Secret Dead Men

by Duane Swierczynski

  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.

  The man’s eyes crossed for a split second, then a faucet-strength gush of blood spurted from his nose. Paul stood up—still handcuffed to the chair, as far as I could tell—and smashed our forehead into Fieldman’s face again. The agent’s legs buckled from under him. He fell to the floor like a puppet with snapped strings.

  I thought he’d never shut up, Paul said, aloud.

  I was relieved, but not as relieved as I should have been. What did Fieldman mean about Alison Larsen knowing what Brad “really” did? What, did Professor Larsen cheat on his dissertation? I didn’t know, but I was sure as hell going to find out.

  Hey. Del.

  It was Paul, looking into a mirror. Which, of course, made it look like he was looking down at me from the lobby screen. Somehow, in the few seconds in which I’d turned my attention away from the screen, he’d freed our body from the handcuffs and the wooden chair.

  I hit the microphone button. “Great job. You’ve gotta teach me that some time.”

  Which part? Paul asked. How to stay calm while being interrogated by an accountant? Or how to break someone’s nose with your forehead?

  “I guess both.” I didn’t like Paul’s cocky attitude, but I wasn’t in a position to be arguing with him about it now. “Look, there’s something important I need to do down here. Would you mind taking care of our pal, Fieldman?”

  I thought I’d get a wise-ass reply, but amazingly, I didn’t. My pleasure, Paul said, then turned away from the mirror. The hotel room spun like a wild amusement park ride.

  Good. While Paul was busy sticking Agent Fieldman in a closet somewhere, I was going to have a little chat with Brad. I took the elevator up to his floor and walked down his own private hallway, which he had decorated simply—if by simple you mean red velvet wallpaper and burned gold trim and baseboards, along with gold-trimmed electric chandeliers with low-wattage bulbs. Was this the Brain Hotel, or Brad’s Brain Whorehouse? Well, as I’ve said before, the residents are allowed to choose their own surroundings, no matter how bad their taste. I guess it could have been worse. I could have killed and absorbed the soul of the guy who invented “Tupperware.”

  I knocked on Brad’s door—privacy is everything in here—but got no answer. I knocked again, louder, but again, nothing. I used my master key, which was the phrase, Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear, and the doorjamb clicked open.

  The interior of Brad’s room was a completely different story. In fact, it hadn’t changed a bit since he
moved in. It was still the plain-jane college dorm room template I’d slapped up for him in the first place. Maybe he worked on the hallway for six days, then rested on the seventh.

  He wasn’t in here, either.

  I took the elevator back down to Tom’s Holiday. It was the only place souls ever bothered visiting, apart from the lobby. But Tom’s was empty, too, save Tom, who was buffing his bartop with an old pair of Brain boxer shorts and a can of Brain Olde English wax. “Hey there Del,” he said. “What’s happenin’?”

  “You haven’t seen Brad around, have you?”

  “Nah. Just me and the wax here. Stopping down later? I remembered a couple two, three more songs off that first John Lennon album you might wanna hear.”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, then headed for the lobby again. As I walked away, I heard Tom moaning, “Mothaaahhhhh…”

  At the front desk, I used the black courtesy phone to open up a line throughout the entire Brain Hotel. I loathed using it, because the souls seemed to get pissed off every time I did. Maybe it was a reminder this was not Reality, that they were still dead and trapped inside my head. Maybe it interrupted their umpteenth viewing of Mary Hartmann, Mary Hartmann. Who knew?

  “Hey guys, this is Del. I apologize in advance for cutting in, but Brad Larsen, I have an important message for you. Come on down to the lobby as soon as possible.”

  I hung up the phone and waited. Time passed. Brain dust motes flew through the imaginary air space and attached themselves to the lobby walls. The wallpaper faded a bit, and then faded a bit more. The carpet became desiccated and brittle from the lack of use. The air smelled like it had been sealed in a tomb for a hundred generations.

  Brad never showed up.

  I turned around to look up at the lobby screen. Paul had our body outside, heading back toward the motel. The ground looked hot. Tiny sizzle lines were rising up from it.

  I hit the mike button. “How’s it going on your end?”

  The view on the screen jolted. Shit, Del! Don’t do that!

  “Sorry.” I was becoming a real apologist lately. “What’s going on?”

  I’ve got everything packed in the Datsun, and I set the timer. There’s a cab waiting around the front for us. By the time I sit our ass down in the backseat, the Datsun will be nothing but flaming embers.

  “Excellent.” I still couldn’t believe what an amazing asset Paul was turning out to be. Me? As much as I take pride in my professional abilities, it’s safe to say I’d still be handcuffed to that chair, still trying to trick my way out of the situation.

  “By the way, where’d you stash Fieldman?”

  The trunk. Where else?

  My blood turned to fizzing Pepsi in my veins. “The trunk?”

  Yeah, the trunk.

  “The trunk of the Datsun?”

  You have another car you’re planning to blow up?

  Eleven

  Supernatural Disaster

  Without another thought, I whipped myself through the front doors of the lobby and muttered owatta goo siam and regained control of my body. I’m sure being jerked away from the controls wasn’t a pleasant sensation for Paul, but I didn’t give a hoot at that particular point. Paul had planned to kill Fieldman without a second thought. While I may be many things to many men—rogue agent, crappy detective, soul collector—I’m not a killer. At least, not when I can help it.

  I recalled, with a shudder, my command to Paul to “take care of him.”

  My vision swirled for a few seconds, and I felt my soul ooze back into the confines of my physical body. My skin was sweaty, my muscles fatigued. Paul had kept us busy. I spun around and saw the Datsun, parked about 100 yards away near a group of dirty boulders. I started running for it.

  “Paul,” I said aloud.

  Nothing. My heart started to smack against my ribcage. My lungs informed me that I was running way too fast for my own good. I didn’t care.

  “Paul!” I yelled.

  His words spat out in my skull. Don’t go back there! You’re going to kill us all!

  “How long we got left on the timer?” I wheezed.

  No time, goddamnit! Turn the fuck around!

  “How long?”

  Paul didn’t answer. Maybe he went back to his room to say a few prayers. It wasn’t a bad idea.

  After what felt like a mini-marathon, I reached the Datsun and accidentally slammed into it. That’s it, I thought: Ka-boom. The second death of Del Farmer, once again by flaming automobile. Mercifully, though, the car only bucked on its suspension. My hands flittered around the trunk uselessly for a few seconds before I realized I needed the key. I patted down my pants pockets, then my shirt. Flat.

  “Paul, where are the keys? Where are the car keys, damnit?”

  A quiet voice spoke in my head: I threw them in the trunk.

  Perfect.

  Ordinarily, I would have found myself in a state of absolute despair—the kind that leaves you no other option but to piss your pants and start barking like a dog. Or running away from the car as fast as you can, forgetting about all this “morality” bullshit and catching a cab outta here. But I was moving along with such a fevered inertia that I bent down, snatched a rock from the ground, and starting pounding the rock on the keyhole of the trunk.

  Predictably, it didn’t do a thing except chip the paint.

  Still, I struck it again and again, thinking that every blow would be it: Ka-Powsville. I kept it up, like that crazy ape from the opening scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I wished I had a bone. I’d fling it into the air and all of a sudden the “Blue Danube” would be playing and I’d be aboard an interplanetary PanAm ship flying to the moon. Da-da-dadada … THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!

  Suddenly a gunshot rang out, interrupting the peaceful strains of Strauss. The bullet whizzed past my right ear.

  I stumbled back a few steps, then dropped to the ground.

  Then, another shot. I looked at the Datsun, and sure enough, there were two fresh puncture marks by the keyhole. When the third shot rang out, it was clear what had happened. Paul had clocked Fieldman and dumped him in the trunk along with all his belongings … including his gun. I guess he hadn’t counted on him waking up anytime soon.

  The fourth was a charm. The slug shattered the lock, the lid flew open, and Fieldman popped up like a Detroit Dracula. His eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight—he didn’t have those stupid sunglasses on anymore. He wasn’t too blind to see me, though. The me who Fieldman thought had smacked him around and put him in the trunk.

  “Hold it right there,” he said, aiming the gun at my chest.

  We’d come full circle.

  “Getoutofthetrunkandrun,” I said, still breathless. “Bombinthecar. Runnow. Get awayfromthecar.” I took a few steps back, by way of demonstration.

  “Don’t move,” Fieldman said. After all of this, you’d think he’d go and take a shot at me already. In his mind, I had a.) risen from the dead, b.) given him a strange hallucinogenic which turned his life into a psychotic hell for eight months, c.) broken his nose, d.) knocked him unconscious, and then e.) stuffed him in the trunk of a crappy used car. Most people would have stopped at “a”, you know? Not Fieldman. He was a federal agent ready to die on his vacation, and he still wanted to arrest me.

  I heard strange clicking sounds. I didn’t know bombs from boobs, but something told me this was the sound of Paul’s homemade device getting ready to blow. There was no time for further argument.

  I looked at Fieldman. Thank God he wasn’t wearing those sunglasses.

  The explosion was everything I could have hoped for: hot, bright and loud, as if the veined fist of God had come down from the heavens to wipe the pathetic Datsun off the face of the earth. The blow knocked me off my feet, slammed me into the hard dirt, then rolled me clear back across the ground a few yards. Tiny pebbles cut into my elbows and ass. I hurt like hell, but after a few tentative breaths, I knew I’d live. And so would Fieldman, in a manner of speaking.

  I clos
ed my eyes, tuned out, and went to the Brain Hotel to check on Fieldman’s soul. When I got to the lobby, though, there was no sign of him. Nor anywhere else in the Brain Hotel.

  I went back out through the lobby doors—owatta goo siam—and back into reality. The pain hit me as if I’d experienced it all over again. Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet and started waving my arms around, trying to clear the smoke. I approached the burning wreckage, and saw what I thought used to be Fieldman’s body, hanging over a piece of metal I suspected had been the rear bumper. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  I coughed and took a few steps back, trying to take in the picture. His soul had to be around here somewhere. After a few hurried minutes of looking, I started to worry. Robert had told me souls always hang around the flesh for a while. Even in cases of total vaporization, a soul will lurk around the sizzling droplets for a while before seeking the Great Beyond. Shit, I’ve been dead for six years, and I didn’t still hadn’t sought the Great Beyond. I’d been too busy.

  If Fieldman wasn’t out here in reality, that left only one possibility: He was somewhere in the Brain Hotel. It was unlikely, though: I can always tell when I take on another resident. Every soul collection leaves me feeling wiped out. I felt relatively normal at the moment, considering I’d been reality/Brain Hotel hopping, running around like a fool and beating my Datsun with a rock.

  “You are looking for me, Collective.”

  My head snapped in the direction of the voice. It was Fieldman, all right. Standing where he wasn’t standing a second ago. However, it wasn’t exactly Fieldman. His image was blurred, as if he had been shot by a 16mm camera at the wrong speed. “That you, Fieldman?”

  The Image of Fieldman chuckled. “Fieldman. I haven’t heard that name in … eons. If you like, you may call me ‘Fieldman.” Though I have long since forgotten to think of myself by that name.”

  Okkkayyyyy. Clearly, Fieldman had lost two things in the Datsun explosion: His physical body and his mind.