Secret Dead Men

Two A Confession

My name is not actually Special Agent Kevin Kennedy. My name is Del Farmer, and I'm a soul collector.

Not that this is a bad thing. I don't collect souls to torture them, or to steal their essence of life or something depraved like that. I'm no vampire. I use the souls for informational purposes only, to perform acts of mercy and justice. Or at least, acts my moral compass told me were merciful and just. The souls I collect are damned anyway. Like Brad Larsen's.

I looked down at his body, which lay twisted in the muddy water. Clearly, he'd been trying to fight his way down the creek. Going to call for help? Probably. Trying to pull it together so he could march back up and kick the shit out of whoever killed his wife? Maybe. There wasn't much to help him along in either direction. At least he was safe from the neighborhood kids back here.

I scooped him under his arms and dragged his body to semi-dry ground. I touched his neck. It felt like a slab of ribeye right out of the refrigerator. “It's going to be all right, buddy,” I told the corpse. The meat couldn't hear me, but I knew Larsen could. His soul was still nearby.

Collecting a soul is a fairly simple procedure. If the soul is still somewhere near its body, that is. If you wait too long, the link between body and soul is severed and it's tough to locate the soul. It is possible, depending on the circumstances and a bit of afterlife detective work-which I would have been forced to do, had Larsen expired more than a day ago. (After 24 hours or so, souls start to figure out they should get going into the next plane of existence.) And sometimes, if you go poking around in the afterlife too much, it can suck you right in. German philosopher Fredrich Neitzsche was perfectly on-target about that “looking into the abyss, the abyss looking into you” thing.

But I would have gladly done it. Brad Larsen was extremely important to me. I had tracked him down this far, and wasn't about to give up now. I knew he was a hot-dog witness, important enough to the Association to warrant a hit, important enough to the government to keep him protected. Larsen knew something.

But what? And why hadn't he coughed it up yet? That's what troubled me. Usually, spilling your guts was the requirement for receiving a new name and house in the middle of suburban nowhere, courtesy of the U.S. Government. If he had, I would have heard about it. After all, I am a Special Agent with the Las Vegas branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Okay, not exactly. I collected the soul of the real Kevin Kennedy-and glommed his credentials-seven months ago, and have been playing the part ever since. Before that, I kept an office as a private investigator in Henderson; before that, I was a county clerk in Reno. The jobs had to change. After a while, even the best cover story will fall apart. You will be found out. It will be time to move on, to adopt a new identity. The point remains: I would have heard.

The first step was to lure Larsen's soul back into his body. I knew he was still around, hanging onto this earthly plane by his astral fingernails. The vibe was strong; stronger still when I moved close to his corpse. The link hadn't been severed yet.

I won't go into the technical details of luring a soul; let's just say it's a cross between a birdcall and a sleight-of-hand card trick. Besides, if I told you, you might be tempted to try it. God forbid you try it in an old house or graveyard. You never know what's gonna answer your call.

I made my move, and after a moment or two Larsen's eyes opened. I'm not sure what he was looking at-there wasn't much. His shirt was ripped and covered in dark maroon blood. Or maybe it was mud. It was unclear where the creek stopped and the man began. “Mr. Larsen?” I said.

His eyes turned in my general direction.

“Hi there,” I said.

Brad stared at me.

Now came the next step: soul collection. I had to work fast-a soul can't animate a corpse for long. It's a trick, really: The meat thinks it's back on the job, and it takes a while to realize, Hey, waitasecond… I don't think I'm alive anymore…

I knelt down next to Brad and scooped some water onto his face. I needed a better look at him. “Listen to me,” I continued. “You've been murdered. I'm here to investigate. Your full cooperation will help bring your killer to justice."

His eyes rolled down at his body; his eyelids fluttered. Typical reaction. The victims are always curious, even after being pulled back from the dark wonderland of discorporation. A few check to see what they are wearing. Some even try to fix their hair. Brad tried to say something, but his throat was apparently blocked. I scooped another handful of water into his open mouth. He choked, then coughed up a dollop of mud and insects. I scooped more water onto his face, wiping the mud away. He was a handsome guy.

“We're in this together,” I told him. “All you have to do is look at me."

“Sh-Sh-She…” he sputtered.

“Who?” I asked, but instantly regretted it. Clearly, he was talking about his dead wife, Alison. Shit. I had to switch gears. No sense having him freak out now.

I said, “I need to ask your permission for this.” Not true, but I always made it a point to make this soul-collection thing sound like a matter of free will. “Will you join me to avenge your murder?"

“Sh-Sh-She's… c-c-cut…” Brad said, shaking.

Good enough. I snapped my fingers, which caught his attention, and then I collected his soul.

How, exactly? An excellent question. And I'll admit that I don't know.

Maybe this analogy will be useful: You probably drive a car, right? And you know how to use the gas pedal, and the brakes, shift into reverse and neutral, and operate the air-conditioning and the radio and windshield wipers and window crank?

Of course you do. But I'll bet dollars to doughnuts you wouldn't be able to explain the mechanical functions behind those operations. You probably don't even know how an internal combustion engine works. Which is fine. Neither do I. Nor do I understand the technical details of my soul-collection abilities. But rest assured, I know how to drive a soul, just as well as you know how to drive your Datsun.

I've been driving souls for five years, and I've gotten good at it.

In an instant, Brad Larsen became part of me: We were now Farmer-Larsen. I allowed Brad momentary control of my body so he could get whatever he needed to get out of his system. Kick at the mud, punch the air, curse God, whatever. Better to have his psychic anger dispelled on the banks of Woody Creek than inside my head.

Surprisingly, Brad didn't do a thing. I couldn't even guess what he might have been thinking. The connection was too new. All he did was use my eyes to stare down at his own dead body.

Me? Back when I was first soul-collected-after the initial exhilarating rush of being absorbed had passed-I cried. I was faced with a voyage into dark, terrifying turf. My collector, Robert, spent hours calming me down, explaining things to me.

But Brad only looked at his corpse as if he were looking at an interesting piece of modern art. I felt my head cock. He didn't ask a single question, or voice a single complaint. Which was fine with me, as I didn't have time to explain it all to him.

“Relax, Brad,” I told him, unnecessarily. “You're gone, but not forgotten.” Then I regained control of my body.

Usually, next came the tricky part: stealing the victim's face. Thank God I didn't have to take Brad's right then and there.

A soul has its own momentum; it can propel itself anywhere, given the push or shown the right image. After all, a soul is built for travel. You can trick it back into its body, you can collect it and stick it in your own mind, no problem. A face, on the other hand, was dumb meat, stretched and burned and replenished and readjusted over a period of many, many years. Which meant, to steal Brad's face, I had to stretch and burn and replenish and readjust my own face.

I knew it would be worth the effort, however. Whatever priceless information Brad Larsen had locked away in his mind would become a more powerful weapon if I became Brad Larsen. On the day I confront The Association, I want to wear a face they fear. The fact that they had sent somebody 1,200 miles to smash Larsen's face meant I'd found one.

But there was no time to do a full reconstruction here in the creek-plus, my FBI friends would be sure to hear my hellish screams-so I whipped out my trusty Kodak Instamatic and used an entire roll of 110 film on Larsen's corpse, for later reference. I also tried to memorize the features (just in case): The stiff, bony forehead and the high cheekbones and short, upturned nose. He had a strong jawline, but not so strong as to detract from his boyish good looks. This was definitely going to be an improvement over Special Agent Del Kennedy. No offense to the dead.