Duane Swierczynski - Secret Dead Men

They couldn't have found me this fast-could they?

I snatched a peek from behind the curtain, then slid back down. A sheriff's car, lights whirling. Not many others-a few curious truckers. This wasn't a Fed deal, unless they'd sent advance word, and the local boys were here to scoop me up. If they were, it would be better to find out now. (And besides-locals, I could handle.) I stood up, brushed the wrinkles out of my trousers, then walked over to the bureau. I ate a few crackers to cover the smell of scotch, then tucked my piece under the mattress.

Once outside, it became clear I was not the focus of attention. A couple of blues were entering a room a half-dozen doors away from mine. Other motel occupants had come out of their rooms, too; I was merely one of the crowd. Finally, somebody cut the flashing lights. I heard some woman mutter, “Thank the sweet Lord.” The cop who spared our collective retinas started walking in our direction.

“Nothing here, people,” he said, holding up his hands. He was young. “A li'l family squabble. Go on back to your rooms and watch some TV."

“Bull shit, ” mumbled a thick guy next to me. His eyes found mine. “I heard they got blood all over a shower down there."

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Wish I were."

Meanwhile, the kid cop was still trying to put everyone to bed. “Come on now… please return to your rooms.” His tapped his nightstick in his right hand, pretending it was something he'd used before. The crowd did start heading back to their beds, but not because Captain Nightstick was putting the fear of God into them.

The thick guy and I started walking together. “What happened?” I asked.

“Who knows?” he said. “Some couple checked in yesterday. Now, nobody can find them, and there's a whole lot of blood all over the bathroom. This is all I need-some friggin’ nutbag slashing my throat in the middle of the night."

“They think it's a serial killer?"

Thick Guy gave me a stupefied look. I'd strayed out of his vocabulary. I amended: “Some kind of nut?"

“Yep.” At this point, we'd both reached a door-his. “Well, happy dreams."

I wished him the same and wandered back to my own room.

I wondered if it was me, or if the world was becoming increasingly, strangely, violent. I ate more pepperoni, drank some Fresca, then pulled my pistol out from under the mattress, tucked it beneath my pillow and tried to sleep. Soul collecting took a lot out of a guy. Ordinarily, just to keep the Brain Hotel functioning, I needed about 10 to 12 hours sleep per day. Any less and the residents start complaining about maintenance problems. Considering the events of the past few days, I was going to need to sleep for three days straight.

After two days of lounging in the motel, I decided I'd stalled long enough. I'd had plenty of food and rest. Brad Larsen's soul still wasn't in shape for any kind of interview, and nothing else was worth investigating until then. So, now it was time to get down to the dirty work. Now it was time to rearrange my face.

Boy, did I hate this part of the job.

This is important, I reminded myself. They feared his face.

I packed a small paper bag with a few necessary items, left my motel room and drove outside of the Greater Buckeye Lake area. It took about one minute. Eventually I came to a grassy area that seemed relatively abandoned, so I scooted my car into a spot that couldn't be seen from the road. I opened my paper bag and spread my supplies on the dashboard. I flipped down the visor and taped up some of the photos I'd taken of Brad Larsen's corpse. I set my first aid kit on the passenger seat, and fastened my seat belt.

I wished this were as easy as absorbing a soul. Why did the gods who invented these strange abilities make this one so difficult? Why bother calling it a “gift” if it was so hideously painful? The last time I did this, I almost went into shock and died.

Okay. No more procrastinating.

They feared his face.

I got to work.

I closed my eyes and visualized a control panel. Robert had taught me it really doesn't matter what I look at-the panel was a symbol. It had a miniature screen, with two buttons on each side. The screen was divided into four perfect squares; each button corresponded to a square.

I opened my eyes and looked at the photo of Brad Larsen. Then I closed my eyes and imagined it appearing on the miniature screen. Opened my eyes, studied the photo, closed my eyes, visualized it on the screen. I repeated this process for a good twenty minutes. To an observer, it probably looked like I was playing a marathon game of “Peek-a-Boo” with an imaginary friend.

Finally, after endless opening and shutting of my eyes, I had a sharp picture of Brad Larsen on my mental control panel. The image had burned itself into my mind, and divided into four quadrants.

Yep, there it was. Ready to go.

Yessir.

Oh, shit.

It was time to push the first button. The lower left button, which corresponded to the lower left face of Brad Larsen.

Did I mention I really hate this part of the job?

Mentally, I pushed the lower left button, and an astounding, hideous pain seized the lower right portion of my face.

Ever have a blind pimple burrowed beneath your skin? Okay. Now amplify that by about a thousand, then imagine squeezing a fat thumb on the sucker. Hideous pain, let me tell you. Dr. Jekyll-turning-into-Mr.-Hyde kind of pain. The kind that makes you want to swear never, ever to touch your face again.

On screen, the lower left quadrant vibrated slightly, like a television image struggling for proper reception. I hardly saw it, though, because sheer agony was blinding me.

The worst part: This was but one of the 40 pushes required to mimic one quadrant of Brad's face. And there were three other quadrants to go.

Robert had explained it to me this way: Each mental-push of button sends a complex message to my brain to electrically jolt the nerves in the corresponding area of the face. The jolt forces the flesh and bone to react. After enough pushes, that part of the face is more or less reshaped.

“Great,” I'd said. “How about the button that supplies the novocaine?"

Robert smiled. “If only the afterlife were that simple, my friend."

Still, I've gotta think there's a way to apply some mental painkiller to this process. If I can drink a Brain scotch, then why can't I concoct some superdrug to numb my physical body? If I could, I'd be invincible, and would be able to swap faces at will. I'd be the unstoppable detective. The ultimate mystery man. I'd uncover and crush the Association in a matter of days-nay, hours-then move on to wipe out all evil from the face of the earth.

I pushed the button again, and whined like a whipped dog.

A few minutes later, I pushed it again. And again. And again.

Soon I settled into a horrific rhythm, pressing the other buttons of the other quadrants of my face in a slow sequence. It always progressed this way. It reminded me of the times my father punished me when I was a child. Dad was a card-carrying member of the Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child Social Club. The Rod in his case was a thick brown leather belt he wore. Wore, that is, until I came home with a bad grade, or stayed out past curfew, or committed some other terrible childhood crime. Then the belt would be released from its loops, folded in half, and smacked across my ass cheeks. The first was always the worst. After a while, I would start to float above the pain. Still feeling it, to be sure, but also outside of it. In a roundabout way, Dad and his belt did prepare me for my future. Just like he always said.

About a half-hour later I reached the final punches of the button. My face was alive and on fire. At some fundamental level, my own cells and nerves asked: What the fuck are you doing?