Secret Dead Men

Eleven Supernatural Disaster

Without another thought, I whipped myself through the front doors of the lobby and muttered owatta goo siam and regained control of my body. I'm sure being jerked away from the controls wasn't a pleasant sensation for Paul, but I didn't give a hoot at that particular point. Paul had planned to kill Fieldman without a second thought. While I may be many things to many men-rogue agent, crappy detective, soul collector-I'm not a killer. At least, not when I can help it.

I recalled, with a shudder, my command to Paul to “take care of him."

My vision swirled for a few seconds, and I felt my soul ooze back into the confines of my physical body. My skin was sweaty, my muscles fatigued. Paul had kept us busy. I spun around and saw the Datsun, parked about 100 yards away near a group of dirty boulders. I started running for it.

“Paul,” I said aloud.

Nothing. My heart started to smack against my ribcage. My lungs informed me that I was running way too fast for my own good. I didn't care.

“Paul!” I yelled.

His words spat out in my skull. Don't go back there! You're going to kill us all!

“How long we got left on the timer?” I wheezed.

No time, goddamnit! Turn the fuck around!

“How long?"

Paul didn't answer. Maybe he went back to his room to say a few prayers. It wasn't a bad idea.

After what felt like a mini-marathon, I reached the Datsun and accidentally slammed into it. That's it, I thought: Ka-boom. The second death of Del Farmer, once again by flaming automobile. Mercifully, though, the car only bucked on its suspension. My hands flittered around the trunk uselessly for a few seconds before I realized I needed the key. I patted down my pants pockets, then my shirt. Flat.

“Paul, where are the keys? Where are the car keys, damnit?"

A quiet voice spoke in my head: I threw them in the trunk.

Perfect.

Ordinarily, I would have found myself in a state of absolute despair-the kind that leaves you no other option but to piss your pants and start barking like a dog. Or running away from the car as fast as you can, forgetting about all this “morality” bullshit and catching a cab outta here. But I was moving along with such a fevered inertia that I bent down, snatched a rock from the ground, and starting pounding the rock on the keyhole of the trunk.

Predictably, it didn't do a thing except chip the paint.

Still, I struck it again and again, thinking that every blow would be it: Ka-Powsville. I kept it up, like that crazy ape from the opening scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I wished I had a bone. I'd fling it into the air and all of a sudden the “Blue Danube” would be playing and I'd be aboard an interplanetary PanAm ship flying to the moon. Da-da-dadada… THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, interrupting the peaceful strains of Strauss. The bullet whizzed past my right ear.

I stumbled back a few steps, then dropped to the ground.

Then, another shot. I looked at the Datsun, and sure enough, there were two fresh puncture marks by the keyhole. When the third shot rang out, it was clear what had happened. Paul had clocked Fieldman and dumped him in the trunk along with all his belongings… including his gun. I guess he hadn't counted on him waking up anytime soon.

The fourth was a charm. The slug shattered the lock, the lid flew open, and Fieldman popped up like a Detroit Dracula. His eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight-he didn't have those stupid sunglasses on anymore. He wasn't too blind to see me, though. The me who Fieldman thought had smacked him around and put him in the trunk.

“Hold it right there,” he said, aiming the gun at my chest.

We'd come full circle.

“Getoutofthetrunkandrun,” I said, still breathless. “Bombinthecar. Runnow. Get awayfromthecar.” I took a few steps back, by way of demonstration.

“Don't move,” Fieldman said. After all of this, you'd think he'd go and take a shot at me already. In his mind, I had a.) risen from the dead, b.) given him a strange hallucinogenic which turned his life into a psychotic hell for eight months, c.) broken his nose, d.) knocked him unconscious, and then e.) stuffed him in the trunk of a crappy used car. Most people would have stopped at “a", you know? Not Fieldman. He was a federal agent ready to die on his vacation, and he still wanted to arrest me.

I heard strange clicking sounds. I didn't know bombs from boobs, but something told me this was the sound of Paul's homemade device getting ready to blow. There was no time for further argument.

I looked at Fieldman. Thank God he wasn't wearing those sunglasses.

The explosion was everything I could have hoped for: hot, bright and loud, as if the veined fist of God had come down from the heavens to wipe the pathetic Datsun off the face of the earth. The blow knocked me off my feet, slammed me into the hard dirt, then rolled me clear back across the ground a few yards. Tiny pebbles cut into my elbows and ass. I hurt like hell, but after a few tentative breaths, I knew I'd live. And so would Fieldman, in a manner of speaking.

I closed my eyes, tuned out, and went to the Brain Hotel to check on Fieldman's soul. When I got to the lobby, though, there was no sign of him. Nor anywhere else in the Brain Hotel.

I went back out through the lobby doors-owatta goo siam-and back into reality. The pain hit me as if I'd experienced it all over again. Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet and started waving my arms around, trying to clear the smoke. I approached the burning wreckage, and saw what I thought used to be Fieldman's body, hanging over a piece of metal I suspected had been the rear bumper. Or maybe it was the other way around.

I coughed and took a few steps back, trying to take in the picture. His soul had to be around here somewhere. After a few hurried minutes of looking, I started to worry. Robert had told me souls always hang around the flesh for a while. Even in cases of total vaporization, a soul will lurk around the sizzling droplets for a while before seeking the Great Beyond. Shit, I've been dead for six years, and I didn't still hadn't sought the Great Beyond. I'd been too busy.

If Fieldman wasn't out here in reality, that left only one possibility: He was somewhere in the Brain Hotel. It was unlikely, though: I can always tell when I take on another resident. Every soul collection leaves me feeling wiped out. I felt relatively normal at the moment, considering I'd been reality/Brain Hotel hopping, running around like a fool and beating my Datsun with a rock.

“You are looking for me, Collective."

My head snapped in the direction of the voice. It was Fieldman, all right. Standing where he wasn't standing a second ago. However, it wasn't exactly Fieldman. His image was blurred, as if he had been shot by a 16mm camera at the wrong speed. “That you, Fieldman?"

The Image of Fieldman chuckled. “Fieldman. I haven't heard that name in… eons. If you like, you may call me ‘Fieldman.” Though I have long since forgotten to think of myself by that name."

Okkkayyyyy. Clearly, Fieldman had lost two things in the Datsun explosion: His physical body and his mind.

“Doubting my sanity, Collective?” Fieldman asked. He started walking toward me. His image cleared up a bit. Maybe someone was adjusting their dials. Fieldman was wearing a long robe, adorned with the same drippy gumball design his last Earthly shirt had. And sandals. I hated guys in sandals.

“Why do you keep calling me that? Don't you know who…” I stopped myself. Of course, he didn't know who I really was.

“I know who you are, Del Farmer."

He knew my name. He could read my thoughts. Fieldman had died and come back as the goddamned Buddha.

“You have many questions, Collective. Allow me to answer some of them for you in a speedy fashion, because although I exist out of time, you are still trapped in its boundaries, and right now, as we speak, several law enforcement officers are coming this way to investigate a fiery disturbance, the same disturbance that ended my life as Agent Fieldman and began my quest out of time, out of this physical plane. I died an agent of the law, and an agent I continue to be, although the laws are different, as is the agency."

“I thought you were going to do this in a ‘speedy fashion'?"

Fieldman's eyes narrowed. “At the moment of my death, you tried to absorb my soul into your Collective. You were too late. The explosion was too late as well. I was caught between those two forces and propelled out of time, into another reality."

This was the first thing that made any sense. I knew I'd grabbed hold of Fieldman's soul before the bomb went off, but my hold weakened. I'd mistakenly thought it meant he was safely tucked away in the Brain Hotel. Apparently, I was very, very wrong.

“In short, I have lived entire lifetimes, the Alpha to the Omega. I have seen the end. I have seen the beginning. I am back to complete a mission: to assist you on your quest. And if you value your quest, you must starting running now, because your cab is ready to leave."

Fieldman had lost me again, but the last bit made sense. I started jogging back toward the motel, praying to God-or Buddha, for that matter-the hack driver had decided to wait this out, despite the explosion and the wailing of police sirens, which were now becoming audible in the distance.

Don't worry, Collective, a voice spoke in my head. I am with you always.

That, I wasn't worried about.

Bless the higher powers: the hack Paul called had stayed put. I mumbled an apology, stuffed my belongings in his trunk, and scooted over into the back seat. I slapped a $50 against the Plexiglas partition and asked to be taken to the Las Vegas International Airport, TWA terminal, pronto. The squad cars and fire engines zoomed past us, spinning into the ground behind the hotel.

“That's not about you, is it?"

“Of course not,” I said, slapping an extra $20 on the glass.

“I didn't think so.” The cabbie pulled us out the through the same dust the cops had stirred up and sped on towards Las Vegas. I took a peek at his license on the dash in case I had to remember it later. STEPHEN M. KNIGHT, it read. RED OWL COMPANY. As turned out, I wouldn't have to remember it: I arrived at the terminal in plenty of time for my flight to Philly, and if Mr. Knight had ratted me out, I never heard about it.

As much as I'd hoped against it, I discovered the Ghost of Fieldman was still with me. He was in the airplane seat next to me, taking in his surroundings with a look of total bemusement. When I closed my eyes to port myself to the Brain Hotel, he was in the lobby, waiting for me. Interesting, he'd say. This resembles a favorite theater from your boyhood. Then he'd pop back into the seat next to me and entertain himself with the seatbelt for a while.

Fieldman was the only soul, it seemed, who could check himself in and out of the Brain Hotel at will.

Fieldman was Soul #13, God save us.

philadelphia, pennsylvania

several hours later

“I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam. I looked into the soul of another boy."

— Woody Allen