Alison's soul-her memories, her emotions, her quirks-were stored inside this body. This “simulacrum,” as Fieldman had described it. She had always looked-and felt-so damn real. Weren't robots supposed to be made of cold metal and beeping or something? But she wasn't. Not as far as I could tell.
“You're home?” I heard a voice ask. Amy was standing behind me. Or at least, the visual representation of her soul was standing behind me. Actually, we were two souls, standing inside a mental replication of my apartment.
“Yes, I am. I have a favor to ask."
She walked over to the couch, looking for the cat. “Psss-wsss… Here, kitty.” She turned her head back to me. “Sure. What is it?"
“Just hang out here, and wait for me to call. I have something to take care of."
“No problem. Where's the furball?"
Uh-oh. The furball's soul wasn't currently absorbed in this simulation. “I'm sure he's just hiding,” I said.
“Not many places to hide,” Amy said.
“Be right back.” I hope she didn't start digging around too much. I walked out the door of the apartment. It worked just like the front doors in the Brain Hotel lobby.
It brought me back to reality.
I opened our eyes. I had to move if I was ever going to get my physical body back. I felt inside her pocket for my apartment key and instead found a piece of paper. A note. From “Del Farmer."
Amy-
I'm sorry about what happened. I want to make this work. I know we can. Please stop down later. I'll be home around 9:00. I've left this key for you to let yourself in. Make yourself at home.
I left a present for you on my writing desk.
All my love,
Del
P.S. After you see the present, turn this page over.
“All my love?” Christ, I would never write something like that. I always signed correspondence with a “sincerely,” or perhaps “best,” if I knew the recipient well. Even with the infrequent love interests I'd had I would sign “yours.” And that was pushing it.
I checked Amy's watch. 6:40 p.m. My God, it must be Friday already, I thought. I must have been a toilet for over… 20 hours? If so, this meant the infamous party-the “Best of Philly,” where Susannah would be all alone, needing Paul's protection-started in twenty minutes. And if my hunch was correct, it wouldn't be Paul showing up to take care of her. It would be Brad Larsen, showing up to really take care of her. And I had to stop him before he scotched my entire investigation.
I flipped the note over. On the back was nothing but an address:
473 Winding Way, Merion PA.
I didn't recognize the address-I wasn't even sure if it was close to the city. Merion? Could be a small hamlet outside of Pittsburgh. What was Amy/Alison supposed to do with it?
The answer was sitting across the room, my desk, in the form of a present.
I walked over to the record player on my desk. It had a silver bow and a yellow note attached to it: Play Me. There was a 45 record on the platter. The label had been ripped off. I lifted the arm and dropped the needle into the groove. A familiar guitar note wailed, and rhythm guitars kicked in.
If I could make a wish… I think I'd pass…
Oh God. Not that song.
Can't think of anything I need…
I could feel the tears forming in my/Alison's eyes, and our body starting to tremble. She was remembering. Triggered by the Hollies’ “The Air That I Breathe.” The song she died to. The song that would blast open all the doors in her psyche. In a split second, I relived every torment. And so did Amy. After all, songs pinned down times and places like nothing else.
Bodily control was jerked away from me, and I was back in the Brain simulation of my apartment. (It was kind of like the two different viewpoints you get when you shut one eye, then the other. Subtle, but a shift nonetheless.) I felt us moving toward a mirror. She glared into it, hair in her face, cheeks wet. “Who am I?"
I formed a mental mike and spoke to her. It's me, Del. I'm here to help you Am… Alison.
“I remember,” she said.
I know you do.
“I remember everything."
Yes, I understand.
“I want my husband back."
Okay, Alison. Let's go get him.
Twenty-Three
The Spirits of ‘76
Finding the party wasn't tough. The Philadelphia Art Museum is one of the most obvious landmarks in the world. Somebody had decided to put it right at the end of a parkway that cut a diagonal right across the ordinarily precise grid that was Center City. (Just to shake things up, one presumes.) And that night, in case you were confused, helpful folks in tuxedoes were only too glad to point you in the right direction. A year later, a movie about a scrappy boxer from the slums would seal the Museum's fate, and countless tourists would be compelled to run up this marble torture mountain.
The hardest part was walking in two-inch heels. It was the dressiest thing Alison had in her closet, and they made those damned Museum steps an absolute horror. It was the goddamned Mount Everest of Culture. Do people love art this much? At the top of the 42 million steps, another kid in a tux told us the entrance for the party was around back. I asked Alison if she was okay with taking over her body for a while-after all, she had more experience with these things. She agreed.
We walked around the huge piece of land, and up a sloped driveway to the back, which was littered with Cadillacs dropping people off. At the door, a pimply kid in an ruffled tux shirt three sizes too big asked us for our ticket. Alison started to stammer, so I offered to take over again. We were a spiritual tag team.
“We're on the list,” I said.
“We?” he repeated.
Whoops. “I mean, I'm on the list. With my guest."
The kid nodded and checked his list-a tattered mimeograph. Then he frowned and looked back at us. “Uh, what's your name?"
“Guest of Richard Gard."
It took him a full five minutes to find the Gs. “Right. Gard. He's already inside. With a guest."
“I'm his mistress,” I said, and pushed my way past him.
“Wait!” he called after me. “You forgot your sticker!"
“Stick it up your ass,” I shouted back, which earned me strange looks from some well-dressed bystanders. I smiled coquettishly and kept walking. It was fun being a woman.
I walked down a hallway and into the main hall, the heart of the party. This wasn't your usual swanky affair. The room looked more like a carnival, with booths and tables set along the perimeter of the hall, stocked with beef and booze and deserts and whatever else the editors of the city magazine had deemed “the best.” Smelled like a scam to me. Taste was a highly subjective thing. Frankly, this seemed like a lame excuse to stock a room full of advertisers and have them cater the thing for free. Including, no doubt, the mini Big Band wailing a jazzed-up version of “Turn the Beat Around” over in the corner of the museum.
I nabbed a cup of beer and a cracker full of some kind of seafood and started the search for my body.
Before long, I found it. Brad and our client were standing near a booth sponsored by Wyborowa Vodka, which was giving away free samples in tiny cups. It looked as if Brad had told a joke, because Susannah was laughing and brushing her brown hair back over her ears. Clearly, he hadn't told her yet. I doubt her reaction to “By the way, you're the bitch who knifed me” would be laughter. What was he waiting for?