I closed my eyes, lay down on the ground, and surrendered control of my physical body.

To do this, I relaxed a certain part of my brain. It's hard to describe to someone who's never known about it being flexed; trust me, every human being does. Until someone makes you aware of it, you have no idea you're holding it tight, even when you sleep. If people were aware of it, suicide would be a hell of a lot easier than razor blades and unlit ovens.

Then, as usual, the blackness started to pulse with waves of deep light-like when you close your eyes and press your palms into your eyeballs.

An instant later, the lights came up. Walls, ceiling and not-so-tasteful Oriental carpet formed around me. I was standing in the lobby of the Brain Hotel, right in front of the entrance. This was the symbolic gateway between the Hotel and the real world; whenever I wanted to go back, I simply walked out the front doors. If any other soul tried it without permission, they'd run into a brick wall. Literally. (My touch. I couldn't resist.)

Fieldman's soul was standing in the lobby, too, holding an imaginary pistol. His soul had arrived a second or two earlier.

“Relax, Agent Fieldman,” I said.

“Wh-Wh-Where am I?” he stuttered. The poor guy. One minute he's having his soul removed from his body; the next, he's standing inside the lobby of a cut-rate Holiday Inn.

“You're having a bad LSD trip. Some jokester in the unit laced your coffee; you're going to wake up in an extremely bad mood. In fact, you're going to want to pummel the first agent who crosses your path.” I had no idea if a hypnotic suggestion given to a discorporated soul would work, but what the hell.

“I am?” Fieldman asked.

“Yep. And you're not going to remember any of this, either.” I cold-cocked his soul with my spectral fist-you can do that, you know-then walked through the front doors and back into the real world.

I stood up and dusted myself off. Then I closed my eyes again, and visualized Agent Fieldman. Once I had him, and started to feel the weight of his conscious mind, I popped open my eyes and flung Fieldman's soul back into his physical body. A moment later he popped back to life, choking and writhing. In my professional opinion, he'd live.

I started to run down the road. My head pounded something fierce. I wasn't used to collecting and flinging souls around like that. About twenty yards later, I heard Harlan's voice in my head. Uh, boss? What am I looking for again?

Boy, was I going to hurt that fat bastard when this was all over.

Two miles and four pounds of sweat later I found a black Dodge, recent model. My dress shirt was drenched. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around my elbow, smashed the passenger window, unlocked the door, brushed broken glass off the seat with my jacket and slid across the seat. I couldn't stop sweating. My head felt like a garden hose with a hundred leaks. I wiped my forehead with my coat sleeve. Wonderful. Another $35 investment down the tubes.

It was time to call for back-up. I closed my eyes, and visualized a microphone with a big black button on its base. I mentally depressed the button-which triggered a set of speakers in the Brain Hotel-and started thinking out loud. Doug Isom. Paging Doug Isom. Doug was this hippie who used to steal stereos to buy marijuana. I'd absorbed him for moments like this.

Hey, Del!

“Hi, Doug,” I said. “No time to chat. I'm going to surrender control to you in three seconds. I need you to start this car."

Right on, man.

Since Doug could grow all the Brain pot he could ever use in the comfort of his own room, stealing was now strictly for fun. In many ways, reality was a bigger high for Doug-especially parceled out in tiny snatches, here and there.

I nestled back into the seat, closed my eyes and slipped away, and found myself inside the Brain Hotel lobby. Doug was there, smiling lopsidedly at me.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Body's all yours."

Doug walked through the front doors and into total blackness. His image vanished as his consciousness was transported to reality. And let me tell you, reality must have been a serious rush for this baked potato. But he didn't let it affect his professional abilities. He cracked the column, pulled out a wire, and sparked the ignition.

“Your car, sir,” Doug said upon his return. He was laughing to himself. He was always laughing about things that, quite frankly, were not even remotely funny.

“Thanks, Doug,” I said as I passed him and walked back through the front doors.

I hammered the gas pedal like the back of a long-lost friend.

I wanted to drive west, to return to familiar turf, but my instincts told me to head east, away from the maelstrom. Indiana came and went and I'd barely registered the state. Not much to it; a lot of highways and random office buildings interrupted by farmland. The only thing that kept me sane on the trip was the car's AM radio. Thank God it worked. I'd missed listening to my albums back home-sometimes, I think pop music holds the tattered and worn fabric I like to call my “life” together. Songs pin down times and places like nothing else. I can remember what song was playing the day I drove home from college graduation ("True Love Ways"), the first time I had sex, ("Sweet Pea"), and the day I was hired as a reporter at the Bulletin ("What is Life?"). Right now, the station I'd found was playing Lynn Anderson's hit “Rose Garden.” Big hit in 1970-the year I was collected. “Smile for a while and let's be jolly,” I sang along. “Life shouldn't be so melancholy."

Yeah, pop songs were comforting all right, but sometimes they could be a huge pain in the ass.

Five

Pepperoni and Cheese

After a few days of zig-zag driving, I found a trucker's motel in a part of Ohio called “Buckeye Lake.” The names kept getting better and better. Whose job was it to name towns in Ohio, anyway? I mean, who looked at a dirty puddle and thought, “lake,” then attached that grandiose description to a name that belonged to a one-eyed pirate? This is but one of the many mysteries that had gone unsolved during my lifetime.

Actually, the place wasn't so bad. The bed was pliable, the bathroom was scum-free, and the towels weren't too stiff. The room even had a TV-the fancy push-button kind, with giant rabbit ears. Not that I planned to watch anything except the local news. I dropped my shopping bag on top of a battered bureau which doubled as a desk, and unpacked. A six-pack of Fresca, a package of store-brand crackers, a pound of Cracker Barrel sharp cheese, a slab of imported pepperoni, and a copy of a local newspaper. I walked over to the sink and found a cheap plastic tray with a plastic ice bucket and two plastic glasses wrapped in clear plastic. The guy in The Graduate was right about plastic, I guess.

I took the tray and brought it back to the desk, then used my Swiss Army knife to chop the pepperoni and cheese. I opened one of my Frescas, and took a sip to prime the system. Then I tore into the pepperoni and cheese. It was the best meal I'd had since the FBI coffee the day before-and I was going to need my energy if I was going to do a full face reconstruction. I only wished I had a Budweiser instead of a Fresca.

I pushed the bureau closer to the bed, so I could have a proper seat. Checked the local paper, but couldn't find a mention of the Woody Creek incident. Stuff on the Ford assassination attempt was all over the place-something about a Manson family freako chick named “Squeaky.” (Seems like Sheriff Alford was on to something about those Manson folks, after all.) I didn't think I'd see something about Brad Larsen, or about the Woody Creek incident. Nevins had made it clear this venture was quashed, effective immediately.