Paul After, soul #13, had shown me a neat variation on the Molotov cocktail a few weeks back. Even though I eventually built the thing, I didn't know how it worked. Paul had guided me through, piece by piece, using ordinary items available from any decent hardware store.

It was a flashy way to make an exit, but necessary. This way there would be no trace of me. No trail for anyone to follow. Not the FBI, not the Association, not even my mother, God rest her soul. Everything I owned would go with me to Philadelphia.

I collected a trash bag full of the things I was torching and stuffed it in the trunk of the Datsun. I grabbed my trash bag wardrobe and a box of possessions and hauled them through my motel door.

On this second trip, somebody was waiting on the landing, and it didn't look as if he was there to help with the luggage.

“Hold it right there,” he said, leveling a.45 at my chest.

I didn't recognize him at first. He was a lean guy; dark hair, neatly parted to the right, strong jaw, mirrored sunglasses. He wore jeans and a brown button-down with goofy gumdrop designs on it. The shirt almost negated the gun.

“Whatever you're thinking,” he said, “don't."

“I'm not thinking anything.” Actually, I was thinking about hurling my bag full of clothes at him, but what would that do? Mess up his hair part?

“Good,” he said.

“Can I ask one thing?"

“What's that?"

“Who are you?"

The man half-smiled-that is, one corner of his mouth curled up, while the other stayed put. “Funny. I was going to ask you the same question."

“Look-"

“What I mean to say is,” the man continued, “I believe we've already met, but I'm not entirely sure. We're going to go back into your room there and talk about it."

“Where did we supposedly meet?"

“Woody Creek, Illinois."

Finally, it clicked. Special Agent Fieldman. Eight months had aged the guy. Last time I'd seen him he was clipboard boy to Dean Nevins. Now he looked and talked like Lee Marvin's younger brother.

“Hands on your head, and step back into your room,” Fieldman said. “Now."

“I think you've got the wrong guy,” I said. “I'm just a traveling man.” I'd meant to say “traveling salesman,” but I got the Ricky Nelson song in my head by mistake.

He ignored me. “Both hands, on your head."

This was not good. Fieldman was wearing those ridiculous sunglasses, so I couldn't use my trusty yank-his-soul-out-of-his-body trick. For some reason, eye-to-eye contact is necessary for soul collection. I'd always wanted to ask Robert about that. Does this mean we could never collect Stevie Wonder? Not that it would be likely to come up, but it would be good to know.

I was forced into my standard fall-back position: surrender consciousness, transport myself to the Brain Hotel, and regroup. Back in reality, my physical body would collapse, and be at the total mercy of Agent Fieldman. But it would give me some time to think. It was a chance I had to take.

“I don't feel too hot,” I said, taking a few wild steps backwards and mumbling something else about a lousy open-faced roast beef sandwich.

Fieldman must have smelled a rat, because he stepped back, too, and took better aim. That was the last thing I saw before my vision went woozy and I snapped awake inside the Brain Hotel.

The lobby was deserted, which was not unusual. None of the souls drifted down here unless something interesting was happening in the real world: a soul collection, a fist fight, or a good movie. Especially movies. Last summer, a few of the souls-Doug, Old Tom and Genevieve-made me sit through Jaws four times.

I walked over to the lobby desk and picked up the black courtesy telephone, which sat next to the huge silver microphone. This was my polite way of summoning the souls, you see. I could bark commands like an angry god, but they wouldn't appreciate it. I know I wouldn't.

I dialed an imaginary number for Paul After, happy I had finally collected somebody who could handle this kind of thing. Doug was fine if you were shoplifting or breaking into a car. Harlan was great if you needed someone to eat a large sandwich. But Paul… Paul was the real deal.

He answered on the second ring. “Yes, Del?"

“How did you-"

“Who else would it be? Avon?"

“Listen,” I said. “I could use your expertise. I've got a real world situation I'd like you to handle. Come down to the lobby, and I'll give you control of my body."

Paul cleared his throat. “Tempting offer, but you're not my type."

“You know what I mean."

“Okay, okay. What's the situation?"

“Uh,” I stalled, thinking of the best possible way to put this. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. “An angry FBI agent has confronted me. To buy some time, I passed out in front of him. He probably has smelling salts under my nose as we speak, trying to bring me around. All you have to do is snap awake, deck him, bind him, gag him, lock him away for a while, whatever. Do your stuff. I'll take care of it from there."

“Mighty white of you,” Paul said.

“Can you help or not?"

“It'd be my pleasure, Mr. Farmer. God knows, I don't see any action in this freak motel of yours. I'll be right down."

I was still trying to figure out if Paul was being sarcastic when he appeared beside me. He must have cheated and ported his soul along instead of walking down the Brain Hotel staircase. “When my massah calls, I come-a-runnin',” he said.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “Now all you have to do is step through those doors and say the secret phrase.” He gave me a quizzical look. I checked to make sure no one was spying, and then told him. “It's three words: Owatta. Goo. Siam."

“You're kidding me."

“No, I'm serious,” I said. And I was. That was the same phrase Robert had taught me back when he first trusted me to take over the physical body from time to time.

“Jesus Christ. It's a nursery rhyme. A joke. A bad joke."

“Well, it does the job.” I didn't feel like justifying it to him. What did it matter what the phrase was? Do the ridges on a key mean anything? Does the spinning wheel on a telephone have any great cultural significance?

“Go ahead,” I said. “And good luck."

“You're insane."

“Just say it."

“Oh, what a goose I am,” he said, then stepped through the front doors and into the real world.

On the lobby screen, blackness fluttered and finally opened up. Light poured in, then adjusted. We were sitting upright. The view snapped to the left, then the right, where Agent Fieldman was sitting on my motel bed. He was pointing his gun at us.

Good morning, Fieldman said, somehow looking more imposing up on the silver lobby screen. Have a nice nap?

The view snapped back to the left again, then right, up, down and behind. The view wobbled. Angrily. What the hell was Paul doing? Neck exercises?

Finally, a hushed voice: Goddamnit, I'm handcuffed to a chair!

Fieldman said, You are observant, Mr. Larsen.

Whoops.