Leah, for her part, looked unnerved by this whole turn of events. She probably expected Paul to loosen up, maybe even surrender a few details to help sort things out. I'm sure she didn't expect this… calamity.

“What do you mean…” she asked, “…wife? You weren't married."

“True enough; Paul was never married. But I was. To a beautiful, selfless, endlessly giving woman who wanted nothing in life but to appreciate beauty and art and raise brilliant children."

Had there been any doubt about the identity of our mystery caller, it was gone.

“Who the fuck are you?” Susannah asked.

“I am going the be the last voice you ever hear,” Brad Larsen said. He reached forward, grabbed the bottle of Cuervo, poured himself a healthy drink, sucked it into his mouth, then sprayed it all over Leah's face.

Of course, I only heard this last part by remote; I was running through the Brain Hotel-half faux-running, half porting my soul-racing towards Brad Larsen's room. I kicked open the door just as Brad was simulating his boozy raspberry-the one our body was acting out in real life. “Brad, God damn it!"

There was some kind of metal gizmo wrapped around his head, with tiny wires and rubber patches attached to his forehead and temples. He was moving his right arm forward, and grabbing an imaginary object that rested on an imaginary table right in front of him. Brad's eyes slowly opened, and he smiled. “And now we light the match…"

It didn't take long for me to figure out what was going for. I leapt forward and slapped his head with my open hand. Stung the hell of me, but at least it succeeded in dislodging the gizmo. I grabbed it with my non-throbbing hand and yanked it free. It made tiny pop! pop! pop! sounds.

Brad yelped, “Hey!"

I looked at the limp collection of metal and wire and rubber in my hand. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before, not even beneath the hood of a foreign car. But I had to ignore it. Punish now, sort it out later.

I closed my soul-eyes and sent Brad to the interrogation room with the houndstooth couch.

However, back in reality, the damage had already been done. Leah slapped a pile of twenties on the tequila-probably leaving a 300 % tip in the process-and led Paul outside with her pistol shoved into his spine. Poor bastard didn't know what the hell to think-one moment he was tying one on, the next somebody was taking over his voice box, and the next he was being shoved out a front door with a pistol in his back. I'm sure the ordinary Paul After could have handled worse, but then again, this Paul After had been through the Play-Dough Fun Factory I call my brain, and was not entirely sure of his own existence.

She nudged Paul into an alley right next to the restaurant. He stepped around a trashcan, and she followed. I could sense that the place stunk to high heaven-city alleys in the middle of summer were never choice locations. The fact that it even registered in Paul's booze-addled mind was worthy of note.

“Okay, stop right there."

Paul turned around, trying his damndest to stay upright.

“I knew you weren't Paul,” Leah said. “The Paul I knew wouldn't let a woman bully him into a silly game of drinking for information. The Paul I knew wouldn't have let me anywhere near his real apartment. So who the fuck are you, huh?” She nudged the gun into Paul's forehead to accent that last word.

Paul looked up at her. I thought he was going to either giggle, vomit, or both. But what he did next surprised the hell out of me.

He smacked Susannah's gun away. It fired into the brick wall behind him. He made a fist and launched it into her stomach. Leah bent in half. She started to scream, but Paul punched her again before she could. She collapsed to the ground in a very unladylike manner.

Paul stood up, and his balance wavered. He took a few steps back into a wall, then slid down it. “I doannnn know."

And then he passed out.

The voices stopped. The Brain Hotel solidified.

I'm not sure how to explain it, since there was precious little blood running through our alcohol system. Maybe the effect was dependent on consciousness; maybe the infrastructure of the human brain simply can't handle reality, multiple sub-personality consciousness, and a lot of booze. Or maybe punching a woman in the gut was enough to sober anybody up.

At any rate, it was time to check on our boy. I don't know how he corralled the mind-power to focus for those few key seconds, but sweet alleluia, he did. I ran back into the Hotel lobby and found Paul on the floor. He had staggered back in from the real world, but couldn't make it any further. His soul was wasted.

“You'd better take over, Del,” he said. “I'mmnot feeling too good."

“Take it easy, buddy. I'll handle it."

I ran out the front doors. Whoah.

The real world wetbrain stupor hit me like a tidal wave. It's one thing to gradually become drunk over a series of cold mugs of beer, or a even from a few shots of whiskey spaced over the course of an hour. It was another to inherit the wind all at once. I need to pass out somewhere safe.

But I had to do something with Leah first.

Leaving her in this alley meant she'd only wake up in an hour or so, then come back up to my apartment and try to kill me. I doubt there would be any lengthy conversation then, either. I could kill her and absorb her soul, but I felt like I had enough balls to juggle at the moment without a dead body to hide-and God forbid that she and Brad started comparing notes inside the Brain Hotel. The best idea was to keep her out of the picture for a while. And the best way to do that?

Doug came down to the lobby in record time. He took over the body-"Whoah, reality is more of a rushhh than I remember,” he said, then set off to score a dose of horse. It wasn't difficult; this was 15th & Spruce. When he returned, Leah was still passed out in the alley. Doug strapped her arm up tight, then gave her a nice clean shot to oblivion. She resumed consciousness for a horrible second, eyes spinning, then suddenly focusing on her arm, and I swear she knew what was happening to her for a second before she was gone. He shoved the rest of the goods into her pants pocket, then surrendered the body to me.

I shoved a dime into a phone, called 911, gave a location, then finally staggered back to my apartment. It was time for me to pass out.

Twenty-One

Toilet, Cat

I'd almost keyed into my apartment when a familiar, annoying voice started talking to me.

While you were playing around with the ladies, I discovered some grim news, said The Ghost of Fieldman. I could see his image in the brass door knocker plate on my apartment door. He loved to project himself into the oddest of the places.

“I'm in no mood."

Instantly, his image appeared in the hallway with me. Well get in the mood, Collective, because my former employers are on to you. They've got your picture, they're got your alias. It's only a matter of time. And time is something you don't have.

I unlocked the door and kicked it open. Fieldman followed me inside. I closed the door, and threw my jacket over a chair. “How do you know all of this?"

I have my sources. As we speak, the FBI is running your picture through a series of tape files they have. In addition, your photo is being sent to every branch office from here to Seattle.

“And where did the Feds find this picture?"