I nodded as if I agreed. The body was out back?"
No. Nevins continued into the next room-a small kitchen, done over in way too many earth tones. He pointed at a puke green wall. The perp nailed Hubby here, and smacked his head into a glass cabinet. I saw the blood. They must have scuffled, and backed into this table. Or what was left of it. Then Hubby runs for it again, and skips out to the back door. The perp follows."
We walked past a bedroom to a flimsy aluminum door through which I could see outside. The porch overlooked a thin stretch of Woody Creek. Agent Nevins led me out onto the back porch deck, but a nervous-looking member of local law enforcement interrupted the agent's compassionate, insightful description of the Larsens double murder.
The man's face lit up. Was it the Mafia? he cried. One of dem Manson cults? C'mon, you gotta tell me!"
I'm sorry, Sheriff Nevins started, then paused to look down at his notebook. Alford. This thing is ours now. Nothing to worry you."
Hey! I found the body! I knew she weren't creekfolk, I called you guys"
We appreciate your cooperation, Nevins said, but it's better you leave it to us now. We'll take care of her. I promise you."
The sheriff shuffled off to another part of the house. I looked at the water for a few moments, waiting for Nevins to continue his story. But then an assistant investigator-Fieldman, I think his name was-approached with a clipboard. You were right, he told Nevins. Blood type matches Larsen. Wit Protec number 2-3-3-oh."
Wait a minute, I said. You haven't found Larsen's body yet?"
His blood's all over the deck, said Fieldman. We think he's in the drink, but nobody's spotted him yet. We found another blood type, too-probably our suspect."
Aw, fuck a duck, Nevins said. Okay. Call in the cleaners, take our samples, then strip the house. Leave nothing but a shell. And have some guys out to check the creek already. I know they don't like getting their Thom McCann specials all wet, but it's part of the job."
Fieldman nodded.
And another thing, Nevins said. We're not going to file a report today."
Sir?"
I asked myself a similar question: What the hell was going on?
Nevins enunciated each word: We. Don't. File. Which part of that did you fail to comprehend?"
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.
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.
Three Brain Hotel
These rooms are simply mental constructs, built to house the souls I collect. Consider it a Holiday Inn of the brain. How would you like to be plucked from death, only to find yourself floating around some ethereal space inside somebody else's skull? For souls to retain a sane, working version of their earthly memories-and not be corrupted by the strange limbo of my brain-they had to retain a semblance of earthly surroundings. So, I had a hotel in my brain.
From the soul's point of view, it's a sweet deal. Each soul receives a two-bedroom apartment, and is allowed to furnish it as desired. After all, it's their own mental power doing the creating; I merely supply the guise of walls, floors, water, gas and electric. They are free to pursue any kind of art or hobby they wish, or consort with the soul of a prostitute named Genevieve I'd absorbed a few years back. If they want a professional oak pool table, it's theirs. A wet bar, a color television set-not to mention whatever programming they desire-presto, bingo, there it is. Not a bad afterlife at all.