Uh oh. I suppose it wasn't paranoia, after all.
And all this time, I'm having nightmares and sleepless nights and endless days and horrible nights…
I was right. Having your soul yanked out of your body does change you fundamentally. Not to mention psychologically. If Fieldman kept this up, soon he'd be in a rubber room writing home with Crayolas.
Because the Brad Larsen I saw was dead and buried, and yet here's Brad Larsen buying Datsuns. So, I'll ask you again. What kind of damned drug was it?
I wondered what Paul was making out of all of this. I hadn't clued him into my investigation of the Larsen murders. Or the reasons why I was being hunted by the FBI
I hit the silver mike again. “You sure you're okay? Give me a nod or something, buddy. Let me know you're alive up there."
Fieldman kept on truckin'. You know what I'm talking about. The mickey you slipped in my coffee. Or should I say the one your buddy Kennedy slipped in my coffee? Yeah, I know all about him, too. The Vegas office had their eyes on him for months. There he was in Woody Creek, cozying up with Agent Nevins, bossing people around…
I/Kennedy did no such thing!
…and all the while, trying to figure out a way to cover your tracks. Can I ask how you did it? You find some poor slob who looked a little like you, poison ‘em, give ‘em post-mortem surgery and leave him there in the river? Where did you hide all the while? Did you let your wife die? Or did you kill her because she found out what you really do? Or was she in it from the beginning, and you and Kennedy decided to double-cross her?
Questions, questions, questions… oh, I've got a million questions. I could go on for hours, and rest assured, I will, until every single question is answered to my satisfaction. You wait. You're going to be telling me what kind of underwear your great-grandmother wore before we're through. But don't worry. I'm going to ask you an easy one first. Something you can probably tell me in a few words.
What… kind… of… drug?
I had a question for Fieldman: Why… do… you… keep… asking?
He continued as if he'd heard me. In case you're curious, it's highly effective. Stays in your system for months. In fact, it's still probably worming around in my system right now. At first I thought it was some kind of hallucinogenic, what with all of the out-of-body experiences I'd been having. Acid-flashback kind of stuff. But test after test came up negative-no trace of any known drug in my system-and the nightmares kept coming. All about that goddamed hotel lobby.
So that's what this was about. When I had yanked Fieldman out of his body, he must have endured a serious shock to his system. And now he was after Brad Larsen and “Agent Kevin Kennedy” to find out what kind of “drug” we'd given him so he could find an antidote and go back to his calm, pressed suit and brown-bag lunch existence.
Larsen, Fieldman said, putting his face within breathing distance of ours. I'm not going to ask you again.
Paul didn't say a word.
Instead, he breathed in sharply, then smashed the top of our head directly into Fieldman's nose.
The man's eyes crossed for a split second, then a faucet-strength gush of blood spurted from his nose. Paul stood up-still handcuffed to the chair, as far as I could tell-and smashed our forehead into Fieldman's face again. The agent's legs buckled from under him. He fell to the floor like a puppet with snapped strings.
I thought he'd never shut up, Paul said, aloud.
I was relieved, but not as relieved as I should have been. What did Fieldman mean about Alison Larsen knowing what Brad “really” did? What, did Professor Larsen cheat on his dissertation? I didn't know, but I was sure as hell going to find out.
Hey. Del.
It was Paul, looking into a mirror. Which, of course, made it look like he was looking down at me from the lobby screen. Somehow, in the few seconds in which I'd turned my attention away from the screen, he'd freed our body from the handcuffs and the wooden chair.
I hit the microphone button. “Great job. You've gotta teach me that some time."
Which part? Paul asked. How to stay calm while being interrogated by an accountant? Or how to break someone's nose with your forehead?
“I guess both.” I didn't like Paul's cocky attitude, but I wasn't in a position to be arguing with him about it now. “Look, there's something important I need to do down here. Would you mind taking care of our pal, Fieldman?"
I thought I'd get a wise-ass reply, but amazingly, I didn't. My pleasure, Paul said, then turned away from the mirror. The hotel room spun like a wild amusement park ride.
Good. While Paul was busy sticking Agent Fieldman in a closet somewhere, I was going to have a little chat with Brad. I took the elevator up to his floor and walked down his own private hallway, which he had decorated simply-if by simple you mean red velvet wallpaper and burned gold trim and baseboards, along with gold-trimmed electric chandeliers with low-wattage bulbs. Was this the Brain Hotel, or Brad's Brain Whorehouse? Well, as I've said before, the residents are allowed to choose their own surroundings, no matter how bad their taste. I guess it could have been worse. I could have killed and absorbed the soul of the guy who invented “Tupperware."
I knocked on Brad's door-privacy is everything in here-but got no answer. I knocked again, louder, but again, nothing. I used my master key, which was the phrase, Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear, and the doorjamb clicked open.
The interior of Brad's room was a completely different story. In fact, it hadn't changed a bit since he moved in. It was still the plain-jane college dorm room template I'd slapped up for him in the first place. Maybe he worked on the hallway for six days, then rested on the seventh.
He wasn't in here, either.
I took the elevator back down to Tom's Holiday. It was the only place souls ever bothered visiting, apart from the lobby. But Tom's was empty, too, save Tom, who was buffing his bartop with an old pair of Brain boxer shorts and a can of Brain Olde English wax. “Hey there Del,” he said. “What's happenin'?"
“You haven't seen Brad around, have you?"
“Nah. Just me and the wax here. Stopping down later? I remembered a couple two, three more songs off that first John Lennon album you might wanna hear."
“Sure, sure,” I said, then headed for the lobby again. As I walked away, I heard Tom moaning, "Mothaaahhhhh…"
At the front desk, I used the black courtesy phone to open up a line throughout the entire Brain Hotel. I loathed using it, because the souls seemed to get pissed off every time I did. Maybe it was a reminder this was not Reality, that they were still dead and trapped inside my head. Maybe it interrupted their umpteenth viewing of Mary Hartmann, Mary Hartmann. Who knew?
“Hey guys, this is Del. I apologize in advance for cutting in, but Brad Larsen, I have an important message for you. Come on down to the lobby as soon as possible."
I hung up the phone and waited. Time passed. Brain dust motes flew through the imaginary air space and attached themselves to the lobby walls. The wallpaper faded a bit, and then faded a bit more. The carpet became desiccated and brittle from the lack of use. The air smelled like it had been sealed in a tomb for a hundred generations.
Brad never showed up.
I turned around to look up at the lobby screen. Paul had our body outside, heading back toward the motel. The ground looked hot. Tiny sizzle lines were rising up from it.