Secret Dead Men Read Free Page A

Then I regained control of my body.
    * * * *
    Usually, next came the tricky part: stealing the victim's face. Thank God I didn't have to take Brad's right then and there.
    A soul has its own momentum; it can propel itself anywhere, given the push or shown the right image. After all, a soul is built for travel. You can trick it back into its body, you can collect it and stick it in your own mind, no problem. A face, on the other hand, was dumb meat, stretched and burned and replenished and readjusted over a period of many, many years. Which meant, to steal Brad's face, I had to stretch and burn and replenish and readjust my own face.
    I knew it would be worth the effort, however. Whatever priceless information Brad Larsen had locked away in his mind would become a more powerful weapon if I became Brad Larsen. On the day I confront The Association, I want to wear a face they fear. The fact that they had sent somebody 1,200 miles to smash Larsen's face meant I'd found one.
    But there was no time to do a full reconstruction here in the creek--plus, my FBI friends would be sure to hear my hellish screams--so I whipped out my trusty Kodak Instamatic and used an entire roll of 110 film on Larsen's corpse, for later reference. I also tried to memorize the features (just in case): The stiff, bony forehead and the high cheekbones and short, upturned nose. He had a strong jawline, but not so strong as to detract from his boyish good looks. This was definitely going to be an improvement over Special Agent Del Kennedy. No offense to the dead.
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    Three
    Brain Hotel
    I placed Brad Larsen's soul in one of the rooms inside my head, then thought up a mild brain sedative. He took it without complaint. In fact, he didn't even seem to be aware I gave it to him.
    These "rooms" are simply mental constructs, built to house the souls I collect. Consider it a Holiday Inn of the brain. How would you like to be plucked from death, only to find yourself floating around some ethereal space inside somebody else's skull? For souls to retain a sane, working version of their earthly memories--and not be corrupted by the strange limbo of my brain--they had to retain a semblance of earthly surroundings. So, I had a hotel in my brain.
    From the soul's point of view, it's a sweet deal. Each soul receives a two-bedroom apartment, and is allowed to furnish it as desired. After all, it's their own mental power doing the creating; I merely supply the guise of walls, floors, water, gas and electric. They are free to pursue any kind of art or hobby they wish, or consort with the soul of a prostitute named Genevieve I'd absorbed a few years back. If they want a professional oak pool table, it's theirs. A wet bar, a color television set--not to mention whatever programming they desire--presto, bingo, there it is. Not a bad afterlife at all.
    I do my business on the first couple of floors of the Brain Hotel. There's the lobby, reserved for social functions and meetings. I have my office to retreat to when the need arises. I've resisted the urge to absorb the soul of a secretary ... though it is tempting. There is a series of interrogation rooms--ranging from a clean, comfortable lounge to a shithole dungeon with a scratchy, houndstooth couch--depending on the suspect. It helps with the acclimation process.
    I had 6 souls in residence in my Brain Hotel. Brad Larsen made it 7. I suppose I made 8, since I also lived in the hotel--that is, whenever I wasn't busy controlling my real, physical body.
    I don't keep the souls locked up in the Brain Hotel all the time. Once in a while, as a reward, I'll allow one of them to take control of my physical body, so long as it doesn't interfere with my investigations. Most times, the soul will merely want to experience the taste of real food again.
    Unfortunately, I'm the one who pays the gastrointestinal tab. Once, I allowed a tub-of-lard ex-bookie named Harlan to take control of my body. He promptly stuffed it with three Gino Giants,