She came into the room, wearing nothing but a sheer white bra and low-cut panties. “Did you say, Amy?"
“Uh… yes?"
Amy frowned. “Brad, we've been married for almost a year now, and you still can't remember my name?"
Brad? I stole a glimpse of myself in a dresser mirror. Yep, I still had Brad Larsen's face plastered to my skull, even in the weird brain world inside Amy's head. But how did Amy Langtree know Brad Larsen?
Then it hit me like a softball bat upside the head. Of course.
“I'm sorry, Alison."
She walked up to me and put her arms around my chest, then gave me a squeeze. “You'd better remember, mister. So who's this Amy tramp? Some ex-girlfriend? A secretary at work?"
I faked a laugh and squeezed her in return. “Nothing like that. It was a fumble of the tongue.” I kissed her on top of her head. Her hair was damp and smelled like peach shampoo.
Amy/Alison looked up at me. “You need help with your tongue?” She moved her mouth over mine, and flicked her tongue across my teeth.
Not what I needed right now. Forget traveling from a toilet to the bowels of Hell-this was far weirder. Making out with a woman's repressed memory inside her own head? I politely and quickly kissed her back, then broke the embrace. “Wait, wait. I wanted to ask you something.” I was lying, of course. “Do you know where my day planner is?"
Amy/Alison wrinkled her forehead. “You don't have a day planner. We write everything on the calendar on the desk."
“Right,” I said. “That's what I meant. The desk calendar."
“Then why did you ask me where it was? It's been on the desk all year long."
“Of course,” I said, and kissed her again, strongly tempted to linger. But I couldn't. There was too much to sort out. Already, the pieces were connecting in my mind. And those few connections were scaring the hell out of me. I needed time to think.
I walked for the bedroom door. “Be back in a second,” I said, then walked through it. The layout of the house was completely unfamiliar. I wandered down a plushly-carpeted hallway and opened the door, which turned out to be the bathroom. (I gave the toilet a nod, out of professional courtesy.) I doubled back and checked out a few more doors, but they were closets. Finally, I went downstairs and poked around the living room-hardwood floors, curio cabinets, real art on the walls-and then I saw the sign.
DO NOT ENTER UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH!
It was attached to a door. Another gateway to another Hell? If this house was Hell, I could only assume the door led to the Taj Mahal, or something.
I opened the door and stepped through. Suddenly, I was outside. And this outside was familiar. Dishearteningly familiar.
It was the Witness Protection house in Woody Creek-the one that was supposed to have been razed to the ground, as per Special Agent Nevins’ orders. And no doubt, it had been. Only this one was the one from Amy/Alison's memories, locked away where she couldn't (or wouldn't dare) find them.
Alison Larsen's life was stowed away in the back compartments of Amy Langtree's mind. But where did that leave the real Amy? As a cover identity for the real soul, Alison, or a separate and distinct entity herself? And what was housing Amy/Alison-a Brain that could support a collection of souls, like my own Brain? (A Brain that, I remembered, had been hijacked a few hours ago by Brad Larsen.) Or was it an artificial repository?
My God-was Amy real?
For once, I wished I had the Ghost Fieldman here to explain things to me. But of course, he was probably the one who helped build all of this. He and Brad Larsen, in secret alliance to find the killers themselves, letting me poke around in the dark on my own. Brad Larsen was his mission; not me. I felt like a man who's been declared obsolete. All this time I assumed myself to be special, gifted, and it turns out I'm just another schlump spinning his wheels day after day, thinking he's making a difference, but not doing a damn thing worthwhile to anyone. Utterly disposable. A man you could flush down a toilet without an ounce of pity. A nothing man. A dead man.
With nothing better to do, I looked around at the scenery. It was nice here. The grass, the trees, the sloping gravel walk up to the house. Maybe this is where I should stay-hole myself up in a literal ghost house forever. Let the real men handle the tough work. Sit and read and listen to the Beatles albums I remembered and relax.
I went to the front door and walked inside. The interior was how I remembered it-minus the blood and cops milling about, mind you. Nice, respectable piece of property. There was a portable radio on a small card table. “The Air That I Breathe” was playing… No cigarettes, no light, no sleep, no sound…
There was a knock at the door behind me.
I spun my head to look at it, and when I turned back to the room I saw Brad Larsen, sitting at a desk, reading something out of a thick textbook. I was about to call out to him, but I turned my attention to the door and opened it, not thinking. Halfway open, it occurred to me this was probably a bad idea.
And it was. Ray Loogan's eyebrows lifted, and then there was an explosion that blew out my eardrums, and the next thing I knew, my throat had exploded. I inhaled. It was like drinking flaming oil. My mouth and lungs burned. I couldn't catch my breath. I heard a man screaming, furniture breaking. I could feel the ground shake beneath my head with every stomp and kick.
…peace came upon and it leaves me weak…
I heard glasses rattling, grunting noises.
After a while, I couldn't hear anything.
Then a gunshot.
Then nothing.
Of course, I knew what was happening to me. I was reliving Alison Larsen's death, which had been locked away deep within her mind. But why? If Brad was trying to bring back his dead wife through Amy, why keep the painful memories at all? And why was this taking so long?
I knew the answer to that one, too. The human soul doesn't always depart its body right away. If it has a reason to, it can hang around for a day, maybe even longer. And Alison had plenty of reason to hang around.
Thus, I hung around in Alison Larsen's rapidly-cooling corpse. I watched a woman step over my body, but I couldn't make out a face. Then I watched the same woman drag the man who'd shot me out of the house. They were both careful to avoid my body. I listened to the radio for longer than I cared to, though I couldn't distinguish any of the songs, or the announcements, or advertisements. Every song, in fact, sounded like the Hollies’ “The Air That I Breathe.” The rest was meaningless garbage. I sensed the sun setting and darkness filling the corners of the house. Somewhere deep in my mind there was a sense of urgency, a need to escape this situation and return to my own life… whoever I was… and back on the case. Whatever that was. The dark hours rolled by. My soul hung on to the corpse, like a piece of wet tissue paper on a shoe.
Then, light again. A new morning, and warmth-slight warmth, not nearly the degree I was used to. Then, a child's face. At first, he looked shocked; then amused, the corners of his mouth curling up, eyes alive with mischief. He ran away. About a half-hour later, he returned with a few of his buddies. The Secret Dead Woman Club. They started by unbuttoning my blouse, already dried and sticky with blood. They stared at my breasts, and touched my nipples with short, grubby fingers.
I don't wish to recount the details of their petty experiments and probings. This record is not meant to degrade the memory of Alison Larsen. Suffice to say, they left no taboo untried. I wish I could have protected Alison…
The thought reminded me: I was not Alison Larsen. I was trapped in her memories. I was… who was I? No names would come. I didn't remember who I was, or much of my purpose here. All I knew was that I was Not Alison.