I must have set a land-speed record on the drive back to the Art Museum. I tried to estimate how much time I had before Slatkowski called for back-up. Not much-probably the amount of time it would take for him to find a public phone. Most cops kept a taped roll of dimes handy in case of emergency. I had a couple of minutes. Maybe. That's why I felt it necessary to drive the police cruiser over the sidewalk and up the fourteen million steps to the front door. My front fender even snapped one of those POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS banners clean in half. Gratuitous? Maybe to somebody else. I refused to walk up those goddamn steps twice in one night.
There were still a few forensics boys on the scene. They looked panicked. In all fairness, I would be too if I saw a blue-and-white fly up a 45-degree marble-stepped incline and screech to a halt.
I gave them all a nod and walked right past. One of them made a wisecrack about free parking, but one of his buddies gave him an elbow and a “Shhh!” Good.
“Watch my wheels,” I said.
I swept around the entirety of the grand entrance, and one by one recollected every one of my Brain Hotel residents. The forensics team must have thought I had gone daft, but who did I have to impress? Hell, I wasn't even in my own body anymore.
I found Doug hiding in a thick medieval rug. I could feel him when I stepped on it and he yelled. Imagine an eternity of grubby tourists stepping on your soul? A touch to a Grecian Urn revealed my good friend Kevin Kennedy. Sorry, I told him. No death today. Old Tom was lounged out in a wall tapestry. Just like Old Tom to be hangin’ around. Genevieve. Harlan. Fredric. Lynda, George, Mort. They were all happy to see me.
The only soul I couldn't find was Paul Bafoures/After. I suppose he had moved into whatever dimension lay beyond this one. The one Robert escaped to five years ago. I envied Paul. For one, he was enjoying a retirement I longed for someday. Secondly, he wouldn't have to be here on Earth, headed to Merion, to deal with the shit I was going to have to deal with.
“All right boys,” I announced over the Brain Hotel courtesy telephone. I didn't have time to reconstruct the entire Brain Hotel, but I did slap a decent replica of the lobby, and this time included an open bar. Old Tom manned the taps.
“We're going on a field trip."
Twenty-Six
Gallantly Screaming
Twenty-five minutes later, we finally arrived at 473 Winding Way, in Lower Merion Township. It wasn't easy. As it turned out, not a single one of my souls knew Philadelphia and its suburbs well enough to give directions. Someone-I think it was Kevin Kennedy-briefly mentioned the idea of killing and absorbing a cab driver, but that seemed gratuitous.
Then it struck me: I was currently housing a soul who was intimately familiar with the area. The cop.
His name was Bill Madia, and he was a tough nut to crack. I tried reasoning with him, explaining the situation. Nothing. I promised him favors, offered to buy him a dozen Boston Cremes at Dunkin’ Donuts. No go. In fact, he wouldn't say a single word until I demonstrated the horrors of having your soul trapped in an inanimate object. (In his case, the steering wheel.) And even then, it was just to spit out the words, “Screw you, punk."
Finally, Old Tom came to my rescue. He seemed to recall something about Lynda, the Brain hooker who had given me the Ray Loogan info in the first place. She had grown up in the Philly suburbs before running away and into a life of ill repute.
Lynda stepped forward in the lobby, looking all bashful. “Yeah, I know the way to Merion."
“God bless you,” I told her.
“Can I drive?"
About three or four of the souls said “No” simultaneously. I guess they'd already seen her drive, in a manner of speaking.
So, it was up to me. Of course, I'd wrecked the suspension on the police cruiser when I assaulted Mount Art Museum, but no matter. I didn't plan to take that car anyway-too easy for Slatkowski to find. I made one of the forensic geeks offer up his car keys. “Keep my spot open,” I'd told him.
I drove while Lynda directed.
The house on Winding Way was meant to be unlike every other house on the block, but that was the problem: they were all different in the same exact way. All colonial-looking mini-mansions. Palatial, but oh-so tasteful. It didn't seem like Susannah Winston's style. Or Lana Lewalski's, for that matter.
I approached the front yard of 473. The mailbox read J. GARD in metal-embossed letters. A relative of Richard's-most likely his parents. I opened the box and saw that it was stuffed with letters and bills: Philadelphia Gas and Electric. American Express. Something thick from Republicans for Ford/Dole ‘76. It was all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Gard. Yep, parents for sure.
A scenario painted itself in my mind: Middle of June, parents away at a summer cottage, mostly likely the South Jersey Shore. They give trustworthy, lawyer son keys to the pad to check up on it every once in a while. Lawyer son gives a copy of keys to his mistress, for out of town rendezvous. Mistress treats it as her retreat from reality.
But how did Brad and Fieldman know all this? Hey, I never claimed to be the world's greatest detective. I suppose it had something to do with Fieldman being “out of time.” The enlightenment I had enjoyed earlier, while speaking to Fieldman, had long faded away. Maybe that's because I'd died again. Did Christ rise on the third day feeling dumber than ever? I'd almost bet on it.
I crept up to the front door, which I saw was ajar. I could hear voices from deep within the house. Do it. Come on, do it. I couldn't place the voice, though. I withdrew Officer Madia's pistol from his holster and stepped inside.
Not surprisingly, the first thing I found was a dead body. It was Leah Farrell, chest soaked with blood. Her own, I assumed. The words BRING A DATE were still on her forehead, but faded a bit, as if she'd tried to scrub them away. I crept down to feel what was left of her neck for a pulse, but found none. Instead, I found a close-range bullet wound to the throat. Just like Alison Larsen's. So far, quite an amazing reproduction, I had to admit.
I walked down a narrow hallway, next to a staircase, which led back to what I took to be the living room. Living was a strange word to be associated with what I saw going on in there.
A man was affixed to an antique sofa with what looked like barbecue skewers and coarse rope-the ever-mysterious Ray Loogan. He wasn't a terribly tough-looking guy, to be honest. I guess I'd built him up in my mind to be so much more that seeing him now disappointed me. Then again, anybody tied to a couch and poked with sharp pieces of metal will look kind of pathetic. Next to him was Susannah, who was bound in a similar manner, only without the skewers. In front of them stood Alison Larsen, holding a pistol. She heard me and spun around. I could still see the bullet hole through the top of her evening dress.
“Hi, Alison,” I said. “I see you have a few guests over for the evening."
“Thank God!” Susannah cried, giving me her most alluring-yet-pitying look.
“Shut up,” I said. “I'm not here to save you. In fact, I've got half a mind to finish the job myself.” I turned my attention back to Alison. “Care to step outside?"
The corners of Alison's robot mouth curled up. But it wasn't her soul talking. “It's you, isn't it?” she asked. “God, you're a resilient bastard when you want to be."