Lynda stepped forward in the lobby, looking all bashful. “Yeah, I know the way to Merion."

“God bless you,” I told her.

“Can I drive?"

About three or four of the souls said “No” simultaneously. I guess they'd already seen her drive, in a manner of speaking.

So, it was up to me. Of course, I'd wrecked the suspension on the police cruiser when I assaulted Mount Art Museum, but no matter. I didn't plan to take that car anyway-too easy for Slatkowski to find. I made one of the forensic geeks offer up his car keys. “Keep my spot open,” I'd told him.

I drove while Lynda directed.

The house on Winding Way was meant to be unlike every other house on the block, but that was the problem: they were all different in the same exact way. All colonial-looking mini-mansions. Palatial, but oh-so tasteful. It didn't seem like Susannah Winston's style. Or Lana Lewalski's, for that matter.

I approached the front yard of 473. The mailbox read J. GARD in metal-embossed letters. A relative of Richard's-most likely his parents. I opened the box and saw that it was stuffed with letters and bills: Philadelphia Gas and Electric. American Express. Something thick from Republicans for Ford/Dole ‘76. It was all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Gard. Yep, parents for sure.

A scenario painted itself in my mind: Middle of June, parents away at a summer cottage, mostly likely the South Jersey Shore. They give trustworthy, lawyer son keys to the pad to check up on it every once in a while. Lawyer son gives a copy of keys to his mistress, for out of town rendezvous. Mistress treats it as her retreat from reality.

But how did Brad and Fieldman know all this? Hey, I never claimed to be the world's greatest detective. I suppose it had something to do with Fieldman being “out of time.” The enlightenment I had enjoyed earlier, while speaking to Fieldman, had long faded away. Maybe that's because I'd died again. Did Christ rise on the third day feeling dumber than ever? I'd almost bet on it.

I crept up to the front door, which I saw was ajar. I could hear voices from deep within the house. Do it. Come on, do it. I couldn't place the voice, though. I withdrew Officer Madia's pistol from his holster and stepped inside.

Not surprisingly, the first thing I found was a dead body. It was Leah Farrell, chest soaked with blood. Her own, I assumed. The words BRING A DATE were still on her forehead, but faded a bit, as if she'd tried to scrub them away. I crept down to feel what was left of her neck for a pulse, but found none. Instead, I found a close-range bullet wound to the throat. Just like Alison Larsen's. So far, quite an amazing reproduction, I had to admit.

I walked down a narrow hallway, next to a staircase, which led back to what I took to be the living room. Living was a strange word to be associated with what I saw going on in there.

A man was affixed to an antique sofa with what looked like barbecue skewers and coarse rope-the ever-mysterious Ray Loogan. He wasn't a terribly tough-looking guy, to be honest. I guess I'd built him up in my mind to be so much more that seeing him now disappointed me. Then again, anybody tied to a couch and poked with sharp pieces of metal will look kind of pathetic. Next to him was Susannah, who was bound in a similar manner, only without the skewers. In front of them stood Alison Larsen, holding a pistol. She heard me and spun around. I could still see the bullet hole through the top of her evening dress.

“Hi, Alison,” I said. “I see you have a few guests over for the evening."

“Thank God!” Susannah cried, giving me her most alluring-yet-pitying look.

“Shut up,” I said. “I'm not here to save you. In fact, I've got half a mind to finish the job myself.” I turned my attention back to Alison. “Care to step outside?"

The corners of Alison's robot mouth curled up. But it wasn't her soul talking. “It's you, isn't it?” she asked. “God, you're a resilient bastard when you want to be."

“One of my more charming qualities."

“Agent Fieldman, do you want to take care of this?” she asked.

“Officer, please!” Susannah cried. “Help us?"

Alison was still talking to herself. “Oh… Of course. You're right."

My vision went black.

When I could see again, the first thing my eyes focused on was a balled fist. It collided with my face.

My head snapped to the right. I regained focus for a second, and realized I was back in the rebuilt Brain Hotel lobby inside my own head. I saw a bunch of the souls, gawking at me. Goddamnit, how did Brad keep doing this to me? When I looked back up I found my answer. Brad had Fieldman's soul-gizmo.

Being no dummy, I went for it. But Brad was no dummy, either. He swiped it away at the last second, then used his free hand to sock me in the face again. All I saw was a yellow flash. By the time I tuned my eyes back in, Brad was gone.

Doug came to my side. “You okay, chief? Brad wailed on your face pretty hard."

“I'm fine,” I said, standing. “Just fine. And thanks, all of you.” I was raising my voice. “Thanks a whole friggin’ lot.” Everybody in the room, of course, started hemming and hawing.

“It was too damn fast, boss."

“He had that soul-zapper thing."

“Hey, I'm only here for the drinks."

Abruptly, somebody changed his tune. “Wait! Look!"

We all looked at the lobby screen. Brad was in control, and had our body looking in a mirror, which was situated in the hallway next to the stairs. It was Officer Bill Madia's face, of course, looking back. “That's me,” said a voice from the back of the room. “What in hell am I doing up there?"

Up on the screen, Brad/Officer Madia turned his head. Alison was standing in the hallway with him.

So how do I do this? Brad/Officer Madia asked.

The transducer modifiers need an image to work from, said Alison. Close your eyes, and picture yourself in your mind to the closest detail possible. Then click the OK icon in your peripheral vision and the muscles will start to work on themselves.

That didn't sound like Alison at all. Jesus-that sounded just like Buddha Fieldman. After a couple of weeks in electronics school.

On screen, Brad/Officer Madia turned back to the mirror. Then, blackness. Slowly, a dim image of Brad's real face started to appear, like a photographic negative burning itself into vivid color. Skin stretched and settled into new forms; the skull itself seemed to grow and shrink in different places.

Of course, he was pulling the old change-your-face-trick. A trick I was intimately familiar with. But Brad didn't seem to have as much trouble with the process as I did. He didn't even flinch.

Brad closed his eyes, and our viewing screen in the Brain Hotel lobby went blank. When he opened his eyes again, Brad was looking at his own, real face in the mirror. At last, he said, beaming. They'll see the face of vengeance!

And the wife of vengeance, said Alison/Fieldman's robot body, off-screen.

There was a despairing cry from the back of the lobby: “Holy shit! What happened to my face!?” Officer John Madia. Poor guy. This was a lot to see in one night.

“Hope you had a picture somewhere,” I told him.

Brad started down the hallway, taking Alison/Fieldman by the hand. After a few steps, she stopped. Wait-we should do something about our mental luggage, she said. We don't want any further interference at this stage, do we?

Brad looked around the house, then spied Leah's dead body. In there, for now?