“Talk about timing,” I said.
Fieldman nodded. “Yes. Brad had arranged for that. He figured the FBI was here at the beginning, might as well call them in at the end. I can't believe how clouded my judgement has been."
“Hello!” Susannah yelled. “Can't you see I have a fucking gun to your head?"
“Sorry,” Fieldman said.
I was growing tired of the interruptions. Part of me wished I had shown up after Brad had deep-sixed both of them. “Lady, listen to me,” I said from Ray's bleeding body. “Do you still think can control this situation? After all you've seen tonight?"
Susannah didn't bother to give me a rational answer. Instead, she whipped the pistol around and fired, screaming, “AND YOU!"
The shot was amazing. It planted directly beneath my right eye, dug a few inches into my skull, then exploded back and out. All in all, a much more professional shot than the one she'd delivered to my other head mere hours ago. Talk about a learning curve.
When my vision dimmed and my head flopped to the left, I started to worry. This was beyond my bag of resurrection tricks. If someone were to poke out Ray Loogan's remaining eye, I'd be screwed, blued and tattooed. And as much as I've complained before about all the miserable places my soul had been shuttled to, this was by far the King Daddy shit-pick of the year.
I could still see, though, out of my remaining eye. Susannah had the gun back on Fieldman. Why didn't he use the distraction to disarm her?
“The law is coming for you,” Fieldman said.
“Don't worry,” she said. “I'll explain everything to them. How you killed all of these nasty people. How you tried to kill me."
“They won't believe you, Ms. Lewalski."
“No, but they will believe Susannah Winston. She has powerful friends. She has a powerful father. She can explain her way out of anything."
Feds kicked in the front door; footsteps thundered up the hallway. My old buddy-Special Agent in Charge Dean Nevins-whipped out his pistol, doing the best Dirty Harry impression he could muster. “Drop your weapon!"
“Oh, can she?” Fieldman whispered, looking directly into her eyes.
“Explain this."
Susannah's trigger finger twitched, enough to fire the gun. At first, I'd thought she'd flinched, but then it became clear what had happened. God, that clever, stupid bastard. His face-which looked like Brad's, but used to belong to a Philadelphia police officer-exploded in a blur of wet crimson, and his body flipped back to the ground. I wonder what kind of gizmo he'd used to do that. The look on Susannah's face was priceless. Absolute and complete horror.
One might say what happened next speaks volumes about the self-control of Dean Nevins-after all, any other agent would have immediately started pumping lead into the psycho bitch. But Nevins didn't do that. He calmly and sternly repeated himself. “Drop your weapon now, woman!"
Susannah turned to face him, gun still in her hand. Ooh, bad form, girl.
“Drop it!” Nevins squawked. His entire body seemed to tense.
“God, NO! He did this-"
“I said DROP IT!"
“Yes, yes, of course…” Susannah bent down to put the gun on the floor.
“That's it."
Susannah complied, even offering a weak, vulnerable smile.
“Now just step away from the body…"
I couldn't believe it. Despite Fieldman's last-minute efforts to the contrary, it looked as if Susannah Winston was going to explain her way out of this one, too. Her whole life had been lying her way into bigger and better social circles-shit desert town to gun moll, gun moll to high-society mistress, high-society mistress to… what? Directrix of the FBI?
Thankfully, it wasn't to be. A thirst for justice runs in the Larsen family.
From behind, Alison slid her hand across Nevins’ beefy forearm. For a brief second, he looked confused: Why was this attractive woman touching his arm? A sudden manifestation of gratitude for saving her life?
Of course, a second was all that Alison Larsen, robot, simulacrum, android, whatever-needed. She found Nevins’ trigger finger and managed to squeeze off three shots before he could stop her. Susannah's chest and face exploded in near-tandem. She choked and flung her hands to her throat, then stumbled and collapsed back to the floor.
Nevins wrestled the gun away and threw Alison to the ground. He stared at the bodies on the floor, then at Alison. He lowered his gun and closed his eyes tightly.
I let a sigh escape my dead lips, and then I involuntarily passed out.
I heard movement, then decided it was okay to opened my one working eye again.
Alison had scrambled up from the floor and ran to Brad's side. She was ignoring Susannah, who was lying nearby and choking on her own blood. Alison grabbed her husband's hand, crying. “Brad, please… please don't go now… not now.” She took his face in her hands, rubbed his forehead, passed her thumbs over his eyes.
And then the crying stopped. Alison sniffled, then cleared her throat.
“Sorry it has to end this way, Larsen,” she whispered. But it wasn't Alison talking anymore.
Brad's corpse didn't make a sound, but something inside must have.
“No,” Alison/Fieldman said. “You've done enough for now. It's time for you to rest.” Another pause. “Shhh. See you on the flip side."
Alison walked over to me and forced open my eyelids. “Your investigation's officially over."
I didn't reply. I knew it was Fieldman talking, and I knew it would be useless to resist. For the first time, I was ready to accept that my investigation was over.
She was the last thing I saw before my own, borrowed, dead eye fluttered shut.
Twenty-Seven
Four and a Half Dead Bodies
The next time they opened I was staring at Special Agent Dean Nevins. My long lost friend in the Bureau. After spending a month with the ghost of his former flunky, I was almost happy to see him. Nevins forced my eyelid up with a fat thumb.
“Hello, dead guy,” he asked, deadpan. “And what happened to you?"
I decided it was time to work the magic just one more time.
“The usual,” I said. I watched his face turn white and his eyes bulge-very, very wide-and then I jumped into his body.
Practice must make perfect, I guess. Nevins’ knees didn't even buckle. I stood up and started barking orders, just like Nevins would have done himself. Get these bodies tagged and I.D.'d. Where are the print guys? Come on, fellas-are we running an investigation, or a three-ring circus here? At that moment, the phone rang. One of the other agents answered it. He seemed to listen for a long time, then turned to me.
“Boss? It's a Mr. Gard. He's asking for Susannah Winston or Paul After?"
“I'll take the call,” I said. “Hello, Gard? Hi. Special Agent Nevins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How are you doing tonight?"
“What's going on there?"
“Well, there are a bunch of dead bodies scattered all over the living room floor of your parents’ house. Including your mistress, Susannah Winston, nee Lana Lewalski, a hooker from Las Vegas wanted for murder. Pinned to your parents’ couch is her ex-boyfriend, cheap hood Ray Loogan, also wanted for murder. Then across the room is Leah Farrell, yet another piece of Vegas scum. She had her throat shot open. Lastly, there's a guy who's face has been blasted beyond all recognition. Frankly, we don't know who he is. Quite possibly, he's a rogue FBI agent we've been looking for."
“Who?” Gard asked. “What… what are you talking about? I… I don't know these people!"
“Yeah, well that's the funny thing, Gard,” I said. “Right after I got here, I ran into the P.I. you hired. He wanted me to pass on a message to you."