But during the last 10 hours of solid driving, my mind started playing tricks on me, and I'd hallucinated headlines like ROGUE FBI AGENT ON THE RUN. In reality, there was nothing. Whatever manhunt I'd caused, it was being conducted in secret. Which made sense, from a public relations point of view.

The best part: soon, I was going to be safe. The Feds were looking for Special Agent Kevin Kennedy-gaunt-looking male in his late 30s, with a sharp jaw and receding hairline. Height: 5'11". Weight: 175 pounds, soaking wet. Light blonde hair, green eyes. While the height and weight still applied, no other similarities remained.

Soon, I would have ice blue eyes, rich, reddish-brown hair, and a baby face that didn't need to shave often. I was going to lose at least 10 years in the transaction, too. The only way it would backfire would be if some enterprising Feds put Brad Larsen's face out on the wire, but why would they? For all they knew, Brad Larsen was sitting in the middle of Woody Creek with his baby face blown to smithereens.

Right Brad? I thought.

Brad wasn't answering. During the drive, I would pull over from time to time, close my eyes, port myself into the Brain Hotel, and peek into the interrogation room where Brad lay sleeping. Not a peep. He looked like a college kid sleeping off a hangover. I wanted to check on him again, but wasn't looking forward to more disappointment. Besides, he'd come around soon enough. All souls did.

I stuffed a few slices of meat and cheese into my mouth. I wasn't hungry, but I had to keep my strength up, just in case I had to skip out and drive another ten hours. I was trying to pry a thick hunk of cheese from the roof of my mouth when I saw the sirens flash through the slats of my window blinds. My body snapped to attention and I dove across the bed, reached into my jacket for my pistol, then rolled on the carpet until I was hidden beneath the window.

They couldn't have found me this fast-could they?

I snatched a peek from behind the curtain, then slid back down. A sheriff's car, lights whirling. Not many others-a few curious truckers. This wasn't a Fed deal, unless they'd sent advance word, and the local boys were here to scoop me up. If they were, it would be better to find out now. (And besides-locals, I could handle.) I stood up, brushed the wrinkles out of my trousers, then walked over to the bureau. I ate a few crackers to cover the smell of scotch, then tucked my piece under the mattress.

Once outside, it became clear I was not the focus of attention. A couple of blues were entering a room a half-dozen doors away from mine. Other motel occupants had come out of their rooms, too; I was merely one of the crowd. Finally, somebody cut the flashing lights. I heard some woman mutter, “Thank the sweet Lord.” The cop who spared our collective retinas started walking in our direction.

“Nothing here, people,” he said, holding up his hands. He was young. “A li'l family squabble. Go on back to your rooms and watch some TV."

“Bull shit,” mumbled a thick guy next to me. His eyes found mine. “I heard they got blood all over a shower down there."

“You're kidding,” I said.

“Wish I were."

Meanwhile, the kid cop was still trying to put everyone to bed. “Come on now… please return to your rooms.” His tapped his nightstick in his right hand, pretending it was something he'd used before. The crowd did start heading back to their beds, but not because Captain Nightstick was putting the fear of God into them.

The thick guy and I started walking together. “What happened?” I asked.

“Who knows?” he said. “Some couple checked in yesterday. Now, nobody can find them, and there's a whole lot of blood all over the bathroom. This is all I need-some friggin’ nutbag slashing my throat in the middle of the night."

“They think it's a serial killer?"

Thick Guy gave me a stupefied look. I'd strayed out of his vocabulary. I amended: “Some kind of nut?"

“Yep.” At this point, we'd both reached a door-his. “Well, happy dreams."

I wished him the same and wandered back to my own room.

I wondered if it was me, or if the world was becoming increasingly, strangely, violent. I ate more pepperoni, drank some Fresca, then pulled my pistol out from under the mattress, tucked it beneath my pillow and tried to sleep. Soul collecting took a lot out of a guy. Ordinarily, just to keep the Brain Hotel functioning, I needed about 10 to 12 hours sleep per day. Any less and the residents start complaining about maintenance problems. Considering the events of the past few days, I was going to need to sleep for three days straight.

After two days of lounging in the motel, I decided I'd stalled long enough. I'd had plenty of food and rest. Brad Larsen's soul still wasn't in shape for any kind of interview, and nothing else was worth investigating until then. So, now it was time to get down to the dirty work. Now it was time to rearrange my face.

Boy, did I hate this part of the job.

This is important, I reminded myself. They feared his face.

I packed a small paper bag with a few necessary items, left my motel room and drove outside of the Greater Buckeye Lake area. It took about one minute. Eventually I came to a grassy area that seemed relatively abandoned, so I scooted my car into a spot that couldn't be seen from the road. I opened my paper bag and spread my supplies on the dashboard. I flipped down the visor and taped up some of the photos I'd taken of Brad Larsen's corpse. I set my first aid kit on the passenger seat, and fastened my seat belt.

I wished this were as easy as absorbing a soul. Why did the gods who invented these strange abilities make this one so difficult? Why bother calling it a “gift” if it was so hideously painful? The last time I did this, I almost went into shock and died.

Okay. No more procrastinating.

They feared his face.

I got to work.

I closed my eyes and visualized a control panel. Robert had taught me it really doesn't matter what I look at-the panel was a symbol. It had a miniature screen, with two buttons on each side. The screen was divided into four perfect squares; each button corresponded to a square.

I opened my eyes and looked at the photo of Brad Larsen. Then I closed my eyes and imagined it appearing on the miniature screen. Opened my eyes, studied the photo, closed my eyes, visualized it on the screen. I repeated this process for a good twenty minutes. To an observer, it probably looked like I was playing a marathon game of “Peek-a-Boo” with an imaginary friend.

Finally, after endless opening and shutting of my eyes, I had a sharp picture of Brad Larsen on my mental control panel. The image had burned itself into my mind, and divided into four quadrants.

Yep, there it was. Ready to go.

Yessir.

Oh, shit.

It was time to push the first button. The lower left button, which corresponded to the lower left face of Brad Larsen.

Did I mention I really hate this part of the job?

Mentally, I pushed the lower left button, and an astounding, hideous pain seized the lower right portion of my face.

Ever have a blind pimple burrowed beneath your skin? Okay. Now amplify that by about a thousand, then imagine squeezing a fat thumb on the sucker. Hideous pain, let me tell you. Dr. Jekyll-turning-into-Mr.-Hyde kind of pain. The kind that makes you want to swear never, ever to touch your face again.

On screen, the lower left quadrant vibrated slightly, like a television image struggling for proper reception. I hardly saw it, though, because sheer agony was blinding me.