The agent spun around, checking his surroundings. He missed me on first pass. Then, he started walking away, down the creek, toward the recently-reanimated body of Brad Larsen.
Okay, this was it. Fight or flight. In about thirty seconds this guy was going to see the body, yell for his buddies, and I would be swarmed. I wouldn't be missed a second time. So I took a chance and started a slow jog upcreek, hoping nobody was looking. Each step felt a week. I sensed eyes behind me, watching me dance up the mud like an idiot. Any second now I was going to hear Nevins bark, Freeze and I'd turn around to see the sun glinting off 19 shiny pistols, each one pointed my way.
I dove behind the first shrub I encountered. Looked back; nobody had spotted me. I had to run further ahead, ducking trees until I found a way to the main road. I tried to remember it from the ride down. There weren't too many houses around, which meant not too many cars. I thought about tuning out for a second, and checking the files in my office-you see, back in my Brain office, everything I see is instantaneously recorded in the form of typewritten logs, for later study. Consider it a highly organized version of the human subconscious.
But there was no time for that now. What would Robert have done?
Then it came to me.
Then a voice answered the phone in my head.
Yeah?
Harlan, I whispered. It's me. You've gotta do me a favor. But hold on first."
What?
I opened my eyes, then peeked over the top of the shrub. Nobody looking. I shut my eyes again.
Okay. You still there?"
Whaddya want?
I'm going to give you a chance to earn your room back, fat boy, I said. Listen carefully. In a few seconds, the door to your interrogation cell will pop open. I want you to walk to my office and open the file in my cabinet marked with today's date. Go the stack of papers for the past hour. Within the text, you should find a detailed account of the area surrounding the safe house in Woody Creek."
So?
I couldn't believe it. The pudgy bastard was still busting my balls.
Then, I heard a sharp cry: Nevins! Get down here!"
Uh-oh.
Harlan, you tub of shit, go in there and study the area. Help me the hell out of here. Find a car, and lead me to it."
I heard him laugh. A deep, phlegmy chuckle. I'm going to need more incentive than that, Chief.
No, you're not. Because if I don't escape, I'm going to be caught by the FBI. And most likely, I'm going to have to make a run for it, because it's my only chance to save the investigation. Even more likely, some sharp-shooter is going to put a bullet in my head before I escape. Which means you and five other souls are going to be wandering a muddy creek in Butt-Hump, Illinois until the end of time."
On my way, boss, Harlan said. He might have been a greedy bastard, but he knew when to listen to common sense.
I opened my eyes to see a swarm of Feds hopping over the rail. Until Harlan found what I needed, I had to improvise. I climbed the steep, rocky hill along the side of the house, then crouched down next to the front porch. Took a peek over the rail; nobody there.
I listened for voices, and heard some fevered yelling, but couldn't make out anything. There were about ten meters between my current position and a tree. I decided to go for it. I stood up, looked behind me-just to make sure no agent had doubled back and found my footprints in the muddy bank-and started to run.
Freeze! a voice yelled. I indeed froze. Slowly, I turned my head around to see Agent Fieldman, clipboard-carrier, holding a gun larger than his hands and pointing it at my chest.
Don't move, Kennedy. Down on the ground. Hands behind your head."
This was not good. Fieldman was green, and twitchy on the trigger. I didn't want to have the investigation end right here in Woody Friggin Creek. Excuse me! I shouted. Did you tell a Special Agent to drop to the ground?"
You heard me. Down. Fieldman scanned my body, looking for a hidden weapon. Of course, I had none. Unless you counted my eyes.
Look at me, Fieldman, I said.
He did.
And that's when I grabbed his soul.
In my years of soul collecting, I'd only worked with the recently dead, or the near-dead.
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.