Duane Swierczynski - Secret Dead Men

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-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?"