Secret Dead Men

Five Pepperoni and Cheese

After a few days of zig-zag driving, I found a trucker's motel in a part of Ohio called “Buckeye Lake.” The names kept getting better and better. Whose job was it to name towns in Ohio, anyway? I mean, who looked at a dirty puddle and thought, “lake,” then attached that grandiose description to a name that belonged to a one-eyed pirate? This is but one of the many mysteries that had gone unsolved during my lifetime.

Actually, the place wasn't so bad. The bed was pliable, the bathroom was scum-free, and the towels weren't too stiff. The room even had a TV-the fancy push-button kind, with giant rabbit ears. Not that I planned to watch anything except the local news. I dropped my shopping bag on top of a battered bureau which doubled as a desk, and unpacked. A six-pack of Fresca, a package of store-brand crackers, a pound of Cracker Barrel sharp cheese, a slab of imported pepperoni, and a copy of a local newspaper. I walked over to the sink and found a cheap plastic tray with a plastic ice bucket and two plastic glasses wrapped in clear plastic. The guy in The Graduate was right about plastic, I guess.

I took the tray and brought it back to the desk, then used my Swiss Army knife to chop the pepperoni and cheese. I opened one of my Frescas, and took a sip to prime the system. Then I tore into the pepperoni and cheese. It was the best meal I'd had since the FBI coffee the day before-and I was going to need my energy if I was going to do a full face reconstruction. I only wished I had a Budweiser instead of a Fresca.

I pushed the bureau closer to the bed, so I could have a proper seat. Checked the local paper, but couldn't find a mention of the Woody Creek incident. Stuff on the Ford assassination attempt was all over the place-something about a Manson family freako chick named “Squeaky.” (Seems like Sheriff Alford was on to something about those Manson folks, after all.) I didn't think I'd see something about Brad Larsen, or about the Woody Creek incident. Nevins had made it clear this venture was quashed, effective immediately.

But during the last 10 hours of solid driving, my mind started playing tricks on me, and I'd hallucinated headlines like ROGUE FBI AGENT ON THE RUN. In reality, there was nothing. Whatever manhunt I'd caused, it was being conducted in secret. Which made sense, from a public relations point of view.

The best part: soon, I was going to be safe. The Feds were looking for Special Agent Kevin Kennedy-gaunt-looking male in his late 30s, with a sharp jaw and receding hairline. Height: 5'11". Weight: 175 pounds, soaking wet. Light blonde hair, green eyes. While the height and weight still applied, no other similarities remained.

Soon, I would have ice blue eyes, rich, reddish-brown hair, and a baby face that didn't need to shave often. I was going to lose at least 10 years in the transaction, too. The only way it would backfire would be if some enterprising Feds put Brad Larsen's face out on the wire, but why would they? For all they knew, Brad Larsen was sitting in the middle of Woody Creek with his baby face blown to smithereens.

Right Brad? I thought.

Brad wasn't answering. During the drive, I would pull over from time to time, close my eyes, port myself into the Brain Hotel, and peek into the interrogation room where Brad lay sleeping. Not a peep. He looked like a college kid sleeping off a hangover. I wanted to check on him again, but wasn't looking forward to more disappointment. Besides, he'd come around soon enough. All souls did.

I stuffed a few slices of meat and cheese into my mouth. I wasn't hungry, but I had to keep my strength up, just in case I had to skip out and drive another ten hours. I was trying to pry a thick hunk of cheese from the roof of my mouth when I saw the sirens flash through the slats of my window blinds. My body snapped to attention and I dove across the bed, reached into my jacket for my pistol, then rolled on the carpet until I was hidden beneath the window.

They couldn't have found me this fast-could they?

I snatched a peek from behind the curtain, then slid back down. A sheriff's car, lights whirling. Not many others-a few curious truckers. This wasn't a Fed deal, unless they'd sent advance word, and the local boys were here to scoop me up. If they were, it would be better to find out now. (And besides-locals, I could handle.) I stood up, brushed the wrinkles out of my trousers, then walked over to the bureau. I ate a few crackers to cover the smell of scotch, then tucked my piece under the mattress.

Once outside, it became clear I was not the focus of attention. A couple of blues were entering a room a half-dozen doors away from mine. Other motel occupants had come out of their rooms, too; I was merely one of the crowd. Finally, somebody cut the flashing lights. I heard some woman mutter, “Thank the sweet Lord.” The cop who spared our collective retinas started walking in our direction.

“Nothing here, people,” he said, holding up his hands. He was young. “A li'l family squabble. Go on back to your rooms and watch some TV."

“Bull shit,” mumbled a thick guy next to me. His eyes found mine. “I heard they got blood all over a shower down there."

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Wish I were."

Meanwhile, the kid cop was still trying to put everyone to bed. “Come on now… please return to your rooms.” His tapped his nightstick in his right hand, pretending it was something he'd used before. The crowd did start heading back to their beds, but not because Captain Nightstick was putting the fear of God into them.

The thick guy and I started walking together. “What happened?” I asked.

“Who knows?” he said. “Some couple checked in yesterday. Now, nobody can find them, and there's a whole lot of blood all over the bathroom. This is all I need-some friggin’ nutbag slashing my throat in the middle of the night."

“They think it's a serial killer?"

Thick Guy gave me a stupefied look. I'd strayed out of his vocabulary. I amended: “Some kind of nut?"

“Yep.” At this point, we'd both reached a door-his. “Well, happy dreams."

I wished him the same and wandered back to my own room.

I wondered if it was me, or if the world was becoming increasingly, strangely, violent. I ate more pepperoni, drank some Fresca, then pulled my pistol out from under the mattress, tucked it beneath my pillow and tried to sleep. Soul collecting took a lot out of a guy. Ordinarily, just to keep the Brain Hotel functioning, I needed about 10 to 12 hours sleep per day. Any less and the residents start complaining about maintenance problems. Considering the events of the past few days, I was going to need to sleep for three days straight.

After two days of lounging in the motel, I decided I'd stalled long enough. I'd had plenty of food and rest. Brad Larsen's soul still wasn't in shape for any kind of interview, and nothing else was worth investigating until then. So, now it was time to get down to the dirty work. Now it was time to rearrange my face.

Boy, did I hate this part of the job.

This is important, I reminded myself. They feared his face.

I packed a small paper bag with a few necessary items, left my motel room and drove outside of the Greater Buckeye Lake area. It took about one minute. Eventually I came to a grassy area that seemed relatively abandoned, so I scooted my car into a spot that couldn't be seen from the road. I opened my paper bag and spread my supplies on the dashboard. I flipped down the visor and taped up some of the photos I'd taken of Brad Larsen's corpse. I set my first aid kit on the passenger seat, and fastened my seat belt.

I wished this were as easy as absorbing a soul. Why did the gods who invented these strange abilities make this one so difficult? Why bother calling it a “gift” if it was so hideously painful? The last time I did this, I almost went into shock and died.

Okay. No more procrastinating.

They feared his face.

I got to work.

I closed my eyes and visualized a control panel. Robert had taught me it really doesn't matter what I look at-the panel was a symbol. It had a miniature screen, with two buttons on each side. The screen was divided into four perfect squares; each button corresponded to a square.

I opened my eyes and looked at the photo of Brad Larsen. Then I closed my eyes and imagined it appearing on the miniature screen. Opened my eyes, studied the photo, closed my eyes, visualized it on the screen. I repeated this process for a good twenty minutes. To an observer, it probably looked like I was playing a marathon game of “Peek-a-Boo” with an imaginary friend.

Finally, after endless opening and shutting of my eyes, I had a sharp picture of Brad Larsen on my mental control panel. The image had burned itself into my mind, and divided into four quadrants.

Yep, there it was. Ready to go.

Yessir.

Oh, shit.

It was time to push the first button. The lower left button, which corresponded to the lower left face of Brad Larsen.

Did I mention I really hate this part of the job?

Mentally, I pushed the lower left button, and an astounding, hideous pain seized the lower right portion of my face.

Ever have a blind pimple burrowed beneath your skin? Okay. Now amplify that by about a thousand, then imagine squeezing a fat thumb on the sucker. Hideous pain, let me tell you. Dr. Jekyll-turning-into-Mr.-Hyde kind of pain. The kind that makes you want to swear never, ever to touch your face again.

On screen, the lower left quadrant vibrated slightly, like a television image struggling for proper reception. I hardly saw it, though, because sheer agony was blinding me.

The worst part: This was but one of the 40 pushes required to mimic one quadrant of Brad's face. And there were three other quadrants to go.

Robert had explained it to me this way: Each mental-push of button sends a complex message to my brain to electrically jolt the nerves in the corresponding area of the face. The jolt forces the flesh and bone to react. After enough pushes, that part of the face is more or less reshaped.

“Great,” I'd said. “How about the button that supplies the novocaine?"

Robert smiled. “If only the afterlife were that simple, my friend."

Still, I've gotta think there's a way to apply some mental painkiller to this process. If I can drink a Brain scotch, then why can't I concoct some superdrug to numb my physical body? If I could, I'd be invincible, and would be able to swap faces at will. I'd be the unstoppable detective. The ultimate mystery man. I'd uncover and crush the Association in a matter of days-nay, hours-then move on to wipe out all evil from the face of the earth.

I pushed the button again, and whined like a whipped dog.

A few minutes later, I pushed it again. And again. And again.

Soon I settled into a horrific rhythm, pressing the other buttons of the other quadrants of my face in a slow sequence. It always progressed this way. It reminded me of the times my father punished me when I was a child. Dad was a card-carrying member of the Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child Social Club. The Rod in his case was a thick brown leather belt he wore. Wore, that is, until I came home with a bad grade, or stayed out past curfew, or committed some other terrible childhood crime. Then the belt would be released from its loops, folded in half, and smacked across my ass cheeks. The first was always the worst. After a while, I would start to float above the pain. Still feeling it, to be sure, but also outside of it. In a roundabout way, Dad and his belt did prepare me for my future. Just like he always said.

About a half-hour later I reached the final punches of the button. My face was alive and on fire. At some fundamental level, my own cells and nerves asked: What the fuck are you doing?

A few more pushes and it was over. I passed out.

In my dreams, a pointy-detailed demon with oversized mitts kept punching me in the face. It wore the face of Charles Manson.

It was night when I finally woke up. I had been slumped forward, hanging on my strained seat belt. I wiped away some eye-funk and immediately winced. Ow. Still fresh. Gotta be careful with the new mug.

I took a look at my new face in the rear view mirror, then compared it with the picture of Larsen taped to the visor. Not bad. I looked exactly like Larsen, if Larsen had gained a couple of pounds. My hair was still dark, and too short, but nothing Miss Clairol and a few hours couldn't fix.

Or course, the biggest difference would be my height and build-basically, everything from the neck down. The body was the one constant, no matter how many souls I collected, or how many times I switched faces. It wasn't even my original body (it'd burned in the car fire) or Robert's. Maybe it belonged to the guy who had collected Robert's soul. Robert only mentioned him twice by name-"Ralph"-and never talked about where he'd ended up. I figured original ownership couldn't have gone too far back; the body was still in decent physical condition. Sure, a few sagging lines here and there, and I wasn't pitching a tent every morning, but that was to be expected. Maybe it was 40 years old? 45, tops? I wished this thing had come with insurance papers and a title.

What this all boiled down to, of course, was that this job wasn't going to go on forever. At some point, like a car, this body was going to hit a certain mileage and fizzle out. I hoped I wasn't in the driver's seat when it happened.