Paul said, “In case I don’t see you again, it was nice working with you.”
“Me, too,” I said.
Finally, as I’d feared, the hotel complex directly across the way imploded and funneled up high into the sky, like white foam from a faucet shooting in the wrong direction. That was too close, I thought. And the air became alive with electricity and burning and everything burnt out like a photographic negative….
That was what it was like for me to die from a bullet to the head.
Twenty-Five
Soul Gun
I woke up sometime later. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but I could feel myself in bed. I had the blankets pulled up all the way over my head. I was freezing. Who cranked the air conditioning in this room? And the bed felt like a sheet of cold steel.
Which, of course, it was.
I was lying on a slab in the morgue.
All I had witnessed countless times in the past had, at last, come to pass for me: I was dead. And my discorporated soul was hanging around the flesh, as if it had nothing better to do. I tried calling out to Paul, but I heard no response. Was he in the Next Place already? I hoped so. Even cold-blooded killers needed a rest.
So. This was death. Visited many times, never wanted to live there. When I’d died the first time, and Robert had absorbed my soul, I had only been hanging around my body for an hour or so. My flesh was still relatively warm, and rigor mortis was a long ways down the road. Now, however, I could feel my physical body turn traitor. It longed to crawl in some cool earth and break down, chemically, into nutrients to feed future plant life. I wanted to carry on thinking and being and knowing and learning. We were at cross purposes. But I wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
I just prayed I would still be able to do a resurrection.
Granted, I never tried it on myself. Performing one took a lot out of me when I was alive—God only knows what it would do now I was dead. Truly, completely, utterly dead, I mean.
Many souls have asked me what it’s like to perform a resurrection. I don’t know if they’re curious about the process, or if they’re trying to glom some information for their own purposes.
Nevertheless, my answer is always the same: I honestly don’t know. Bringing a soul back from the dead is an art that was passed down to me from Robert, and I suppose he’d learned it from the man who’d done the same for him. Maybe it went back centuries—dare I say back to the time of Christ, when he worked his mojo on poor old Lazarus? Was someone around then to learn the trick? And were they able to describe it?
If pressed to explain it, I guess I would say it’s like struggling to remember something. You don’t quite know what you’re doing when you’re “racking your brain,” but clearly, some kind of mechanical process is in effect. Then, all of sudden, the memory pops back. Or, it doesn’t.
That’s the same deal with resurrection.
I laid there and tried to remember how to raise somebody—namely, myself—from the dead. I ran through every possible train of thought: My own death and rebirth; the first time I brought somebody else back, seeing Brad Larsen, dead in the muddy waters of Woody Creek….
And then, it worked. I immediately forgot exactly how it worked, but it did.
I started to come back to life.
After a while, I sat up, and the sheet dropped from my face. Boy, did I feel like a lump of shit. This was a hundred times worse than the worst hangover or flu I’d ever known, easy. My physical body was not happy with me one bit. My physical body wanted to check in at Hotel Deep Six as soon as possible.
I threw one leg over the table, then the other, then slid my ass off, landed on my feet, and managed to stay there for a second. Then my entire naked form collapsed and smacked into the cold tile floor. Fortunately, my body was too involved in its own internal suffering to acknowledge the blow.
Eventually, I got to my feet and surveyed my surroundings. Definitely a morgue. I needed to find the ME’s office, and hope he kept a spare pair of pants around, or at the very least, hospital scrubs. Maybe they even had my own clothes around here somewhere, sealed up in a plastic baggie. I opened up a couple of drawers, but didn’t find a thing. Just a lot of doctor toys—cotton balls, bottles of rubbing alcohol, tongue suppressors, scalpels.
The ME’s office was down the hall. Predictably, the door was locked.
Across the room was a fire extinguisher and a fireman’s axe, sealed in a box with a glass door. I thought about smashing it with my fist, but then I’d have yet another cut to heal, and I wasn’t sure my newly-resurrection form could keep up with me. I grabbed a sheet from a nearby stiff, wrapped it around my elbow, then shattered the sucker with a quick jab. I took the axe back to the ME’s office, and chopped at the handle.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I turned around. A young woman in blue scrubs was staring at me. I had to think fast. A reasonable explanation for a naked, supposedly dead man trying to break into an office? Yeah, sure. Then it came to me.
I lifted up the axe and started lurching toward her, zombie-style. “Braaaiins … I chanted. “I neeed … Braaaaaiiinssss…. “
My gambit paid off. The woman, who surely must have seen George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead at a drive-in at some point, took off screaming down the hall. It gave me enough to time to finish my work on the door handle and force my way in. Bingo. Found my bloodied suit wrapped up in plastic with DEL WINTER, 6/76—ah, my brilliant alias—written in marker on the front.
I got dressed, washed up as best I could, then set off to look for an elevator.
This was a nice hospital, which was a relief. I wasn’t stuck in a city morgue—apparently, somebody had tried to fight to save my life. I felt a bit of gratitude. Had I the time, I would have hunted down that surgeon and bought him a drink to thank him for the effort. Maybe even to tell him, “Hey—it worked!”
Finally, I located a set of stairs, which led up a level to an elevator. I was apparently still a floor or two underground. I pressed the button with the up arrow and waited. After a few short moments, the doors opened. There were four other people in the elevator. I stepped into the car, and everyone collectively gasped and inched themselves backward. Of course they would—after all, I was a walking corpse in a bloody tuxedo, carrying an axe. I felt the need to explain things.
“Head wounds,” I said. “They bleed like anything. One tiny cut on the top of your head? Boom—all of a sudden, it starts gushing like the geyser at Yellowstone Park.”
Nobody said a word. They stared at everything else in the car—the lit numbers, the walls, the reflective security mirror, the translucent buttons—everything but me.
“Nobody worry—I’m going to be fine,” I said. I put the axe down and rested it against the wall, a sign of good faith.
One woman broke the holding pattern. She stared at me, looking as if she was going to burst.
“What?” I asked her.
“But your head, sir … your head…”
“It looks bad, I know. But I’m fine, honest.”
The woman swallowed. “Sir … your head is still bleeding.”
Now that I looked at my own shadow on the elevator wall, I could see she was right. Tiny jets of liquid were still shooting out from the top of my head. Must be an aftershock of the resurrection, I thought. Or the simple fact that I was ambulatory again, moving limbs, breathing air, pumping blood once again.
I eyed the woman up and down, then reached out and ripped the woman’s blue scarf right from around her neck. “Thanks,” I told her, wrapping it around my head.
Then I pushed the CLOSE DOOR button.
The woman fainted dead away. I felt bad about that.
I left the hospital and got my bearings. The sign out front read JEFFERSON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL, and the sign plate on the corner of a nearby building read Chestnut Street. Thankfully, I knew where I was. I’d passed here a couple of days ago—rather, Paul had passed here a couple of day ago, with Susannah, on a shoppin
g excursion.
But unless I could find a mode of transportation, I had a long walk to 473 Winding Way ahead of me. And I doubted this body was going to make it that far. I’d be lucky if I could drag this slightly warmed-over corpse back to the Art Museum.
I started down Chestnut Street, in a direction I thought would take me closer to City Hall. I walked close to the parked cars, scanning for unlocked doors. No luck. I crossed 10th Street and the same—zilch. This was ridiculous. I could hail a cab, but I didn’t know what I’d pay the driver with. Under ordinary circumstances, I could have walked back to my apartment from here to pick up some cash, but this would assume I had cash to be picked up, which I of course didn’t. (Damn Gard, that check-bouncing prick!) All I had to my name was a bloody tuxedo and a fire axe.
It would have to do.
I picked an older model car, thinking they’d be easier to work with. A 1968 Chevrolet something or other. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around the handle, and hammered the thing into the passenger window. It merely bumped the glass and slid off. I almost lost my balance, and got dizzy. A couple of my leg muscles were starting to freeze up. Rigor mortis? Quite possibly.
I tried again, with more force. Same thing. Now people on the street were starting to notice, and point at me. To hell with it. I grabbed the axe with both hands and swung the business end into the window. Hurt my back like hell, but the window shattered spectacularly.
I lifted the lock, brushed glass off the seat, and slid in behind the wheel. Of course, I had no idea what I was going to do next. I’d always counted on Doug to perform these petty criminal acts. And right now, Doug’s soul was probably busy haunting the entrance to the Philadelphia Art Museum. I doubt he’d help now even if I could. I’d let them all down.
My bout of self-pity was cut short by a tapping on the glass.
It was a cop with a flashlight, his cruiser (and partner) right behind. He twirled his finger around. “Open up.”
I looked up at him and smiled. I’d been down this road before.
He returned the smile.
And then I jumped into his body.
The cop was a tough bastard—he fought the possession every step of the way. But I thrilled to discover I still had the magic, damnit. Resurrections, soul-jumpings, you name it. The kid was back.
I put the copper in his place and assumed control. When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at my old body slumped over in the seat. I opened the door and turned my own face around with a gloved finger. I wasn’t looking too good. It was probably for the best that I’d changed bodies.
Still, I wasn’t anxious to leave it. Sure, the face had changed a couple of times, and I was starting to grow a spare tire, but until tonight it had been a perfectly useful body. “What is it?” a voice said.
Ah. My new partner.
I turned around to face him and said, “It’s nothing now. The guy’s dead.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, opening the door. His name tag read SLATKOWSKI.
“See for yourself.”
Slatkowski did. He shuddered. “God. This guy is ripe. You sure you saw him moving in here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think.”
“Man. Probably some hop-head, trying to make one last boost.”
In a bloodied tux? With an axe? And with those boyish good looks? Yeah, that sure fitted the drug-addict profile. But I let it pass as an easy way out to 473 Winding Way came to mind.
“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I recognize this guy. He was the one involved in the Art Museum shooting tonight.”
Slatkowski frowned. “How the hell do you know that? You’ve been with me all night, and I sure as shit don’t…”
I interrupted him before he got carried away with the logic. “There’s no time,” I said. “We’ve got to get over there right away.” I ran around to the driver’s seat and hopped in, then hammered the gas pedal before my new partner had a chance to join me. I heard him scream for a full five seconds, then I turned a corner.
I must have set a land-speed record on the drive back to the Art Museum. I tried to estimate how much time I had before Slatkowski called for back-up. Not much—probably the amount of time it would take for him to find a public phone. Most cops kept a taped roll of dimes handy in case of emergency. I had a couple of minutes. Maybe. That’s why I felt it necessary to drive the police cruiser over the sidewalk and up the fourteen million steps to the front door. My front fender even snapped one of those POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS banners clean in half. Gratuitous? Maybe to somebody else. I refused to walk up those goddamn steps twice in one night.
There were still a few forensics boys on the scene. They looked panicked. In all fairness, I would be too if I saw a blue-and-white fly up a 45-degree marble-stepped incline and screech to a halt.
I gave them all a nod and walked right past. One of them made a wisecrack about free parking, but one of his buddies gave him an elbow and a “Shhh!” Good.
“Watch my wheels,” I said.
I swept around the entirety of the grand entrance, and one by one recollected every one of my Brain Hotel residents. The forensics team must have thought I had gone daft, but who did I have to impress? Hell, I wasn’t even in my own body anymore.
I found Doug hiding in a thick medieval rug. I could feel him when I stepped on it and he yelled. Imagine an eternity of grubby tourists stepping on your soul? A touch to a Grecian Urn revealed my good friend Kevin Kennedy. Sorry, I told him. No death today. Old Tom was lounged out in a wall tapestry. Just like Old Tom to be hangin’ around. Genevieve. Harlan. Fredric. Lynda, George, Mort. They were all happy to see me.
The only soul I couldn’t find was Paul Bafoures/After. I suppose he had moved into whatever dimension lay beyond this one. The one Robert escaped to five years ago. I envied Paul. For one, he was enjoying a retirement I longed for someday. Secondly, he wouldn’t have to be here on Earth, headed to Merion, to deal with the shit I was going to have to deal with.
“All right boys,” I announced over the Brain Hotel courtesy telephone. I didn’t have time to reconstruct the entire Brain Hotel, but I did slap a decent replica of the lobby, and this time included an open bar. Old Tom manned the taps.
“We’re going on a field trip.”
Twenty-Six
Gallantly Screaming
Twenty-five minutes later, we finally arrived at 473 Winding Way, in Lower Merion Township. It wasn’t easy. As it turned out, not a single one of my souls knew Philadelphia and its suburbs well enough to give directions. Someone—I think it was Kevin Kennedy—briefly mentioned the idea of killing and absorbing a cab driver, but that seemed gratuitous.
Then it struck me: I was currently housing a soul who was intimately familiar with the area. The cop.
His name was Bill Madia, and he was a tough nut to crack. I tried reasoning with him, explaining the situation. Nothing. I promised him favors, offered to buy him a dozen Boston Cremes at Dunkin’ Donuts. No go. In fact, he wouldn’t say a single word until I demonstrated the horrors of having your soul trapped in an inanimate object. (In his case, the steering wheel.) And even then, it was just to spit out the words, “Screw you, punk.”
Finally, Old Tom came to my rescue. He seemed to recall something about Lynda, the Brain hooker who had given me the Ray Loogan info in the first place. She had grown up in the Philly suburbs before running away and into a life of ill repute.
Lynda stepped forward in the lobby, looking all bashful. “Yeah, I know the way to Merion.”
“God bless you,” I told her.
“Can I drive?”
About three or four of the souls said “No” simultaneously. I guess they’d already seen her drive, in a manner of speaking.
So, it was up to me. Of course, I’d wrecked the suspension on the police cruiser when I assaulted Mount Art Museum, but no matter. I didn’t plan to take that car anyway—too easy for Slatkowski to find. I made one of the forensic geeks offer up his car keys. “Keep my spot open
,” I’d told him.
I drove while Lynda directed.
The house on Winding Way was meant to be unlike every other house on the block, but that was the problem: they were all different in the same exact way. All colonial-looking mini-mansions. Palatial, but oh-so tasteful. It didn’t seem like Susannah Winston’s style. Or Lana Lewalski’s, for that matter.
I approached the front yard of 473. The mailbox read J. GARD in metal-embossed letters. A relative of Richard’s—most likely his parents. I opened the box and saw that it was stuffed with letters and bills: Philadelphia Gas and Electric. American Express. Something thick from Republicans for Ford/Dole ‘76. It was all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Gard. Yep, parents for sure.
A scenario painted itself in my mind: Middle of June, parents away at a summer cottage, mostly likely the South Jersey Shore. They give trustworthy, lawyer son keys to the pad to check up on it every once in a while. Lawyer son gives a copy of keys to his mistress, for out of town rendezvous. Mistress treats it as her retreat from reality.
But how did Brad and Fieldman know all this? Hey, I never claimed to be the world’s greatest detective. I suppose it had something to do with Fieldman being “out of time.” The enlightenment I had enjoyed earlier, while speaking to Fieldman, had long faded away. Maybe that’s because I’d died again. Did Christ rise on the third day feeling dumber than ever? I’d almost bet on it.
I crept up to the front door, which I saw was ajar. I could hear voices from deep within the house. Do it. Come on, do it. I couldn’t place the voice, though. I withdrew Officer Madia’s pistol from his holster and stepped inside.
Secret Dead Men Page 21