My head snapped in the direction of the voice. It was Fieldman, all right. Standing where he wasn't standing a second ago. However, it wasn't exactly Fieldman. His image was blurred, as if he had been shot by a 16mm camera at the wrong speed. “That you, Fieldman?"
The Image of Fieldman chuckled. “Fieldman. I haven't heard that name in… eons. If you like, you may call me ‘Fieldman.” Though I have long since forgotten to think of myself by that name."
Okkkayyyyy. Clearly, Fieldman had lost two things in the Datsun explosion: His physical body and his mind.
“Doubting my sanity, Collective?” Fieldman asked. He started walking toward me. His image cleared up a bit. Maybe someone was adjusting their dials. Fieldman was wearing a long robe, adorned with the same drippy gumball design his last Earthly shirt had. And sandals. I hated guys in sandals.
“Why do you keep calling me that? Don't you know who…” I stopped myself. Of course, he didn't know who I really was.
“I know who you are, Del Farmer."
He knew my name. He could read my thoughts. Fieldman had died and come back as the goddamned Buddha.
“You have many questions, Collective. Allow me to answer some of them for you in a speedy fashion, because although I exist out of time, you are still trapped in its boundaries, and right now, as we speak, several law enforcement officers are coming this way to investigate a fiery disturbance, the same disturbance that ended my life as Agent Fieldman and began my quest out of time, out of this physical plane. I died an agent of the law, and an agent I continue to be, although the laws are different, as is the agency."
“I thought you were going to do this in a ‘speedy fashion'?"
Fieldman's eyes narrowed. “At the moment of my death, you tried to absorb my soul into your Collective. You were too late. The explosion was too late as well. I was caught between those two forces and propelled out of time, into another reality."
This was the first thing that made any sense. I knew I'd grabbed hold of Fieldman's soul before the bomb went off, but my hold weakened. I'd mistakenly thought it meant he was safely tucked away in the Brain Hotel. Apparently, I was very, very wrong.
“In short, I have lived entire lifetimes, the Alpha to the Omega. I have seen the end. I have seen the beginning. I am back to complete a mission: to assist you on your quest. And if you value your quest, you must starting running now, because your cab is ready to leave."
Fieldman had lost me again, but the last bit made sense. I started jogging back toward the motel, praying to God-or Buddha, for that matter-the hack driver had decided to wait this out, despite the explosion and the wailing of police sirens, which were now becoming audible in the distance.
Don't worry, Collective, a voice spoke in my head. I am with you always.
That, I wasn't worried about.
Bless the higher powers: the hack Paul called had stayed put. I mumbled an apology, stuffed my belongings in his trunk, and scooted over into the back seat. I slapped a $50 against the Plexiglas partition and asked to be taken to the Las Vegas International Airport, TWA terminal, pronto. The squad cars and fire engines zoomed past us, spinning into the ground behind the hotel.
“That's not about you, is it?"
“Of course not,” I said, slapping an extra $20 on the glass.
“I didn't think so.” The cabbie pulled us out the through the same dust the cops had stirred up and sped on towards Las Vegas. I took a peek at his license on the dash in case I had to remember it later. STEPHEN M. KNIGHT, it read. RED OWL COMPANY. As turned out, I wouldn't have to remember it: I arrived at the terminal in plenty of time for my flight to Philly, and if Mr. Knight had ratted me out, I never heard about it.
As much as I'd hoped against it, I discovered the Ghost of Fieldman was still with me. He was in the airplane seat next to me, taking in his surroundings with a look of total bemusement. When I closed my eyes to port myself to the Brain Hotel, he was in the lobby, waiting for me. Interesting, he'd say. This resembles a favorite theater from your boyhood. Then he'd pop back into the seat next to me and entertain himself with the seatbelt for a while.
Fieldman was the only soul, it seemed, who could check himself in and out of the Brain Hotel at will.
Fieldman was Soul #13, God save us.
philadelphia, pennsylvania
several hours later
“I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam. I looked into the soul of another boy."
— Woody Allen
Twelve
Love City
I hailed a cab at Philadelphia International and handed the driver the address: 1530 Spruce Street. The Sherman Oaks girl had found a place for me. A friend of hers at the Moore School of Art knew a building that catered to college students and other transients. No year lease required; you could pay by the month. Since it was June, the end of the school year, there were plenty of furnished rooms available.
The building was quite nice, but old. A stone date-marker read “1870,” and it looked it. Perhaps the most recent renovation had been the row of mailboxes in the hotel lobby. As promised, the landlord was waiting outside for me with my keys. He didn't speak much English-or else he didn't care to. I handed him an envelope containing $350-security deposit and a month's rent, up front. He handed me two keys: one for the front door, one for my own apartment. The front door was tagged with a green plastic overlay and a tiny, yellowed sticker that had LOBBY in shaky capital letters. Just in case I was confused. The landlord left without a word.
He is concerned you are a serial killer, said the Ghost of Fieldman in my head.
“Good. Maybe he won't bother me about a late rent check,” I said. “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some peace and quiet."
Every Collective needs his rest, the Ghost agreed. We will speak again.
Oh, I was sure we would.
I pushed all my things inside, then carried my wardrobe (i.e. my plastic trash bags) up to my apartment, and prayed nobody would steal my boxes while I was gone. I keyed in. The first room was tiny-a stove and sink shoved into one corner, a desk and chair in another, and a battered houndstooth couch placed beneath two greased windows that, if cleaned properly, would afford me a great view of a gray brick wall. NEWLY RENOVATED, FURNISHED STUDIO APARTMENT, RITTENHOUSE SQUARE VICINITY, HISTORIC BUILDING. Yeah, Washington slept here all right. And left his crap all over the place.
I opened a door leading into the bedroom. It was furnished with a toilet, bathtub, sink, and mirrored cabinet. Confused, I went back out into the first room and looked for another door. There wasn't one, except for the one through which I'd entered. After some poking around, I learned that the scratchy-looking couch was also a day bed. How efficient-a living room, dining room, kitchen, study and bedroom, all in one, low-priced space! Only now did I realize why the landlord never gave me a tour. The walk upstairs would have taken longer than the tour itself.
I went back down to the lobby and thought about leaving, but instead opted to carry my two cardboard boxes up to my fully-furnished closet. Halfway up, I caught my reflection in the glass covering a fire extinguisher. It shocked me, even after all these months. Brad's face was rugged, yet boyish. Nature's way of saying, I am harmless, but please do not touch. This face, I remember thinking, will serve me well during this investigation.
At this particular moment, however, it did not. Halfway up the second staircase, I met a woman wearing a college sweatshirt and faded jeans. She was carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with papers and books. “Pardon me,” I said, as mechanically as possible.