Duane Swierczynski - Secret Dead Men

“I am?” Fieldman asked.

“Yep. And you're not going to remember any of this, either.” I cold-cocked his soul with my spectral fist-you can do that, you know-then walked through the front doors and back into the real world.

I stood up and dusted myself off. Then I closed my eyes again, and visualized Agent Fieldman. Once I had him, and started to feel the weight of his conscious mind, I popped open my eyes and flung Fieldman's soul back into his physical body. A moment later he popped back to life, choking and writhing. In my professional opinion, he'd live.

I started to run down the road. My head pounded something fierce. I wasn't used to collecting and flinging souls around like that. About twenty yards later, I heard Harlan's voice in my head. Uh, boss? What am I looking for again?

Boy, was I going to hurt that fat bastard when this was all over.

Two miles and four pounds of sweat later I found a black Dodge, recent model. My dress shirt was drenched. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around my elbow, smashed the passenger window, unlocked the door, brushed broken glass off the seat with my jacket and slid across the seat. I couldn't stop sweating. My head felt like a garden hose with a hundred leaks. I wiped my forehead with my coat sleeve. Wonderful. Another $35 investment down the tubes.

It was time to call for back-up. I closed my eyes, and visualized a microphone with a big black button on its base. I mentally depressed the button-which triggered a set of speakers in the Brain Hotel-and started thinking out loud. Doug Isom. Paging Doug Isom. Doug was this hippie who used to steal stereos to buy marijuana. I'd absorbed him for moments like this.

Hey, Del!

“Hi, Doug,” I said. “No time to chat. I'm going to surrender control to you in three seconds. I need you to start this car."

Right on, man.

Since Doug could grow all the Brain pot he could ever use in the comfort of his own room, stealing was now strictly for fun. In many ways, reality was a bigger high for Doug-especially parceled out in tiny snatches, here and there.

I nestled back into the seat, closed my eyes and slipped away, and found myself inside the Brain Hotel lobby. Doug was there, smiling lopsidedly at me.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Body's all yours."

Doug walked through the front doors and into total blackness. His image vanished as his consciousness was transported to reality. And let me tell you, reality must have been a serious rush for this baked potato. But he didn't let it affect his professional abilities. He cracked the column, pulled out a wire, and sparked the ignition.

“Your car, sir,” Doug said upon his return. He was laughing to himself. He was always laughing about things that, quite frankly, were not even remotely funny.

“Thanks, Doug,” I said as I passed him and walked back through the front doors.

I hammered the gas pedal like the back of a long-lost friend.

I wanted to drive west, to return to familiar turf, but my instincts told me to head east, away from the maelstrom. Indiana came and went and I'd barely registered the state. Not much to it; a lot of highways and random office buildings interrupted by farmland. The only thing that kept me sane on the trip was the car's AM radio. Thank God it worked. I'd missed listening to my albums back home-sometimes, I think pop music holds the tattered and worn fabric I like to call my “life” together. Songs pin down times and places like nothing else. I can remember what song was playing the day I drove home from college graduation ("True Love Ways"), the first time I had sex, ("Sweet Pea"), and the day I was hired as a reporter at the Bulletin ("What is Life?"). Right now, the station I'd found was playing Lynn Anderson's hit “Rose Garden.” Big hit in 1970-the year I was collected. “ Smile for a while and let's be jolly, ” I sang along. “ Life shouldn't be so melancholy ."

Yeah, pop songs were comforting all right, but sometimes they could be a huge pain in the ass.

After a few days of zig-zag driving, I found a trucker's motel in a part of Ohio called “Buckeye Lake.” The names kept getting better and better. Whose job was it to name towns in Ohio, anyway? I mean, who looked at a dirty puddle and thought, “lake,” then attached that grandiose description to a name that belonged to a one-eyed pirate? This is but one of the many mysteries that had gone unsolved during my lifetime.

Actually, the place wasn't so bad. The bed was pliable, the bathroom was scum-free, and the towels weren't too stiff. The room even had a TV-the fancy push-button kind, with giant rabbit ears. Not that I planned to watch anything except the local news. I dropped my shopping bag on top of a battered bureau which doubled as a desk, and unpacked. A six-pack of Fresca, a package of store-brand crackers, a pound of Cracker Barrel sharp cheese, a slab of imported pepperoni, and a copy of a local newspaper. I walked over to the sink and found a cheap plastic tray with a plastic ice bucket and two plastic glasses wrapped in clear plastic. The guy in The Graduate was right about plastic, I guess.

I took the tray and brought it back to the desk, then used my Swiss Army knife to chop the pepperoni and cheese. I opened one of my Frescas, and took a sip to prime the system. Then I tore into the pepperoni and cheese. It was the best meal I'd had since the FBI coffee the day before-and I was going to need my energy if I was going to do a full face reconstruction. I only wished I had a Budweiser instead of a Fresca.

I pushed the bureau closer to the bed, so I could have a proper seat. Checked the local paper, but couldn't find a mention of the Woody Creek incident. Stuff on the Ford assassination attempt was all over the place-something about a Manson family freako chick named “Squeaky.” (Seems like Sheriff Alford was on to something about those Manson folks, after all.) I didn't think I'd see something about Brad Larsen, or about the Woody Creek incident. Nevins had made it clear this venture was quashed, effective immediately.

But during the last 10 hours of solid driving, my mind started playing tricks on me, and I'd hallucinated headlines like ROGUE FBI AGENT ON THE RUN. In reality, there was nothing. Whatever manhunt I'd caused, it was being conducted in secret. Which made sense, from a public relations point of view.

The best part: soon, I was going to be safe. The Feds were looking for Special Agent Kevin Kennedy-gaunt-looking male in his late 30s, with a sharp jaw and receding hairline. Height: 5'11". Weight: 175 pounds, soaking wet. Light blonde hair, green eyes. While the height and weight still applied, no other similarities remained.

Soon, I would have ice blue eyes, rich, reddish-brown hair, and a baby face that didn't need to shave often. I was going to lose at least 10 years in the transaction, too. The only way it would backfire would be if some enterprising Feds put Brad Larsen's face out on the wire, but why would they? For all they knew, Brad Larsen was sitting in the middle of Woody Creek with his baby face blown to smithereens.

Right Brad? I thought.

Brad wasn't answering. During the drive, I would pull over from time to time, close my eyes, port myself into the Brain Hotel, and peek into the interrogation room where Brad lay sleeping. Not a peep. He looked like a college kid sleeping off a hangover. I wanted to check on him again, but wasn't looking forward to more disappointment. Besides, he'd come around soon enough. All souls did.

I stuffed a few slices of meat and cheese into my mouth. I wasn't hungry, but I had to keep my strength up, just in case I had to skip out and drive another ten hours. I was trying to pry a thick hunk of cheese from the roof of my mouth when I saw the sirens flash through the slats of my window blinds. My body snapped to attention and I dove across the bed, reached into my jacket for my pistol, then rolled on the carpet until I was hidden beneath the window.