“The human brain can't handle all of this information?"

“No, a human brain certainly can. Just not in this orderly system. The brain links information casually, not logically. A heard song can instigate an emotion which in turn instigates a memory. In here, you have no songs. You have no emotions. You have, simply, notes that you can look up in alphabetical order."

“I like things simple. Before you go interpreting the filing cabinets as a sign of me being a dead piece of machinery, don't forget all the improvements I've made to this hotel over the years.” It was true. Robert had been a complete slob. When I was absorbed, everything was spread out and random. I spent most of my time creating a logical space for my soul to inhabit, and it wasn't easy.

The Ghost of Fieldman frowned. “Don't go bad-mouthing your precursor, oh Great One. You never did understand his system, did you? He had music and dancing…"

“Wait one second,” I said. “You didn't know Robert. He was gone years before you came floating into the picture."

“Remember: I exist out of time,” the Ghost said. “Robert understood how the Brain worked. You only think you do."

“Don't you have a mission to complete, or something?"

“I do. Which is why I worry about you."

Every so often in that first week I'd tune back into reality to see what Paul and his client were up to. Then I'd go back to work. Which wasn't going all too well, to be honest. Nothing at all seemed to connect Ray Loogan or Leah Farrell with the city of Philadelphia. There weren't even any Loogans and Farrells in the phone book.

I'd only get my physical body back at odd, random times-whenever Gard could excuse himself from his wife to spend a couple of hours knocking boots with the mistress. Largely, I used the time to do some minor housekeeping, go for a walk, check the mailbox. I received a notice from Girard Bank three days after Paul started his assignment. Apparently, Gard's check had bounced, and the bank had charged my account a $20 penalty, which dipped it below the $50 minimum. I had three days to correct the situation, or my account would be dropped.

Bounced? Back in Henderson, this kind of thing was unheard of. If someone were to bounce a check on me out there, I'd have bounced something heavy off his head. But I couldn't do that now-Gard was our sole employer. I had to remind Paul to call Gard the next day, first thing. This matter could be handled delicately. Quickly.

And it would seem like every time I did have possession of my body, I'd run into Amy Langtree in the hallway. It never failed. I'd dash out for a package of cheap hot dogs and loaf of bread, and there'd she be, asking where I was headed. “For a walk,” I'd tell her, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Can I tag along?” she'd ask, all perkiness and smiles.

“Well, I have an errand to run first. It's a real tedious one, too."

“Oh. Okay. Some other time?"

I hated like hell to lie to her, but it wasn't as if I had a choice. “Sure.” Then she'd walk away, and I'd feel like the largest heel in the world.

I was reading through some of my notes and drinking a tumbler of Brain scotch when I felt the vibe. It's hard to describe-kind of like déjà vu, but in a more immediate and pressing way. Not the slow wonderment of Gee, I feel like this has happened to me before. This was more like, Holy shit, this is happening to me again. Something was going on with Paul. I ran from my office, down the hallway and front lobby stairs to take a peek at reality.

Reality was me/Paul in a cab, riding in the backseat with our client, Ms. Winston. She was wearing something cut exceedingly low in the front. I could do nothing but gawk. Then my view was snatched away.

Paul had turned around. Through the rear window, I could see that another cab had gunned through a yellow light and was speeding right for us.

Is your ex-boyfriend a cabbie? Paul asked.

No, why? asked Susannah.

Driver, slow down. Now.

The driver obeyed, and the cab almost overtook us, but slowed down at the last minute.

Oh boy. When Paul was right, he was right. Something weird. Though I couldn't believe Ms. Winston's ex-nut-case had found her so quickly. The cab pulled up next to us, and a face appeared in the opposite window, on Ms. Winston's side. A young face; deep-set eyes, full of a weird mix of fear and rage.

Paul drew our gun and shoved our client down to the seat.

The guy in the other car rolled his window.

Paul started to roll ours.

I tried to send out a shrieking telepathic message: Whoah, Paul! What the hell are you doing? Cease and desist! Cease and desist!

Then I heard our pursuer call out: You're a dead man, Larsen!

The rear passenger window shattered first. Glass showered over us and our client. Paul ducked, then spun his head back. I could see the exit hole in the window closest to us. Missed us completely. And then another shot. Paul looked over the edge of the seat. Our cabbie's head exploded all over the front windshield.

Now this is horrible to admit, but at the very moment I was glad Paul was in control of my body. I'm not exactly sure I would have been able to control the contents of my stomach and/or bladder at this particular moment. Instead, Paul started to return fire, pumping the trigger more times than I thought necessary. I couldn't see if he hit anything, but our pursuing cab veered out of control and screeched to a halt. We rocketed past.

It occurred to both of us at the same time. Our driver's brains were dripping over the front of the moving vehicle.

Paul, Susannah moaned. What's going on?

But Paul didn't saying anything. He lunged our body through the tiny opening in the Plexiglas partition. We weren't svelte enough to clear it-I could sense the edges of the partition digging into our sides. I didn't feel any pain; Paul took the full hit. But I'm sure I would discover bruises later. That is, if my body was leaving this taxi in one piece.

Then I saw what he was going for: the cabbie's jittering, dying leg. He squeezed through another inch and pounded our fist into the cabbie's thigh. The legbone connected the footbone, the footbone connected to the break pedal. It was as if our taxi had driven right into a brick wall. Our body was forced through the partition up to our hips; our client hit the back of the driver's seat with a dull thwacking noise. And as if to add insult to grievous injury, the cabbie's broken head pushed through the remains of the windshield.

I'm sure Paul was feeling a tremendous amount of pain, but all I could see was blue vinyl taxi seat. Then, as Paul wriggled our body free, I saw a dead body, the torn roof of the cab, then finally our client, peeking up from the backseat.

That's disgusting, she said.

Paul reached behind the dead body, opened the door and slid us out. I momentarily thought of trying to absorb the cabbie's soul, but then realized he would do the investigation no good-unless, of course, I wanted to sleep for the drive back to Las Vegas. Besides, I could sense that Paul was in no mood for a demonstration in the art of soul collection.

He looked at Susannah. Stay here and keep your head down. She nodded.

Paul started walking us, cautiously, to the other cab.

By now, a crowd was beginning to form-as well as confused, backed-up traffic. I suppose there wasn't usually this much excitement in Center City Philadelphia. Hell, there wasn't usually this much excitement in my life, and it's safe to say I didn't lead an average, milquetoast kind of existence.