you, you might be tempted to try it. God forbid you try it in an old house or graveyard. You never know what's gonna answer your call.
I made my move, and after a moment or two Larsen's eyes opened. I'm not sure what he was looking at--there wasn't much. His shirt was ripped and covered in dark maroon blood. Or maybe it was mud. It was unclear where the creek stopped and the man began. "Mr. Larsen?" I said.
His eyes turned in my general direction.
"Hi there," I said.
Brad stared at me.
Now came the next step: soul collection. I had to work fast--a soul can't animate a corpse for long. It's a trick, really: The meat thinks it's back on the job, and it takes a while to realize, Hey, waitasecond ... I don't think I'm alive anymore...
I knelt down next to Brad and scooped some water onto his face. I needed a better look at him. "Listen to me," I continued. "You've been murdered. I'm here to investigate. Your full cooperation will help bring your killer to justice."
His eyes rolled down at his body; his eyelids fluttered. Typical reaction. The victims are always curious, even after being pulled back from the dark wonderland of discorporation. A few check to see what they are wearing. Some even try to fix their hair. Brad tried to say something, but his throat was apparently blocked. I scooped another handful of water into his open mouth. He choked, then coughed up a dollop of mud and insects. I scooped more water onto his face, wiping the mud away. He was a handsome guy.
"We're in this together," I told him. "All you have to do is look at me."
"Sh-Sh-She..." he sputtered.
"Who?" I asked, but instantly regretted it. Clearly, he was talking about his dead wife, Alison. Shit. I had to switch gears. No sense having him freak out now.
I said, "I need to ask your permission for this." Not true, but I always made it a point to make this soul-collection thing sound like a matter of free will. "Will you join me to avenge your murder?"
"Sh-Sh-She's ... c-c-cut..." Brad said, shaking.
Good enough. I snapped my fingers, which caught his attention, and then I collected his soul.
* * * *
How, exactly? An excellent question. And I'll admit that I don't know.
Maybe this analogy will be useful: You probably drive a car, right? And you know how to use the gas pedal, and the brakes, shift into reverse and neutral, and operate the air-conditioning and the radio and windshield wipers and window crank?
Of course you do. But I'll bet dollars to doughnuts you wouldn't be able to explain the mechanical functions behind those operations. You probably don't even know how an internal combustion engine works. Which is fine. Neither do I. Nor do I understand the technical details of my soul-collection abilities. But rest assured, I know how to drive a soul, just as well as you know how to drive your Datsun.
I've been driving souls for five years, and I've gotten good at it.
In an instant, Brad Larsen became part of me: We were now Farmer-Larsen. I allowed Brad momentary control of my body so he could get whatever he needed to get out of his system. Kick at the mud, punch the air, curse God, whatever. Better to have his psychic anger dispelled on the banks of Woody Creek than inside my head.
Surprisingly, Brad didn't do a thing. I couldn't even guess what he might have been thinking. The connection was too new. All he did was use my eyes to stare down at his own dead body.
Me? Back when I was first soul-collected--after the initial exhilarating rush of being absorbed had passed--I cried. I was faced with a voyage into dark, terrifying turf. My collector, Robert, spent hours calming me down, explaining things to me.
But Brad only looked at his corpse as if he were looking at an interesting piece of modern art. I felt my head cock. He didn't ask a single question, or voice a single complaint. Which was fine with me, as I didn't have time to explain it all to him.
"Relax, Brad," I told him, unnecessarily. "You're gone, but not forgotten."