Secret Dead Men

by Duane Swierczynski

  “Doubting my sanity, Collective?” Fieldman asked. He started walking toward me. His image cleared up a bit. Maybe someone was adjusting their dials. Fieldman was wearing a long robe, adorned with the same drippy gumball design his last Earthly shirt had. And sandals. I hated guys in sandals.

  “Why do you keep calling me that? Don’t you know who…” I stopped myself. Of course, he didn’t know who I really was.

  “I know who you are, Del Farmer.”

  He knew my name. He could read my thoughts. Fieldman had died and come back as the goddamned Buddha.

  “You have many questions, Collective. Allow me to answer some of them for you in a speedy fashion, because although I exist out of time, you are still trapped in its boundaries, and right now, as we speak, several law enforcement officers are coming this way to investigate a fiery disturbance, the same disturbance that ended my life as Agent Fieldman and began my quest out of time, out of this physical plane. I died an agent of the law, and an agent I continue to be, although the laws are different, as is the agency.”

  “I thought you were going to do this in a ‘speedy fashion’?”

  Fieldman’s eyes narrowed. “At the moment of my death, you tried to absorb my soul into your Collective. You were too late. The explosion was too late as well. I was caught between those two forces and propelled out of time, into another reality.”

  This was the first thing that made any sense. I knew I’d grabbed hold of Fieldman’s soul before the bomb went off, but my hold weakened. I’d mistakenly thought it meant he was safely tucked away in the Brain Hotel. Apparently, I was very, very wrong.

  “In short, I have lived entire lifetimes, the Alpha to the Omega. I have seen the end. I have seen the beginning. I am back to complete a mission: to assist you on your quest. And if you value your quest, you must starting running now, because your cab is ready to leave.”

  Fieldman had lost me again, but the last bit made sense. I started jogging back toward the motel, praying to God—or Buddha, for that matter—the hack driver had decided to wait this out, despite the explosion and the wailing of police sirens, which were now becoming audible in the distance.

  Don’t worry, Collective, a voice spoke in my head. I am with you always.

  That, I wasn’t worried about.

  Bless the higher powers: the hack Paul called had stayed put. I mumbled an apology, stuffed my belongings in his trunk, and scooted over into the back seat. I slapped a $50 against the Plexiglas partition and asked to be taken to the Las Vegas International Airport, TWA terminal, pronto. The squad cars and fire engines zoomed past us, spinning into the ground behind the hotel.

  “That’s not about you, is it?”

  “Of course not,” I said, slapping an extra $20 on the glass.

  “I didn’t think so.” The cabbie pulled us out the through the same dust the cops had stirred up and sped on towards Las Vegas. I took a peek at his license on the dash in case I had to remember it later. STEPHEN M. KNIGHT, it read. RED OWL COMPANY. As turned out, I wouldn’t have to remember it: I arrived at the terminal in plenty of time for my flight to Philly, and if Mr. Knight had ratted me out, I never heard about it.

  As much as I’d hoped against it, I discovered the Ghost of Fieldman was still with me. He was in the airplane seat next to me, taking in his surroundings with a look of total bemusement. When I closed my eyes to port myself to the Brain Hotel, he was in the lobby, waiting for me. Interesting, he’d say. This resembles a favorite theater from your boyhood. Then he’d pop back into the seat next to me and entertain himself with the seatbelt for a while.

  Fieldman was the only soul, it seemed, who could check himself in and out of the Brain Hotel at will.

  Fieldman was Soul #13, God save us.

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  “I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam. I looked into the soul of another boy.”

  —WOODY ALLEN

  Twelve

  Love City

  I hailed a cab at Philadelphia International and handed the driver the address: 1530 Spruce Street. The Sherman Oaks girl had found a place for me. A friend of hers at the Moore School of Art knew a building that catered to college students and other transients. No year lease required; you could pay by the month. Since it was June, the end of the school year, there were plenty of furnished rooms available.

  The building was quite nice, but old. A stone date-marker read “1870,” and it looked it. Perhaps the most recent renovation had been the row of mailboxes in the hotel lobby. As promised, the landlord was waiting outside for me with my keys. He didn’t speak much English—or else he didn’t care to. I handed him an envelope containing $350—security deposit and a month’s rent, up front. He handed me two keys: one for the front door, one for my own apartment. The front door was tagged with a green plastic overlay and a tiny, yellowed sticker that had LOBBY in shaky capital letters. Just in case I was confused. The landlord left without a word.

  He is concerned you are a serial killer, said the Ghost of Fieldman in my head.

  “Good. Maybe he won’t bother me about a late rent check,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like some peace and quiet.”

  Every Collective needs his rest, the Ghost agreed. We will speak again.

  Oh, I was sure we would.

  I pushed all my things inside, then carried my wardrobe (i.e. my plastic trash bags) up to my apartment, and prayed nobody would steal my boxes while I was gone. I keyed in. The first room was tiny—a stove and sink shoved into one corner, a desk and chair in another, and a battered houndstooth couch placed beneath two greased windows that, if cleaned properly, would afford me a great view of a gray brick wall. NEWLY RENOVATED, FURNISHED STUDIO APARTMENT, RITTENHOUSE SQUARE VICINITY, HISTORIC BUILDING. Yeah, Washington slept here all right. And left his crap all over the place.

  I opened a door leading into the bedroom. It was furnished with a toilet, bathtub, sink, and mirrored cabinet. Confused, I went back out into the first room and looked for another door. There wasn’t one, except for the one through which I’d entered. After some poking around, I learned that the scratchy-looking couch was also a day bed. How efficient—a living room, dining room, kitchen, study and bedroom, all in one, low-priced space! Only now did I realize why the landlord never gave me a tour. The walk upstairs would have taken longer than the tour itself.

  I went back down to the lobby and thought about leaving, but instead opted to carry my two cardboard boxes up to my fully-furnished closet. Halfway up, I caught my reflection in the glass covering a fire extinguisher. It shocked me, even after all these months. Brad’s face was rugged, yet boyish. Nature’s way of saying, I am harmless, but please do not touch. This face, I remember thinking, will serve me well during this investigation.

  At this particular moment, however, it did not. Halfway up the second staircase, I met a woman wearing a college sweatshirt and faded jeans. She was carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with papers and books. “Pardon me,” I said, as mechanically as possible.

  “You’re pardoned,” she said, smirking. Her eyes went to my shoes and back up. “You need a hand with that?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She skirted to one side, and I mimicked her, unintentionally. We repeated the mimic. She started laughing. I frowned.

  “My name’s Amy Langtree. I guess you’re moving in.”

  Yes, but my friends call me Move. I thought about saying it out loud, but it was probably best not to start a conversation. “Yes. Uh … I’m Del. Del Winter.” This was my new alias. Sure, it wasn’t too much of a stretch from my real name, Del Farmer. But I found it useful to keep “Del.” You try keeping a dozen people in your head straight, and then talk to me about names, okay? I needed all of the psychic anchors I could get.

  “Great name. Sort of like Del Shannon, right?”

  “Sort of,” I said, trying to squeeze past her. “Only it’s Winter.”
/>   “Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”

  I started to shake, but one of the boxes slipped, and a semi-auto clip slid out of top. Damn it. I quickly dropped the box and scooped it up.

  “Del, you need help.” Amy grabbed the first box and started up the stairs. She looked back at me, smiling. I looked up and returned a queasy version of a smile.

  “No lip. C’mon. What apartment number?”

  I told her, full knowing this was not going to sit well with the other souls.

  One thing I may have failed to mention about my Brain Hotel residents: They tended to be cooperative, just so long as I didn’t appear to have a life outside of my job. The minute I tried to resume a normal life—settling down with a nice girl, finding a job with benefits—they were all over me.

  Oh, the souls had it good. No puzzles, no worries, no bills. They could lounge in their quarters, or eat and drink to excess, or read books and paint. The only thing I ever demanded was a bit of their time (no more than 20 minutes, usually) every so often to ask a few questions. Most of them led their own lives in their Brain Hotel rooms, and rarely bothered to ask me for anything. It was like being the president of a small company; I only dealt with a select few employees, and the rest … well, the rest did whatever they did and didn’t bother telling me about it.

  But the ones who paid attention—man, they could give me trouble. And one who was starting to pay more and more attention to my real world activities was Paul After.

  I knew he wouldn’t take kindly to Amy Langtree.

  Amy kneed the door open and walked in. I followed, hunched over, still trying to casually stuff ammo clips back into the box. She dropped her box on a table in the corner, careful not to knock over the telephone that sat there.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Living?”

  “Yes—your job?”

  “My job?” I repeated.

  She squinted at me. “Let me guess. You hang out all day mimicking people’s actions and speech.”

  I told her my new cover. “I work for the Philadelphia Electric Company.” Well, at least it was a chance to try it out. See how it worked on a nobody. Somehow, I didn’t think the tenants would buy this as an excuse to talk to her. If anybody happened to be in the lobby screening room this particular moment, I was sure to hear an earful when I returned to the Brain Hotel later.

  Amy nodded, and walked over to me. “You in the collection department?”

  “Huh?”

  A clip I’d forgotten about was sitting on top of the box I was holding. Amy picked it up and pointed it at my face. “You no pay, I blow brains out?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh, no no. Hah. Hobby. I mean, it’s a hobby of mine. Guns.” I looked at her. “Keeps nosy neighbors from asking too many questions.”

  Amy’s eyes widened for a moment, then she laughed. “Damn, Del, you do have a sense of humor. A sick sense of humor, but I’ll take it. I was beginning to worry.”

  I smiled—uncomfortably—then turned to drop the box. I could feel Amy giving me the once over. What was it with her? Most women, upon meeting a strange man carrying a box of firearms into his tiny studio apartment, usually spin on their heels and hit the road. Fast. But not her. “What kind of guns do you have? I used to have a cop buddy who showed me quite a few of his police-issue numbers. You got single or double action?”

  Paul was going to hate this line of conversation. Nice cover, “Del,” he’d tell me. Why not give her a tour of the Brain Hotel while you’re at it?

  “Amy, this is not a good time. I’m not feeling great, and I’ve got to finish—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re getting settled. Speaking of—where’s the rest of your stuff? Need any help?”

  This time I was prepared. I’d planned the story in advance: I had moved with some work files and necessities. The electric company was having my furniture and personal affects sent later. Of course, I didn’t own anything else; I made a mental note to pick up a few pieces of junk to avoid suspicion.

  Amy seemed satisfied with my explanation. “I guess I’ll take a rain check.”

  “On what?”

  “On the gun talk.” She whipped out a felt pen from her backpack and started to write on the top of one of my boxes. “Here’s my number. I’m right upstairs. Nice meeting you too, Del.”

  “Nice … you, too.”

  I showed her to the door, then turned around to expel the air from my lungs. I looked around, pressed my palms to my eyes, then walked into my new bathroom.

  I uncapped a bottle and dry-swallowed two Bufferin, cupping water from the faucet. I looked at myself.

  New friend? a voice asked, more than a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. I recognized that voice. At least it wasn’t the Ghost of Fieldman again.

  With Paul, I had to be careful. He was still sore about the whole Fieldman/trunk mix-up—especially when I blamed him for the creation of the Ghost of Fieldman. But it was important to keep him happy, to maintain his enthusiasm for the investigation, since he was one of the few useful souls I had. Besides, I couldn’t go around pissing on everybody forever.

  “Look, Paul, I made her go away. You saw that, right?”

  Yeah, I saw. I saw you flirting like mad.

  “Point is, I made her go away.”

  I made her go away, he mocked. Come on. If you want to be serious about your investigation, it’s important you don’t get involved … with anybody. Raises too many questions.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  If you want action, use one of the Brain hookers. I’ve gotten used to them. Genevieve is especially accommodating.

  The phone rang. I went back into the non-bathroom room and answered it.

  “My name is Richard,” a voice said. “I believe you are an associate of a man named Stan Wojciechowski. Are you available to speak this afternoon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Meet me at the Rittenhouse Hotel, Room 1223, at 4:00 p.m. You won’t require anything. Just yourself. Is that clear?”

  “Sure. See you.” I hung up. Actually, he’d be seeing Paul.

  What was that?

  Thirteen

  Portraits of the Artists as Young Men

  Here was my problem: I hated freelance work. Great money for usually minimal labor, but it was too much of a distraction. Too much additional information got in the way of my real investigation. After careful consideration—about 10 seconds’ worth—I decided to enlist Paul After. He would play the part of hired dick, leaving me free to get a fix on Brad Larsen’s killers. I figured he would enjoy the taste of bodily freedom; I’d have a chance to kick back and do some real work.

  I would always be in control, mind you. I could watch what was happening from the movie screen in the Brain Hotel lobby. And if Paul did something to jeopardize the mission—or my physical body—I could crack the reigns, drag his soul back to the Hotel, and carry on myself. Of course, to the casual observer, my body would fall unconscious, maybe even lose control of its bodily functions. This was not something I liked to do often.

  As I thought, Paul agreed to take the case for me. He complained about it first, but I knew he wouldn’t turn me down. He had enjoyed his taste of freedom back in Henderson too much.

  Paul dressed my body in gray pants and a white ribbed undershirt. Then he slicked back my hair and shaved me. Nicked me twice.

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering, Del,” he said, looking into the bathroom mirror. “Why do you look exactly like me?”

  I don’t, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You’re seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we’re wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I’m tracking down his killers.

  “Why wear the guy’s face?”

  I’ve found it can help speed the investigation.

  “Who was he?”

  A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.

  “Was he a good-looking guy?”

/>   Don’t worry. The villagers won’t come after you with torches and pitchforks.

  Paul squinted. “If you say, so. But it’s still damn weird. All I see is me.”

  It happens to everybody. It’s too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man’s face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.

  Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat—the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother’s hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn’t much we could do about it.

  “Interesting choice,” spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. “Not everyone would put that ensemble together.”

  “Can’t you shut him up?” Paul asked me.

  If only.

  We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn’t give much thought to green open spaces.

  Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard’s room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let’s-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.