“Alison, there are many things I need to tell you.” I was trying like hell to sound like Brad. I figured this was no time to tell Alison her husband's soul was stuck inside a roasted pig.
“Brad, I'm confused. All I hear are voices…"
“Shhh. I know.” I grabbed her and held her close to me.
“You gotta hang on for me. I have to go and do something, then I'll be right back to take you away from here."
“What do you have to do?"
I wasn't about to tell her the truth: I had to take my ex-client outside, kill her, then absorb her soul for later interrogation. Instead I told her, “Nothing important."
Alison looked like a cat trapped in a corner. “I don't know any of these people. What am I supposed to do?"
“Here.” I reached around to the table behind her and snatched up a tiny portion of a cheesteak, skewered on a plastic toothpick. “Have something to eat. There's plenty of free food here.” I wondered: Did robots eat? Then I remembered her attacking her burritos with gusto on our date at Casa Tequila a couple of nights ago. God, how long ago that seemed.
“Okay,” she said, taking the sandwich and sinking her teeth into it. I was disturbed how different she seemed now-like a compliant child. I promised myself I would sort everything out for her when this was over. I owed her that.
I needed a moment to think about the best way to kill Susannah. This party was not the ideal place, but enough was enough. I had to do it now. Absorb her soul, get whatever info I could out of her, then head west. If I could pick up a beat on the ever-elusive Ray Loogan, great. I'd kill him, too. Either way, I was certainly going to force Brad Larsen to spill whatever beans he had left. The gig was over.
The best way to think straight, if you're a guy, is to take a piss. Following a few taped paper signs with black arrows, I stumbled into an ornate men's room with too many stalls to count. I walked along a long mirror above the row of sinks. I told myself the key was to keep it simple, basic. Maybe invite her outside for a breath of fresh air, then slit her throat? No, no, too much mess. Strangulation? Always an iffy proposition. Although I was steeped up to my eyeballs in death, I had amazingly little experience with murder. This, technically, would be my first.
I chose a urinal near the end. I started into my eyes in the steel piping. This wasn't murder, though. Susannah Winston-or Lana Lewalski, or Lulu Lakawana, or whatever the hell her real name was-would live on in the Brain Hotel. I could give her a better life than any adulterous lawyer could. Hell, if I could find Paul's soul, the two of them would make a happy couple.
My self-justifications were interrupted when the stall door opened behind me. Before I could stop the stream of piss a hunk of metal was pressed to the back of my head.
“Hello, Paul."
“Uh, hello,” I said. “Leah, isn't it?"
“Very funny. You and the slut are going to die tonight."
“I see."
“You had to fuck with your only lifeline, didn't you? With me, you had a chance. Ray wanted to kill you both from the word go."
“Oddly enough, Leah, I wish you'd listened to Ray."
That did it. Leah threw up an arm and smashed it into my face, pinning my head against the clammy tile wall. The pistol pressed into the back of my neck.
“Stop fucking around with me,” she hissed.
I closed my eyes and sighed.
Big mistake.
Without warning, I found myself standing in the Brain Hotel lobby. The Ghost of Fieldman was standing there, holding his metal gizmos. “It is imperative you leave this situation to me, Collective."
“Sorry,” I said. “No raving psychotics allowed.” I stormed off toward the lobby doors and walked through them. I walked smack into a brick wall. My brick wall.
“Do keep trying,” Fieldman said. “Try until you crack your spectral head."
“What's going on?"
“You've lost control,” Fieldman said. He was suddenly standing right behind me. “Stop fighting it."
To accent the “it,” Fieldman shoved the metal gizmo deep into my spectral body. I felt a white heat wash over me. My Brain limbs turned to jelly, and I fell to the carpet, at which point the gizmo tunneled through my chest and locked into the carpet. I tried to sit up, but it hurt so bad I didn't try again. I could barely breathe-or at least, perform the soul-equivalent of breathing-without spasms of pain.
The Ghost of Fieldman smiled at me, waved, then faded back into reality. As usual, without going through the lobby doors. Or saying what a goose he was.
But this time Fieldman did something new.
I watched, impaled to the lobby floor, as Fieldman resumed control of my body. Leah was looking down at my body on the bathroom floor, directly in front of the urinals. I must have collapsed when Fieldman yanked me back inside.
Get up, she commanded, nudging Fieldman's/our chest with her gun. C'mon, I didn't hit you that hard.
My pleasure, Fieldman said. Could you give me a hand?
To my surprise, she did. She kept the gun trained on him the entire time, though.
Fieldman brushed the wrinkles out of his/our suit, and adjusted the tie. I understand you and Mr. Loogan wish to kill us? Excellent. In fact, I'll even supply you with the address where we'll be staying this evening. The only thing I ask is that you wait a couple of hours, which will give me time to call my insurance company and put a few things in order. Then I'm all yours. Please do stop over. Shoot me in the head. Shoot Ms. Winston in the head. Shoot everyone in the head, if you please.
You, Leah said, are still fucking with me?
No, Fieldman said, then whipped out his fist and smashed Leah in the jaw. She stumbled back. Fieldman punched her again, then smacked the gun out of her hand and used his forearm to bulldoze her back into the stall she'd originally popped out of. I watched as her head connected with porcelain. She was out.
I gave that up long, long ago, Ms. Farrell.
Fieldman took a Magic Marker out of his suit pocket. He scratched out an address on a paper towel-the infamous 473 Winding Way-then balled it and gently tucked it down the front of Leah's dress.
He seemed to paused for a moment, then applied the marker to Leah's forehead. On it he wrote: BRING A DATE.
On the lobby screen, I watched Fieldman walk back out into the party, squeezing past hundreds of people shoveling food into their faces. No matter that they were all rich enough to sit at home and have a hundred Philly cheeseteaks delivered via limo without a second thought. The idea of hogging free food was too good to pass up.
Fieldman walked past the roasted pig, then paused. Nuts, I thought. He was collecting Brad again. True enough, within seconds, Brad appeared back in lobby. He scowled at me, then started to laugh.
“You're lucky a large percentage of guests at the party don't eat swine."
“I should have dumped your soul in a keg of beer,” I said.
“Don't go giving me any ideas, toilet-face.” Brad walked over to the lobby doors, then paused to turn. “Let me send a friend of yours back to keep you company."
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."