Farrell with the city of Philadelphia. There weren't even any Loogans and Farrells in the phone book.

I'd only get my physical body back at odd, random times--whenever Gard could excuse himself from his wife to spend a couple of hours knocking boots with the mistress. Largely, I used the time to do some minor housekeeping, go for a walk, check the mailbox. I received a notice from Girard Bank three days after Paul started his assignment. Apparently, Gard's check had bounced, and the bank had charged my account a $20 penalty, which dipped it below the $50 minimum. I had three days to correct the situation, or my account would be dropped.

Bounced? Back in Henderson, this kind of thing was unheard of. If someone were to bounce a check on me out there, I'd have bounced something heavy off his head. But I couldn't do that now--Gard was our sole employer. I had to remind Paul to call Gard the next day, first thing. This matter could be handled delicately. Quickly.

And it would seem like every time I
did
have possession of my body, I'd run into Amy Langtree in the hallway. It never failed. I'd dash out for a package of cheap hot dogs and loaf of bread, and there'd she be, asking where I was headed. "For a walk," I'd tell her, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Can I tag along?" she'd ask, all perkiness and smiles.

"Well, I have an errand to run first. It's a real tedious one, too."

"Oh. Okay. Some other time?"

I hated like hell to lie to her, but it wasn't as if I had a choice. "Sure." Then she'd walk away, and I'd feel like the largest heel in the world.

* * * *

I was reading through some of my notes and drinking a tumbler of Brain scotch when I felt the vibe. It's hard to describe--kind of like deja vu, but in a more immediate and pressing way. Not the slow wonderment of
Gee, I feel like this has happened to me before.
This was more like,
Holy shit, this is happening to me again.
Something was going on with Paul. I ran from my office, down the hallway and front lobby stairs to take a peek at reality.

Reality was me/Paul in a cab, riding in the backseat with our client, Ms. Winston. She was wearing something cut exceedingly low in the front. I could do nothing but gawk. Then my view was snatched away.

Paul had turned around. Through the rear window, I could see that another cab had gunned through a yellow light and was speeding right for us.

Is your ex-boyfriend a cabbie?
Paul asked.

No, why?
asked Susannah.

Driver, slow down. Now.

The driver obeyed, and the cab almost overtook us, but slowed down at the last minute.

Oh boy. When Paul was right, he was right. Something weird. Though I couldn't believe Ms. Winston's ex-nut-case had found her so quickly. The cab pulled up next to us, and a face appeared in the opposite window, on Ms. Winston's side. A young face; deep-set eyes, full of a weird mix of fear and rage.

Paul drew our gun and shoved our client down to the seat.

The guy in the other car rolled his window.

Paul started to roll ours.

I tried to send out a shrieking telepathic message: Whoah, Paul! What the hell are you doing? Cease and desist! Cease and desist!

Then I heard our pursuer call out:
You're a dead man, Larsen!

The rear passenger window shattered first. Glass showered over us and our client. Paul ducked, then spun his head back. I could see the exit hole in the window closest to us. Missed us completely. And then another shot. Paul looked over the edge of the seat. Our cabbie's head exploded all over the front windshield.

Now this is horrible to admit, but at the very moment I was glad Paul was in control of my body. I'm not exactly sure I would have been able to control the contents of my stomach and/or bladder at this particular moment. Instead, Paul started to return fire, pumping the trigger more times than I thought necessary. I couldn't see if he hit anything, but our pursuing cab veered out of control and screeched to a halt. We rocketed past.

It occurred to both of us at the same time. Our driver's brains were dripping over the front of the moving vehicle.

Paul,
Susannah moaned.
What's going on?

But Paul didn't saying anything. He lunged our body through the tiny opening in the Plexiglas partition. We weren't svelte enough to clear it--I could sense the edges of the partition digging into our sides. I didn't feel any pain; Paul took the full hit. But I'm sure I would discover bruises later. That is, if my body was leaving this taxi in one piece.

Then I saw what he was going for: the cabbie's jittering, dying leg. He squeezed through another inch and pounded our fist into the cabbie's thigh. The legbone connected the footbone, the footbone connected to the break pedal. It was as if our taxi had driven right into a brick wall. Our body was forced through the partition up to our hips; our client hit the back of the driver's seat with a dull thwacking noise. And as if to add insult to grievous injury, the cabbie's broken head pushed through the remains of the windshield.

I'm sure Paul was feeling a tremendous amount of pain, but all I could see was blue vinyl taxi seat. Then, as Paul wriggled our body free, I saw a dead body, the torn roof of the cab, then finally our client, peeking up from the backseat.

That's disgusting,
she said.

Paul reached behind the dead body, opened the door and slid us out. I momentarily thought of trying to absorb the cabbie's soul, but then realized he would do the investigation no good--unless, of course, I wanted to sleep for the drive back to Las Vegas. Besides, I could sense that Paul was in no mood for a demonstration in the art of soul collection.

He looked at Susannah.
Stay here and keep your head down.
She nodded.

Paul started walking us, cautiously, to the other cab.

* * * *

By now, a crowd was beginning to form--as well as confused, backed-up traffic. I suppose there wasn't usually this much excitement in Center City Philadelphia. Hell, there wasn't usually this much excitement in
my
life, and it's safe to say I didn't lead an average, milquetoast kind of existence.

Our would-be killer started to step out of his cab. There was still a gun in his hand. I couldn't believe how young he looked. Young, bewildered, and full of righteous hatred, all in the same facial expression. This guy had the face of a third-grade bully--right after you've kicked him in the nuts with a pair of steel-tipped work boots.

A woman emerged from the driver's seat. She took one look at us, then wrapped her body around the guy, pushing him back against the cab.

Ray!
.

Ray? Something familiar, very familiar...

I've got to finish this!
he shouted.

There are too many people!

I'm gonna fucking do this!

Ray lifted his gun and pointed it at us, but his woman reacted fast: She cracked a blackjack over his head. Without a retort, Ray's body went limp. The woman caught him under the arms before his head could slam into the ground. It was quite touching. It almost made the smack on the head seem affectionate.

By now, we were yards away. Paul lifted our pistol and took careful aim at the woman's chest. I could see by the sight on the pistol he was aimed perfectly.
Don't move,
Paul said.

The woman looked up at us, and gave a weak smile.
He wasn't being paranoid, after all.

What?
Paul asked. Then I felt another vibe, clear as day. Paul knew this woman.

The woman used the momentary confusion to wrap her hand around Ray's. She pointed his gun at us.
Let's both walk away from this.

My God, Paul
did
know this woman. But wait a sec--
he was wearing Brad's face!
She knew Brad Larsen, too. Of course. Every assassin knows the victim, down to the last detail.

And wouldn't you know it--Paul lowered his gun for her.
How are you mixed up in this?
he asked.

Isn't it obvious?
the woman asked.
Ray blew it, and I flew in to make everything all nice again. I didn't know how badly he'd blown it until this very moment.

What do you mean?
Paul asked.

You're still breathing. And unless you want to change that, we're both going to walk away from this and sort business out later.

Paul stood there and watched, slack-jawed as a mental patient as she shoved our would-be assassin into the backseat of the cab, then slid herself into the driver's seat and closed the door. Then she fired up the engine and sped past, her eyes fixed on us the entire time.

* * * *

Time out, I thought. I seized Paul away from the controls of our body for a moment and placed him in a corner of the Brain Hotel lobby. I opened my physical eyes and saw the cab turn a corner and disappear. It was weird, being in the real-life scene after watching it on the Brain lobby screen. Like stepping into a movie after you've been watching it for a while.

I turned around and saw Susannah peeking out from the cab window.

I closed my eyes and yelled for Doug; he answered immediately. I quickly laid it out for him: "You're going to wake up in downtown Philadelphia. Walk over to the brunette sitting inside the cab. Her name is Susannah. She's been through a lot. Comfort her until further notice."

You got it, dude,
Doug said. I was impressed. It was a lot for him to absorb.