I do my business on the first couple of floors of the Brain Hotel. There's the lobby, reserved for social functions and meetings. I have my office to retreat to when the need arises. I've resisted the urge to absorb the soul of a secretary though it is tempting. There is a series of interrogation rooms-ranging from a clean, comfortable lounge to a shithole dungeon with a scratchy, houndstooth couch-depending on the suspect. It helps with the acclimation process.
I had 6 souls in residence in my Brain Hotel. Brad Larsen made it 7. I suppose I made 8, since I also lived in the hotel-that is, whenever I wasn't busy controlling my real, physical body.
I don't keep the souls locked up in the Brain Hotel all the time. Once in a while, as a reward, I'll allow one of them to take control of my physical body, so long as it doesn't interfere with my investigations. Most times, the soul will merely want to experience the taste of real food again.
Unfortunately, I'm the one who pays the gastrointestinal tab. Once, I allowed
ways. When you look at photograph of yourself, for instance. Distance gives you power. Or at least it allows you to place yourself in the past, where you didn't know any better.
I heard a voice in my head, and that's when I realized I was in someone else's body.
Relax, Del Farmer, the voice said. You're gone, but not forgotten.
An odd thing to say, don't you think? But to this day, I can't think of anything more appropriate. So that's what I say whenever I collect a new soul.
Later, after I'd had a chance to settle down, my collector introduced himself. His name was Robert. He too was interested in the criminal organization I called The Association, and had collected my soul (after trying in vain to save my life, of course) to see if I would be willing to help him.
Are you kidding? Me, a kid raised on Shock Suspense-Stories and Vault of Horror comics, turn down a chance to avenge myself beyond the grave? Please. I was happy to tell him all that I knew, even to the point of re-typing some of my stories on a Brain Underwood he'd provided. In time I came to be much more than a source; I became a vital part of Robert's investigation. For three years, Robert showed me the ropes-how to collect a soul, how to build additional rooms in the Brain Hotel, and much more.
Eventually, Robert allowed me to assume control, before he left the hotel for the nicer neighborhood of the Great Beyond. He didn't explain why, or give me any kind of warning. All I found was a note taped to the door of my Brain room:
Del:
Took a bunch of the souls on to a better place. It was time. But not for all of us.
Keep up the good work, will ya?
Yours,
Robert
I understood that Robert was leaving me with a mission: to continue soul-collecting until I had enough information to stop J.P. Bafoures and his Association, once and for all. And after two years of dogged investigation, I thought I had finally collected the right soul for the job: Brad Larsen.
Robert would have been proud.
Four Fieldman's Trip
A few steps away from the house, I heard voices above me:
Where is he? (I recognized it: Nevins.)
Nobody's seen him. He must have jumped into the creek. (Unidentified male.)
Oh boy. I slunk back beneath the deck, and wedged myself between two wooden supports.
I don't believe this, Nevins said. He paced a few steps, directly above my head. I could make out his stocky shape between floor slats. You telling me this guy just sailed through your office? Without any of the usual"
He had clearance."
Had being the operative word, asshole."
Damn. They knew. A voice in my head taunted me: I told you they'd find out, jerk! The voice belonged to the real Special Agent Kevin Kennedy.
Be quiet, I muttered.
Take it from me-Feds don't enjoy being dicked around. They're gonna skin you and hang your skeleton out to drip-dry.
Quiet, I repeated, then heard the footsteps above me stop. A whisper I could barely make out: He's nearby. Then, the snapping sound of pistols being removed from their standard issue leather holsters. Cautious steps to all sides of the dock.
This was beautiful. I tried to put together some options. I soon realized I didn't have any. My only chance was to sneak around the 20-man FBI team, steal a car, then motor my ass out of here.
I stepped through the mud, using the dock supports to brace myself, trying to not make a sound. Once I reached the edge, I looked up, and saw a single leg swing over the side of the dock. Someone was coming down to have a look. My eyes scanned the ground for anything weapon-like-a stick, a rock, a chewing gum wrapper, anything. But no luck. I balled up a fist, wondering if I could hit fast and hard enough to knock the agent out before he could cry out-and without the sound of the blow reaching above. Not likely.
I shrunk back against a support, then slid myself around it. The agent hung from the rail for a moment, then dropped to the
muddy ground, just as I had. He removed his pistol from its holster.
I sucked in my gut and tried to make like a pole.