From behind, Alison slid her hand across Nevins’ beefy forearm. For a brief second, he looked confused: Why was this attractive woman touching his arm? A sudden manifestation of gratitude for saving her life?

Of course, a second was all that Alison Larsen, robot, simulacrum, android, whatever-needed. She found Nevins’ trigger finger and managed to squeeze off three shots before he could stop her. Susannah's chest and face exploded in near-tandem. She choked and flung her hands to her throat, then stumbled and collapsed back to the floor.

Nevins wrestled the gun away and threw Alison to the ground. He stared at the bodies on the floor, then at Alison. He lowered his gun and closed his eyes tightly.

I let a sigh escape my dead lips, and then I involuntarily passed out.

I heard movement, then decided it was okay to opened my one working eye again.

Alison had scrambled up from the floor and ran to Brad's side. She was ignoring Susannah, who was lying nearby and choking on her own blood. Alison grabbed her husband's hand, crying. “Brad, please… please don't go now… not now.” She took his face in her hands, rubbed his forehead, passed her thumbs over his eyes.

And then the crying stopped. Alison sniffled, then cleared her throat.

“Sorry it has to end this way, Larsen,” she whispered. But it wasn't Alison talking anymore.

Brad's corpse didn't make a sound, but something inside must have.

“No,” Alison/Fieldman said. “You've done enough for now. It's time for you to rest.” Another pause. “Shhh. See you on the flip side."

Alison walked over to me and forced open my eyelids. “Your investigation's officially over."

I didn't reply. I knew it was Fieldman talking, and I knew it would be useless to resist. For the first time, I was ready to accept that my investigation was over.

She was the last thing I saw before my own, borrowed, dead eye fluttered shut.

Twenty-Seven

Four and a Half Dead Bodies

The next time they opened I was staring at Special Agent Dean Nevins. My long lost friend in the Bureau. After spending a month with the ghost of his former flunky, I was almost happy to see him. Nevins forced my eyelid up with a fat thumb.

“Hello, dead guy,” he asked, deadpan. “And what happened to you?"

I decided it was time to work the magic just one more time.

“The usual,” I said. I watched his face turn white and his eyes bulge-very, very wide-and then I jumped into his body.

Practice must make perfect, I guess. Nevins’ knees didn't even buckle. I stood up and started barking orders, just like Nevins would have done himself. Get these bodies tagged and I.D.'d. Where are the print guys? Come on, fellas-are we running an investigation, or a three-ring circus here? At that moment, the phone rang. One of the other agents answered it. He seemed to listen for a long time, then turned to me.

“Boss? It's a Mr. Gard. He's asking for Susannah Winston or Paul After?"

“I'll take the call,” I said. “Hello, Gard? Hi. Special Agent Nevins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How are you doing tonight?"

“What's going on there?"

“Well, there are a bunch of dead bodies scattered all over the living room floor of your parents’ house. Including your mistress, Susannah Winston, nee Lana Lewalski, a hooker from Las Vegas wanted for murder. Pinned to your parents’ couch is her ex-boyfriend, cheap hood Ray Loogan, also wanted for murder. Then across the room is Leah Farrell, yet another piece of Vegas scum. She had her throat shot open. Lastly, there's a guy who's face has been blasted beyond all recognition. Frankly, we don't know who he is. Quite possibly, he's a rogue FBI agent we've been looking for."

“Who?” Gard asked. “What… what are you talking about? I… I don't know these people!"

“Yeah, well that's the funny thing, Gard,” I said. “Right after I got here, I ran into the P.I. you hired. He wanted me to pass on a message to you."

“Wh-Wh-What?"

“He said if you ever bounce a check on him again, he'll feed you your own spleen. Have a nice day.” I hung up.

Next order of business: rescuing the souls I'd left behind in Leah's body. I figured they were probably flung out into the space of the room when Leah's head went up like a melon with a roman candle inside. I checked pieces of furniture, the shag rugs, nature paintings, dopey white plastic World Class Father & Mother statuettes, lamps but nothing. Not a glimmer of life.

Fieldman must have taken them with him in the Cyborg Alison body. Or perhaps they'd all made it to the Great Beyond. For all of their sakes-even that pain-in-the-ass Harlan, even cranky Kevin Kennedy-I hoped that was the case.

There was a final piece of business to take care of, though. I approached a young-looking agent holding a clipboard. Most likely, Fieldman's replacement on Nevins’ team. “Call the cleaners in here. I want this house razed to the ground."

“But sir,” Agent Boy said, “this is a private residence. It belongs to…” he glanced down at a clipboard. “…a Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Gard."

“You want everyone to know the Witness Protection Program can't be trusted? That the very fabric of our judicial system is consistently being ripped out like some Tijuana whore's panties?"

Agent Boy got the idea.

I sat across the street in Nevins’ car, sipping a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Still lukewarm and milky, but I didn't mind. This was the first fully-functional body I'd been in all night, and it felt like a dream. I didn't even mind that Nevins had polluted his liver and treated his lungs like smokestacks. This was the healthiest I've felt in years.

What was my next move? That was the best question I'd asked myself in a long time. I realized how much time and effort I'd wasted by only reacting to life. I'd been reacting for five years. Now, there nothing left to react to. My long-awaited, Association-smashing information was non-existent. Hell, there wasn't even an Association to smash.

Was this how it felt to want to quit a job? I wasn't sure. I'd always loved the only job I'd ever had-newspaper reporting. That particular career had been ended for me, and this new one thrust into my hands. Being the consummate professional, I expended the same, tireless amount of energy on it. But was my heart in it? Was it ever?

I sat in Agent Nevins’ body, and his car, for a long, long time. When dawn broke over Merion, I turned on the ignition and started to drive back to Philadelphia. After all, the Bicentennial was only a few days away.

It was something to look forward to.

author's note

This novel is largely set in the year 1976, which was an interesting year for me. On the Bicentennial, when I was four years old, I got lost. Right in the middle of festivities, in the heart of downtown Philadelphia.

My father was working that day-playing in a band hired to perform outside of Winston's Restaurant in Old City, Philadelphia. The name of the band was “The Shuttlebums,” and since my dad was also a carpenter, he came up with the idea of making business cards for the band on tiny slats of wood. Someday, when the bombs drop and cockroaches start throwing their own Bicentennial celebrations, those business cards will be around.

Since my father had a gig, and my mother was The Shuttlebums’ de facto manager, I was brought along too, as well as my year-old baby brother. I don't remember much of the gig, except that it was in front of Winston's Restaurant, near 2nd and Chestnut Street, three blocks from where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also remember what was going through my young brain: Big Boat. Very Cool Big Boat.