Secret Dead Men

“What do you mean?” I asked. “She got away."

“Try to keep up, Collective. Brad can't kill the woman here. He never intended to. You arriving with his wife in tow may have confused things for a moment, but we've recovered splendidly. Things are back on schedule. We've been pla

“How long, exactly?"

“Oh,” Fieldman said. “A little over eight months."

“That isn't possible. You only died a month ago. Remember? Nevada? Flaming Datsun? Pan-Fried Fieldman?"

“Collective, you continue to ignore the truth: I exist out of time. Once I returned to be with you, it was as if I had been with you all along."

The Gods must have taken pity upon my poor soul and showered enlightenment down upon me, because in instant I understood what Fieldman was talking about. Memories in my own head now seemed elastic, gelatin, pliable. What had gone on for those eight months? I had no idea. They were no longer my own months. They were my Fieldman months. They were supple as a dream and painful as reality.

“You and Brad were plotting this sicko revenge thing the whole time,” I mumbled. “Right under my nose."

“Sometimes even using your nose. Along with the rest of your physical body. Remember the flu you had back in February? Knocked you out? I did that. Gave us use of your body for weeks. You still believe it was a matter of coincidence the Brown Agency assigned you this case?"

“But… why?"

Fieldman saw that I was still confused. “Oh, Collective! To lay the trap! And it's working. She's walking right into it. No chance she'll go back to her hotel apartment-not after her bodyguard-who not only has the address but a set of keys-just threatened to kill her. Nor does she have anyplace else to go… except 473 Winding Way."

Something clicked. “Wait. That's…"

“That, dear Collective is the same address I scribbled on a paper towel and stuffed between the breasts of Ms. Farrell. Do I have to explain everything to you?"

“I think so."

Fieldman laughed. “Of course I have to explain it to you, because you haven't been there yet, but you will be. 473 Winding Way is Susa

And that's where Alison was going to run. And now, Leah Farrell. And undoubtedly, Ray Loogan. A Woody Creek reunion. I was forced to agree with Buddha. It had to admit it was brilliant, from a vengeance-is-mine point of view.

Up on the screen: Brad trying to make his way through the crowd. Along a few of the more popular tables, nobody was budging. Standing in line for twenty minutes for a free Dixie Cup full of booze had the Philadelphia socialites returning to their baser instincts. They weren't letting anybody through. Finally, after making his way around the long way, Brad found Alison. She had been standing in a corner, eating Jell-O from a cup with a plastic spoon. “Alison."

She looked up at him and smiled. “I want to go to bed, Brad."

“I know, sweetie. There's something we've got to do first. Then we can leave."

“Back to our house? Back to California?"

“Right back home, sweetie."

I'd been in their home-or at least a memory of their home-not too many hours ago. A comfortable place. I'm sure Alison was desperate to go back there, maybe burn some incense, roll herself up in a thick quilt, and fall asleep for about 10 years in a climate-controlled room. She never wanted to leave it in the first place, but Brad had insisted on the trip to Woody Creek, Illinois, to the “vacation cottage” by the river so he could finish his dissertation on John Do

Brad led Alison by the hand and headed back through the feeding frenzy. Along the way, he grabbed a couple of crackers and hunks of mozzarella cheese-Alison was still hungry. They made their way toward the museum's main entrance, which closed to the public for tonight's party, but served as a shortcut to the Ben Franklin Parkway, where they could easily find a cab to take them to 473 Winding Way.

It was an ornate set-up; three marble staircases, one leading down to the front glass doors, and two twins leading to a second floor. Brad paused to take it all in. I supposed there was no hurry now-why not soak up a bit of culture with the wife? All the pieces were falling into place; Brad Larsen simply needed to catch a cab out to the suburbs, stash Alison somewhere safe, then watch the fun ensue.

“Hello, Paul,” said a voice.

Much to our collective surprise, Susa

No, Fieldman muttered.

Brad thought fast. “I was looking for you. I wanted to see if you were all right.” Alison touched his arm and shot him a look-you know, one of those wife looks.

“Stop it,” Susa

“This is none of Richard Gard's business."

Susa

“Right,” Brad repeated. “You and me."

“And her.” Susa

Blind fury ripped through Brad. I could feel the Brain Hotel quake.

“This is not going to be good,” Fieldman told me. Those were the first words to pass his lips that I ever completely believed.

Susa

Brad launched forward, ready to rip the woman's flesh from her bones.

Susa

The view on the lobby screen flipped back and around. With a start, I realized that I wasn't a detached observer. Shit-I was shot in the head, too!

“Take this thing out of my chest and let me up,” I said in the most commanding voice I could muster.

“I can't do that, Collective,” Fieldman said.

“If you don't let me up, we're all dead."

“We're already dead."

Up on the lobby screen, Susa

“You'll feel the fire, wench,” Fieldman said to the lobby screen with an unusual intensity.

Susa