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.
Six The Face They Feared
It was time for a talk with Brad. No excuses now. Yeah, he'd been through a brutal murder. Sure, he'd watched his wife die. But enough was enough. It was time for him to start blabbing.
Besides, it was something to distract me from the raw, throbbing pain in my newly-crafted face.
I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes and transported myself to the new Brain Hotel room where I'd been keeping Brad. I didn't bother to knock.
There wasn't much to it. Just your college dorm room basics: single bed, wooden desk, metal chair, sink, mirror, wastebasket, couch, mounted shelf. (In fact, I had modeled most new rooms after my own college dorm room, from Nevada State, circa 1963.) Brad was sitting on the couch, fully awake, reading a newspaper. Or at least the pieces I'd absorbed last night. I wonder how it looked-random sentences and images, interrupted by white space?
Good morning, I said.
Brad looked at me for a moment, then nodded and looked back down at the paper.
We have some business to discuss."
Yes, we do, he replied, his voice quaking.
Do you have any questions?"
Only one, Brad said.
Go ahead."
What year is this?"
I hadn't expected that. Usually, a newly-collected soul will spit out something like, Are you Jesus? or Where's my momma? or Where are the gates and the clouds?"
I frowned at him. Why do you ask?"
Brad folded the newspaper and tucked it between the cushions. Well, the last thing I remember, it was Sunday, August 31st, 1975, and I was being stabbed to death on my back porch. But today I wake up, and I appear to be fully healed. A rational mind would assume quite a few years-not to mention, extensive plastic surgery-were to have passed for this to happen."
I saw you reading the paper, I said. Check at the date."
Yeah, I know. It says September 5th, 1975. But if it's September 5th, then how can my body be completely healed?"
I smiled. Because that isn't your body."
Brad's eyes narrowed. Oh no?"
Nope."
Okay. I'll bite. Whose is it?"
Nobody's. When you look down at yourself, you're seeing your own mental projection."
Oh, Brad said.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Aren't you going to ask where you are? I said, finally.
Well there's no need, is there? he said. It's clear than I'm dead, and have gone to Hell. To be honest, I had considered the option. But it all felt so real to the touch-my face, the feel of air in my lungs"
The brain is a powerful tool, I said. Even back when you were alive, everything you think you felt came to you through your brain."
Ah-hah! Brad exclaimed. I still have a brain, thus I am still alive."
No, I said. You aren't alive, and you don't have a brain. You're inside mine."
here. I need to know a few things. Things I'm sure you'll want to tell me. Things that will help make things right."
Brad turned to me. What things?"
Was this partial amnesia, or was he being difficult? You know. Things about our mutual friends. The Association."
The who?"
The organized crime syndicate that operates out of Las Vegas."
That's what you call it? I guess it's a good enough name. The Association. Why, sure. I kind of like it."
I'm glad."
Pause.
Well? I asked.
Sure, I could tell you things . In fact, I could tell you quite a bit about that particular crime organization."
I set my jaw, waiting for him to fill the silence. Finally, after years of fruitless searching, I would know the truth.
But first, he continued, I need you to do something for me ."
This caught me off-guard. What?"
I want you to find the bastards who killed Alison."
That's what I want, too. Once we nail the organization"
No, Brad interrupted. Not the organization . The two individuals. The assassins. The prick who shot Alison in the throat, and the cunt who sliced me up."
In other words, Brad Larsen wanted me to solve his murder.
Sure you're not hungry? I asked.
He gave me a funny look. Not much point eating, is there? I'm dead."
Not true. Life inside the Brain hotel can be exactly like the real thing, if you work at it. Do things as you normally would. This includes eating, drinking, sleeping, shaving, showering, shitting the whole thing. Take it from a man who's been here a long time. It helps. Another reporter's tip: build some we're on the same team camaraderie.
In this case, however, it didn't work.
Do things as I normally would? Brad repeated. Let's see. Normally, I'd wake up in the morning and kiss my wife Alison on the forehead. Normally, I'd ask her if she wanted cereal, or something else, like eggs or French toast. She'd have to help me, of course, because I always end up burning the pieces on the stove."
I could see where this was heading, but I though it best to let him get it out of his system.
Normally, we would plan our day together-maybe go for a walk, or pack a lunch and walk up the creek bed to read and talk and hang out. Normally I would kiss my wife, maybe even make love to her, and normally we'd spend the rest of the day doing simple chores or listening to music or any number of things I can't do right now because you see, my wife Alison, she's dead!"