Secret Dead Men (23 page)

As Brad walked through the doors, the Ghost of Fieldman materialized next to my pinned spectral body. "That was exciting!"

He started to pace around me, looking at the gizmo lodged in my chest. "I had no idea of the machine's adaptability. Tell me--to what extent does your soul feel the paralysis?"

"I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you how much this goddamn thing hurts if you tell me what Brad is planning."

"This is quite amazing," Fieldman said, then touched the gizmo. "It was never intended to anchor a soul--only push it, like a cattle prod. Can you move your arms?"

I responded by flipping him the bird.

"That would be an affirmative." Fieldman stood up. He folded his arms and looked down at me with mock pity on his face. "You know, I could tell you more than what Brad is
planning
to do. I could tell you what Brad is
going
to do. I could tell you how you're going to die. I could tell you who's going to be president in the year 2020."

"Because you exist out of time," I said.

"The past, the present, the future ... I see all dimensions at once."

"So," I said. "Did you see me dumping Brad's ass into the roast pig?"

Fieldman didn't have anything to say that.
That would be in the negative
, I thought. "Okay, I give up. What is Brad
going
to do?"

"It doesn't matter, Collective. For you, this story is coming to a close."

"Then read me the last chapter."

"In less than twelve hours, you will undergo a profound and lasting change. You will question your immediate past, and by extension, your entire life. Everyone you know will be dead, or speeding away from you. You'll be covered in blood. You'll be trapped in a dead body. Your investigation will be over. Everything will be different."

"Couldn't you throw in a nuclear war or something, just for kicks?"

The Ghost of Fieldman laughed. "If you only knew."

I didn't like how this was going. The fact that I had a hunk of metal shoved where my astral perception of lungs should be didn't make me feel better, either. I decided to pick Fieldman's warped brain to see what angle he was working. After all, Buddha or not, he started out as an ordinary--well, almost ordinary--human being. There had to be something he wanted, enlightened or not.

"Where will
you
be in 12 hours?" I asked.

"Eating a luxurious breakfast with a breathtakingly beautiful woman, lounging over the morning paper. The meal will be soft-boiled eggs, with fresh croissants and six tiny jars of the freshest fruit preserves available. It will be the finest meal I've ever had. And then the new phase begins, and the woman and I will proceed to save the planet Earth from imminent destruction."

Good Lord. Did I actually think I could reason with a person so obviously insane? There was nothing he wanted, except to take me to the nut-hatch with him. My only option was to pass the time listening to Fieldman ooze psychotic verbal diarrhea until Brad returned. What would I do then? No idea. But I figured my chances had to be better with Brad. He might be a homicidal maniac hell-bent on avenging his dead wife, but he was still a reasonable human being.

Fieldman's attention had turned back to the reality on the lobby screen. "You might want to watch this, Collective," he said. "This is going to be wonderful."

The worst part: Fieldman was right.

* * * *

Brad, in our body, had finally spied Susannah and walked over to her. She smiled and made a tiny wave. What was Brad planning to do? Cut her open right here in the middle of the party?

"I was wondering where you went," Susannah said. "What am I paying you for, anyway?" But Brad didn't say a word. He reached out and clamped his hands down on her hips. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

Brad cleared his throat. "I want to dance with you."

"Right now? There's nobody else dancing."

"There will be. There'll be plenty of dancing."

As if on cue--and come to think of it, it probably was--the freebie Big Band started to play the opening bars of "The Air That I Breathe." Oh no, I thought. I searched the screen for a sign of Alison, but she was nowhere in sight. What the hell was Brad doing? Trying to drive his own wife nuts?

"This next one's a request," said the band leader through a crackling, tinny mike. "With love, to Ray and Lana, from Brad and Alison."

Oh boy.

Brad grabbed Susannah and pulled her into a bear hug. Her face practically bounced off the screen in the hotel lobby. She looked confused. Maybe she was trying to figure out why someone had spoken the names "Ray and Lana" out loud. Maybe she wondering why her bodyguard was suddenly pawing at her.

"What are you doing, Paul?"

Brad didn't say a word. He forced her to rock back and forth in an awful parody of a slow dance.

"Paul, say something."

"I'm remembering this beautiful song."

"Yeah," she said, nervously. "It's nice. But it doesn't explain why you're touching me like this."

"Do you remember the last time you heard this?"

"Not really."

"I do, Susannah." Brad's hands slid up and locked onto her forearms. "Lana. Susannah. Whatever your fucking name is."

Susannah's eyes went wide.

"The last time I heard this song," Brad continued, "I was in Woody Creek, Illinois. It had started playing on the radio, and I turned around to watch my wife blown away with a shotgun."

"
Ohjesusgod
," Susannah whispered, stark terror blossoming in her eyes.

"The last time I heard this song, I was beating the shit out of the guy who killed my wife, and I'd almost killed him when somebody stabbed me from behind."

Susannah's head started to shake.

"The last time I heard this inane fucking song, you took a stiletto and stabbed me in the back, and then stabbed me again in the chest, and in the arm, and in my ribs..." Brad shook her arms with every body part mentioned.

"No," she said. "No, no, no..."

"And now I'm going to repay the favor, Lana."

Brad released her arms. Susannah was no dummy. She spun and ran away, pushing through the crowd toward the front of the Museum. Nearly everyone was staring at Brad, probably wondering what he'd done to drive that pretty young girl away. I'm glad I didn't have to explain it to them.

* * * *

"Absolute genius," Fieldman said. "Better than he'd described it."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "She got away."

"Try to keep up, Collective. Brad can't kill the woman here. He never intended to. You arriving with his wife in tow may have confused things for a moment, but we've recovered splendidly. Things are back on schedule. We've been planning this for too long to have it go awry."

"How long, exactly?"

"Oh," Fieldman said. "A little over eight months."

"That isn't possible. You only died a month ago. Remember? Nevada? Flaming Datsun? Pan-Fried Fieldman?"

"Collective, you continue to ignore the truth: I exist out of time. Once I returned to be with you, it was as if I had been with you all along."

The Gods must have taken pity upon my poor soul and showered enlightenment down upon me, because in instant I understood what Fieldman was talking about. Memories in my own head now seemed elastic, gelatin, pliable. What had gone on for those eight months? I had no idea. They were no longer my own months. They were my Fieldman months. They were supple as a dream and painful as reality.

"You and Brad were plotting this sicko revenge thing the whole time," I mumbled. "Right under my nose."

"Sometimes even using your nose. Along with the rest of your physical body. Remember the flu you had back in February? Knocked you out? I did that. Gave us use of your body for weeks. You still believe it was a matter of coincidence the Brown Agency assigned you this case?"

"But ...
why?"

Fieldman saw that I was still confused. "Oh, Collective! To lay the trap! And it's working. She's walking right into it. No chance she'll go back to her hotel apartment--not after her bodyguard--who not only has the address but a set of keys--just threatened to kill her. Nor does she have anyplace else to go ... except 473 Winding Way."

Something clicked. "Wait. That's..."

"That, dear Collective is the same address I scribbled on a paper towel and stuffed between the breasts of Ms. Farrell. Do I have to explain everything to you?"

"I think so."

Fieldman laughed. "Of course I have to explain it to you, because you haven't been there yet, but you will be. 473 Winding Way is Susannah Winston's hideaway. Richard gave her the keys in case of an emergency. That's where she'll run."

And that's where Alison was going to run. And now, Leah Farrell. And undoubtedly, Ray Loogan. A Woody Creek reunion. I was forced to agree with Buddha. It had to admit it
was
brilliant, from a vengeance-is-mine point of view.

* * * *

Up on the screen: Brad trying to make his way through the crowd. Along a few of the more popular tables, nobody was budging. Standing in line for twenty minutes for a free Dixie Cup full of booze had the Philadelphia socialites returning to their baser instincts. They weren't letting anybody through. Finally, after making his way around the long way, Brad found Alison. She had been standing in a corner, eating Jell-O from a cup with a plastic spoon. "Alison."

She looked up at him and smiled. "I want to go to bed, Brad."

"I know, sweetie. There's something we've got to do first. Then we can leave."

"Back to our house? Back to California?"

"Right back home, sweetie."

I'd been in their home--or at least a memory of their home--not too many hours ago. A comfortable place. I'm sure Alison was desperate to go back there, maybe burn some incense, roll herself up in a thick quilt, and fall asleep for about 10 years in a climate-controlled room. She never wanted to leave it in the first place, but Brad had insisted on the trip to Woody Creek, Illinois, to the "vacation cottage" by the river so he could finish his dissertation on John Donne. She'd gone along, not expecting to have someone knock at their door and her life to change in five abrupt seconds. Funny, the things you could intuit about someone after you've lived through their death.

Brad led Alison by the hand and headed back through the feeding frenzy. Along the way, he grabbed a couple of crackers and hunks of mozzarella cheese--Alison was still hungry. They made their way toward the museum's main entrance, which closed to the public for tonight's party, but served as a shortcut to the Ben Franklin Parkway, where they could easily find a cab to take them to 473 Winding Way.

It was an ornate set-up; three marble staircases, one leading down to the front glass doors, and two twins leading to a second floor. Brad paused to take it all in. I supposed there was no hurry now--why not soak up a bit of culture with the wife? All the pieces were falling into place; Brad Larsen simply needed to catch a cab out to the suburbs, stash Alison somewhere safe, then watch the fun ensue.

"Hello, Paul," said a voice.

Much to our collective surprise, Susannah was standing on the staircase to the left. And aiming a pistol at us.

No,
Fieldman muttered.

Brad thought fast. "I was looking for you. I wanted to see if you were all right." Alison touched his arm and shot him a look--you know, one of those
wife
looks.

"Stop it," Susannah said. "Just stop it. No more insults, no more games. One call to Richard and your life is over."

"This is none of Richard Gard's business."

Susannah paused, as if she were turning something over in her head. "I suppose you're right. This is between you and me, isn't it?"

"Right," Brad repeated. "You and me."

"And her." Susannah lifted the pistol slightly, and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Alison high in the chest--not quite her throat, though not exactly at her heart. The impact knocked her down to the marble floor.

Blind fury ripped through Brad. I could feel the Brain Hotel quake.

"This is not going to be good," Fieldman told me. Those were the first words to pass his lips that I ever completely believed.

Susannah lowered the pistol to her hip and laughed--a hollow, high-octave chirp. "It's better this way, Paul. I don't think she could have withstood the shock of hearing about how I sucked your dick last night."

Brad launched forward, ready to rip the woman's flesh from her bones.

Susannah took careful aim and shot Brad in the head. As awful as it must have been, I'm sure this was nowhere near as painful--I would assume--as seeing your wife killed. Again.

The view on the lobby screen flipped back and around. With a start, I realized that I wasn't a detached observer. Shit--
I
was shot in the head, too!

* * * *

"Take this thing out of my chest and let me up," I said in the most commanding voice I could muster.

"I can't do that, Collective," Fieldman said.

"If you don't let me up, we're all dead."

"We're
already
dead."

Up on the lobby screen, Susannah Winston's face came into fuzzy view. Amazingly, our eyes were still transmitting, but our ears weren't. She was saying something I couldn't make out. Probably something nasty. Not to have sympathy for the devil, or anything, but I couldn't help but wonder what Susannah made of all of this. The poor woman was probably never going to trust another man for as long as she lived.

"You'll feel the fire, wench," Fieldman said to the lobby screen with an unusual intensity.

Susannah walked off-screen.

Twenty-Four

H-Bomb in Vegas

Within minutes the Brain Hotel lobby was reduced to chattering chaos. Souls started flooding into the room, throwing a million questions at me. Tucked away in their own apartments, absorbed in their own pursuits, I guess they all had felt the shot to our collective head. I tried to explain things to everyone, even with the metal gizmo still lodged in my chest, which nobody seemed to notice. "Listen, everybody," I said. "If we're all going to live, we're going to have to seize the body back from Brad."