I passed a silver punch bowl and caught my reflection, which answered my own question. Of course. He's waiting for me. The Alison me.
No, Brad wasn't expecting his bride-in-a-robot to show up here, now. He'd intended her to show up much later in the evening, around 9:30, say, at 473 Winding Way in Merion. For whatever reason.
It was time to liven this party up.
“Hi there, Pauly boy,” I said. Because in this context, it was his name. Paul After. Protector of innocents. Killer of men. “Long time, no see. Who's the tramp?"
I watched Susannah's eyebrows lift in confusion, then suddenly plummet in contempt. “Paul…?” she asked.
The color drained from Brad/Paul's face. I could practically smell the smoke burning in his fevered brain. Was he trying to figure out how his dead wife showed up here, ahead of schedule? Or was he trying to calculate a way out of this without ruining his master plan?
Either way, it didn't matter. I used the opportunity to launch myself out of Amy/Alison's body, right into his eyes, and back into my own body.
To be honest, I wasn't sure I could do something like that. It'd always been the opposite: sucking somebody else in-absorption, not active possession. The thing seemed to work both ways, however. I saw the world in front of me enlarge, as if I were moving my head closer and closer to a photograph. Paul's eyes grew as immense as national monuments, and I dove right in.
It's hard to describe what happened next in physical terms. Kind of like tackling somebody to the ground, only using your head. In other words, it hurt like the dickens.
Next thing I knew, Brad and I were rolling around on the Brain Hotel lobby floor. I was back. Yes, praise the Lord, I was home. I lifted myself up to my knees. It was time to reassume command of this vessel, damn it.
Brad threw a fist into my gut.
Or, to be technical about it, he threw a fist into the part of my soul that equated with the human stomach. I buckled over for a moment, then tossed a fist back into the part of him equated with the human nose.
It snapped, and spurted out the soul equivalent of blood.
I jumped to my feet. Brad was snarling like an angry dog. “Bastard! You don't know when you're finished, do you?"
“Nope,” I said, then dove through the lobby doors.
I woke up in the real world.
Unfortunately, in the real world I was lying on a collapsed table, soaked in Stoli vodka. Susannah and Amy/Alison were both holding one of my hands, rubbing and tapping as if to snap me out of it.
A couple of confused-looking men in black tie-presumably, representatives of the Stoli company-stood behind them, no doubt checking the damage to their booth.
“I'm sorry,” I said, struggling to my feet. Both women helped me up. “Very, very sorry. Susannah, will you pardon me for a moment?"
“What's happening, Paul?” she asked, touching my shoulder. “Are you okay?"
“Fine, fine. Just need a second to myself.” I stumbled forward and took Amy/Alison's arm. “Follow me,” I whispered. I felt like I was in some absurd sitcom double-date scenario. Torn between two lovers.
We walked to the back of the hall-the only clear space I could find. On the way, however, I took care of some urgent business. For the first time, I ejected a human soul out into an inanimate object in the real world.
I sent Brad Larsen's soul into the spinning corpse of a roasted pig mounted on a metal spit. I'm not sure what company had sponsored that.
“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."