“Amy, this is not a good time. I'm not feeling great, and I've got to finish-"

“Yeah, yeah, you're getting settled. Speaking of-where's the rest of your stuff? Need any help?"

This time I was prepared. I'd planned the story in advance: I had moved with some work files and necessities. The electric company was having my furniture and personal affects sent later. Of course, I didn't own anything else; I made a mental note to pick up a few pieces of junk to avoid suspicion.

Amy seemed satisfied with my explanation. “I guess I'll take a rain check."

“On what?"

“On the gun talk.” She whipped out a felt pen from her backpack and started to write on the top of one of my boxes. “Here's my number. I'm right upstairs. Nice meeting you too, Del."

“Nice… you, too."

I showed her to the door, then turned around to expel the air from my lungs. I looked around, pressed my palms to my eyes, then walked into my new bathroom.

I uncapped a bottle and dry-swallowed two Bufferin, cupping water from the faucet. I looked at myself.

New friend? a voice asked, more than a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. I recognized that voice. At least it wasn't the Ghost of Fieldman again.

With Paul, I had to be careful. He was still sore about the whole Fieldman/trunk mix-up-especially when I blamed him for the creation of the Ghost of Fieldman. But it was important to keep him happy, to maintain his enthusiasm for the investigation, since he was one of the few useful souls I had. Besides, I couldn't go around pissing on everybody forever.

“Look, Paul, I made her go away. You saw that, right?"

Yeah, I saw. I saw you flirting like mad.

“Point is, I made her go away."

I made her go away, he mocked. Come on. If you want to be serious about your investigation, it's important you don't get involved… with anybody. Raises too many questions.

“Don't worry about it."

If you want action, use one of the Brain hookers. I've gotten used to them. Genevieve is especially accommodating.

The phone rang. I went back into the non-bathroom room and answered it.

“My name is Richard,” a voice said. “I believe you are an associate of a man named Stan Wojciechowski. Are you available to speak this afternoon?"

“Of course."

“Meet me at the Rittenhouse Hotel, Room 1223, at 4:00 p.m. You won't require anything. Just yourself. Is that clear?"

“Sure. See you.” I hung up. Actually, he'd be seeing Paul.

What was that?

Thirteen

Portraits of the Artists as Young Men

Here was my problem: I hated freelance work. Great money for usually minimal labor, but it was too much of a distraction. Too much additional information got in the way of my real investigation. After careful consideration-about 10 seconds’ worth-I decided to enlist Paul After. He would play the part of hired dick, leaving me free to get a fix on Brad Larsen's killers. I figured he would enjoy the taste of bodily freedom; I'd have a chance to kick back and do some real work.

I would always be in control, mind you. I could watch what was happening from the movie screen in the Brain Hotel lobby. And if Paul did something to jeopardize the mission-or my physical body-I could crack the reigns, drag his soul back to the Hotel, and carry on myself. Of course, to the casual observer, my body would fall unconscious, maybe even lose control of its bodily functions. This was not something I liked to do often.

As I thought, Paul agreed to take the case for me. He complained about it first, but I knew he wouldn't turn me down. He had enjoyed his taste of freedom back in Henderson too much.

Paul dressed my body in gray pants and a white ribbed undershirt. Then he slicked back my hair and shaved me. Nicked me twice.

“There's something I've been wondering, Del,” he said, looking into the bathroom mirror. “Why do you look exactly like me?"

I don't, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You're seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we're wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I'm tracking down his killers.

“Why wear the guy's face?"

I've found it can help speed the investigation.

“Who was he?"

A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.

“Was he a good-looking guy?"

Don't worry. The villagers won't come after you with torches and pitchforks.

Paul squinted. “If you say, so. But it's still damn weird. All I see is me."

It happens to everybody. It's too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man's face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.

Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat-the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother's hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn't much we could do about it.

“Interesting choice,” spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. “Not everyone would put that ensemble together."

“Can't you shut him up?” Paul asked me.

If only.

We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn't give much thought to green open spaces.

Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard's room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let's-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.

Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn't exactly know what Paul was thinking-it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul's intentions rather than direct knowledge-I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It's not one I would have immediately asked.

Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.

Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Gard."

The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. “Mr. Wojciechowski."

“No,” said Paul, “I'm his senior associate. Paul After."

They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms. Ugh.