I knocked on Brad's door-privacy is everything in here-but got no answer. I knocked again, louder, but again, nothing. I used my master key, which was the phrase, Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear, and the doorjamb clicked open.

The interior of Brad's room was a completely different story. In fact, it hadn't changed a bit since he moved in. It was still the plain-jane college dorm room template I'd slapped up for him in the first place. Maybe he worked on the hallway for six days, then rested on the seventh.

He wasn't in here, either.

I took the elevator back down to Tom's Holiday. It was the only place souls ever bothered visiting, apart from the lobby. But Tom's was empty, too, save Tom, who was buffing his bartop with an old pair of Brain boxer shorts and a can of Brain Olde English wax. “Hey there Del,” he said. “What's happenin'?"

“You haven't seen Brad around, have you?"

“Nah. Just me and the wax here. Stopping down later? I remembered a couple two, three more songs off that first John Lennon album you might wanna hear."

“Sure, sure,” I said, then headed for the lobby again. As I walked away, I heard Tom moaning, "Mothaaahhhhh…"

At the front desk, I used the black courtesy phone to open up a line throughout the entire Brain Hotel. I loathed using it, because the souls seemed to get pissed off every time I did. Maybe it was a reminder this was not Reality, that they were still dead and trapped inside my head. Maybe it interrupted their umpteenth viewing of Mary Hartmann, Mary Hartmann. Who knew?

“Hey guys, this is Del. I apologize in advance for cutting in, but Brad Larsen, I have an important message for you. Come on down to the lobby as soon as possible."

I hung up the phone and waited. Time passed. Brain dust motes flew through the imaginary air space and attached themselves to the lobby walls. The wallpaper faded a bit, and then faded a bit more. The carpet became desiccated and brittle from the lack of use. The air smelled like it had been sealed in a tomb for a hundred generations.

Brad never showed up.

I turned around to look up at the lobby screen. Paul had our body outside, heading back toward the motel. The ground looked hot. Tiny sizzle lines were rising up from it.

I hit the mike button. “How's it going on your end?"

The view on the screen jolted. Shit, Del! Don't do that!

“Sorry.” I was becoming a real apologist lately. “What's going on?"

I've got everything packed in the Datsun, and I set the timer. There's a cab waiting around the front for us. By the time I sit our ass down in the backseat, the Datsun will be nothing but flaming embers.

“Excellent.” I still couldn't believe what an amazing asset Paul was turning out to be. Me? As much as I take pride in my professional abilities, it's safe to say I'd still be handcuffed to that chair, still trying to trick my way out of the situation.

“By the way, where'd you stash Fieldman?"

The trunk. Where else?

My blood turned to fizzing Pepsi in my veins. “The trunk?"

Yeah, the trunk.

“The trunk of the Datsun?"

You have another car you're planning to blow up?

Eleven

Supernatural Disaster

Without another thought, I whipped myself through the front doors of the lobby and muttered owatta goo siam and regained control of my body. I'm sure being jerked away from the controls wasn't a pleasant sensation for Paul, but I didn't give a hoot at that particular point. Paul had planned to kill Fieldman without a second thought. While I may be many things to many men-rogue agent, crappy detective, soul collector-I'm not a killer. At least, not when I can help it.

I recalled, with a shudder, my command to Paul to “take care of him."

My vision swirled for a few seconds, and I felt my soul ooze back into the confines of my physical body. My skin was sweaty, my muscles fatigued. Paul had kept us busy. I spun around and saw the Datsun, parked about 100 yards away near a group of dirty boulders. I started running for it.

“Paul,” I said aloud.

Nothing. My heart started to smack against my ribcage. My lungs informed me that I was running way too fast for my own good. I didn't care.

“Paul!” I yelled.

His words spat out in my skull. Don't go back there! You're going to kill us all!

“How long we got left on the timer?” I wheezed.

No time, goddamnit! Turn the fuck around!

“How long?"

Paul didn't answer. Maybe he went back to his room to say a few prayers. It wasn't a bad idea.

After what felt like a mini-marathon, I reached the Datsun and accidentally slammed into it. That's it, I thought: Ka-boom. The second death of Del Farmer, once again by flaming automobile. Mercifully, though, the car only bucked on its suspension. My hands flittered around the trunk uselessly for a few seconds before I realized I needed the key. I patted down my pants pockets, then my shirt. Flat.

“Paul, where are the keys? Where are the car keys, damnit?"

A quiet voice spoke in my head: I threw them in the trunk.

Perfect.

Ordinarily, I would have found myself in a state of absolute despair-the kind that leaves you no other option but to piss your pants and start barking like a dog. Or running away from the car as fast as you can, forgetting about all this “morality” bullshit and catching a cab outta here. But I was moving along with such a fevered inertia that I bent down, snatched a rock from the ground, and starting pounding the rock on the keyhole of the trunk.

Predictably, it didn't do a thing except chip the paint.

Still, I struck it again and again, thinking that every blow would be it: Ka-Powsville. I kept it up, like that crazy ape from the opening scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I wished I had a bone. I'd fling it into the air and all of a sudden the “Blue Danube” would be playing and I'd be aboard an interplanetary PanAm ship flying to the moon. Da-da-dadada… THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, interrupting the peaceful strains of Strauss. The bullet whizzed past my right ear.

I stumbled back a few steps, then dropped to the ground.

Then, another shot. I looked at the Datsun, and sure enough, there were two fresh puncture marks by the keyhole. When the third shot rang out, it was clear what had happened. Paul had clocked Fieldman and dumped him in the trunk along with all his belongings… including his gun. I guess he hadn't counted on him waking up anytime soon.

The fourth was a charm. The slug shattered the lock, the lid flew open, and Fieldman popped up like a Detroit Dracula. His eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight-he didn't have those stupid sunglasses on anymore. He wasn't too blind to see me, though. The me who Fieldman thought had smacked him around and put him in the trunk.

“Hold it right there,” he said, aiming the gun at my chest.

We'd come full circle.

“Getoutofthetrunkandrun,” I said, still breathless. “Bombinthecar. Runnow. Get awayfromthecar.” I took a few steps back, by way of demonstration.

“Don't move,” Fieldman said. After all of this, you'd think he'd go and take a shot at me already. In his mind, I had a.) risen from the dead, b.) given him a strange hallucinogenic which turned his life into a psychotic hell for eight months, c.) broken his nose, d.) knocked him unconscious, and then e.) stuffed him in the trunk of a crappy used car. Most people would have stopped at “a", you know? Not Fieldman. He was a federal agent ready to die on his vacation, and he still wanted to arrest me.

I heard strange clicking sounds. I didn't know bombs from boobs, but something told me this was the sound of Paul's homemade device getting ready to blow. There was no time for further argument.