“Yeah-you. I mean, here was Ray, a nobody, handed half a million bucks to whack one of the Man's top turncoats. Even Ray knew it sounded odd. On one hand, it sounded like the deal of a lifetime. On the other, it sounded like a way to take out the uppity freshmen. A reverse hit, and the beauty is, nobody pays a dime."
“Ray shows up, and I'm sure to kill him."
“Correct. Ray decides to take along his girlfriend-one Lana Lewalski. Right there should have been the clue: This guy ain't pro yet. You never bring an outsider along for any job, let alone a career-maker. But Ray had it all planned out: drive out, spend a few days studying up, make the hit, split, have the rest of the payment wired out to him, and spend a few days kicking around the East Coast. Lana, apparently, wanted to be in Philadelphia for the Bicentennial."
Major click. Even Paul shuddered, and it wasn't from the tequila. It was the same damn thing Susannah had told Gard.
“What'd he tell her? It'd be a great family vacation?"
“Well, it could have been,” Susannah said, “except that the happy couple's first stop was to an abortion clinic. Talk about killing two birds with one stone."
Paul didn't laugh. “How did you get involved in Ray's mess? You find yourself feeling bad for the sorry prick?"
Leah took a small sip of her beer, then raised her fingers like a peace sign. “That's two questions."
Paul swallowed a sigh. Leah poured him more tequila. Up to the brim.
“Go ahead. Trust me-you're going to need it."
Take it easy Paul, I tried to warn him. But it was no use.
It took three whole gulps to finish it. Now that wasn't fair-it was clearly more than two ordinary shots. I wished I could pop out of Paul's head and call a time out.
The viewing screen started to wobble at this point, and the audio crackled in spots. I was confident it would all hold up at some basic level; after all, this whole framework I'm in no hurry to disgrace myself in front of your father had been constructed by my own brain power, and I was Call a seven, c'mon goddamnit, call a seven or I'll start worshipping the devil, let's go the equivalent of a public utility. It was the individual users I was worried about. The last thing I needed was grapes never taste right in this friggin’ fridge. I like ‘em cold and crisp. In this damn thing, they might as well be a mob of angry and confused souls stomping down here, demanding to know why entire pieces of their rooms had suddenly swirled away the best one is the one about the bookworm who works in a bank, and seals himself in a vault right before the big one hits like a cigarette butt in a flushed toilet. That's how alcohol fucked with the brain. How else can I explain it? But oh, God, GOD, GOD! The voices!
“I was thinking you'd be able to tell me,” Leah said.
“I tollld you,” Paul said. “I doan remember a damn thing."
“Oh, yes. That's right. Let me give you Ray's version, then. He tracks you down easily enough-the Man bought the address from a Wit Protec flunky. Woody Creek, Illinois is where they stashed you. You remember that much?"
“Yeah,” Paul lied.
“After a couple of days of recon, Ray decides to make the push. He goes right up and knocks on your door. Talk about brass ones, huh? Figured you'd expect every other approach except that one. You open the door, one trigger pull, and it's all over."
Paul nodded. I think, mostly to avoid Leah hearing the slur in his speech.
“Only, the door opens, and it's not you. It's some woman Ray's never seen before. You remember getting married, Paul?"
“Uh-uh."
“Well, that's one mystery solved. She was a hooker."
“Must've been."
God, please don't let Brad Larsen ever read a transcript of this conversation. What if his thoughts were leaking through? And what if it worked both ways? I stumbled forward and, after some grappling around, found the lobby mike. Paul, listen to me. You have got to Kill the tramp where she sits. Go ahead. Stab her in the eye with the fork on the table find a way to stop drinking.
Damn these voices!
“Anyway, Ray freaked out and fired anyway, and nailed the bitch in the throat. Which gave you enough time to charge him. Ray couldn't get a shot; you two tumbled around and somehow scuffled around on the back porch. You took a pistol from Ray's belt and plugged him in the leg."
“Hmmm.” Paul's eyes lingered on the tequila bottle, kind of a like a condemned man gazing at the guillotine.
“You thirsty? All this macho talk make your throat dry?"
Paul shook his head.
I grabbed the lobby mike and tried to pep-talk him through this. Hang on, buddy. You're doing nothing about the situation. Stab her in the eye stab her in the eye stab her in the eye good. We've almost got what we need to know.
“I'm hanginnn on,” Paul said, out loud.
Oh no! What the hell was he doing?
“All thisssounds familiar to me,” Paul said.
Be quiet, Paul! She put a bullet in her tits put a bullet in her tits can hear you!
“Oh, is it all coming back to you?” Leah said, one eyebrow tilted to heaven. “I thought it might. Maybe you'd like to start explaining some things to me, then."
“I know who you are,” Paul blurted, slur gone.
“Introductions have been well established, I think,” Leah said.
Paul? What the hell are you doing?
“It's nnnot me,” Paul said like he was speaking underwater.
Then, in a voice as crisp and vibrant as a new day: “No, you don't know me, Leah Farrell. I came after After. But I know you. And you can rest assured I'm going to destroy you for helping the man who killed my wife."
Oh boy. Clearly, we had another soul speaking through our physical body. It was easy to guess who. But how? And from where? And what the hell was he doing, scotching the very investigation he hired me to conduct?
Leah, for her part, looked unnerved by this whole turn of events. She probably expected Paul to loosen up, maybe even surrender a few details to help sort things out. I'm sure she didn't expect this… calamity.
“What do you mean…” she asked, “…wife? You weren't married."
“True enough; Paul was never married. But I was. To a beautiful, selfless, endlessly giving woman who wanted nothing in life but to appreciate beauty and art and raise brilliant children."
Had there been any doubt about the identity of our mystery caller, it was gone.
“Who the fuck are you?” Susannah asked.
“I am going the be the last voice you ever hear,” Brad Larsen said. He reached forward, grabbed the bottle of Cuervo, poured himself a healthy drink, sucked it into his mouth, then sprayed it all over Leah's face.
Of course, I only heard this last part by remote; I was running through the Brain Hotel-half faux-running, half porting my soul-racing towards Brad Larsen's room. I kicked open the door just as Brad was simulating his boozy raspberry-the one our body was acting out in real life. “Brad, God damn it!"
There was some kind of metal gizmo wrapped around his head, with tiny wires and rubber patches attached to his forehead and temples. He was moving his right arm forward, and grabbing an imaginary object that rested on an imaginary table right in front of him. Brad's eyes slowly opened, and he smiled. “And now we light the match…"
It didn't take long for me to figure out what was going for. I leapt forward and slapped his head with my open hand. Stung the hell of me, but at least it succeeded in dislodging the gizmo. I grabbed it with my non-throbbing hand and yanked it free. It made tiny pop! pop! pop! sounds.