Free Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski Page B

time, Paul's eyes twitched to the right. The view on the lobby screen jumped.
    That got your attention, didn't it? That's right, friend. I'm not here as a federal agent. I needed time off from that scene. Needed to catch my breath, take a look around. A mental health break, you might say.
    Couldn't blame the guy.
    I was having too many sleepless nights, too many strange thoughts going through my head. Strange thoughts about a hotel lobby, and conversations with a ghost. Maybe you've been there, Larsen. Maybe you know this hotel. Maybe you are this ghost. Are you a ghost, Larsen? Because last time I saw you, you were three shades of blue and wearing a toe tag on your way to the county freezer.
    He was right. Brad Larsen's body was deader than Mama Cass.
    And yet ... and yet, I keep hearing these reports. Brad Larsen spotted near Hagertown! Brad Larsen, spotted near Cooper's Mill! Larsen alive and well and bouncing around, buying Datsuns! 1972 Datsuns! Blue!
    Uh oh. I suppose it wasn't paranoia, after all.
    And all this time, I'm having nightmares and sleepless nights and endless days and horrible nights...
    I was right. Having your soul yanked out of your body does change you fundamentally. Not to mention psychologically. If Fieldman kept this up, soon he'd be in a rubber room writing home with Crayolas.
    Because the Brad Larsen I saw was dead and buried, and yet here's Brad Larsen buying Datsuns. So, I'll ask you again. What kind of damned drug was it?
    I wondered what Paul was making out of all of this. I hadn't clued him into my investigation of the Larsen murders. Or the reasons why I was being hunted by the FBI
    I hit the silver mike again. "You sure you're okay? Give me a nod or something, buddy. Let me know you're alive up there."
    Fieldman kept on truckin'. You know what I'm talking about. The mickey you slipped in my coffee. Or should I say the one your buddy Kennedy slipped in my coffee? Yeah, I know all about him, too. The Vegas office had their eyes on him for months. There he was in Woody Creek, cozying up with Agent Nevins, bossing people around...
    I/Kennedy did no such thing!
    ...and all the while, trying to figure out a way to cover your tracks. Can I ask how you did it? You find some poor slob who looked a little like you, poison 'em, give 'em post-mortem surgery and leave him there in the river? Where did you hide all the while? Did you let your wife die? Or did you kill her because she found out what you really do? Or was she in it from the beginning, and you and Kennedy decided to double-cross her?
    Questions, questions, questions ... oh, I've got a million questions. I could go on for hours, and rest assured, I will, until every single question is answered to my satisfaction. You wait. You're going to be telling me what kind of underwear your great-grandmother wore before we're through. But don't worry. I'm going to ask you an easy one first. Something you can probably tell me in a few words.
    What ... kind ... of ... drug?
    I had a question for Fieldman: Why ... do ... you ... keep ... asking?
    He continued as if he'd heard me. In case you're curious, it's highly effective. Stays in your system for months. In fact, it's still probably worming around in my system right now. At first I thought it was some kind of hallucinogenic, what with all of the out-of-body experiences I'd been having. Acid-flashback kind of stuff. But test after test came up negative--no trace of any known drug in my system--and the nightmares kept coming. All about that goddamed hotel lobby.
    So that's what this was about. When I had yanked Fieldman out of his body, he must have endured a serious shock to his system. And now he was after Brad Larsen and "Agent Kevin Kennedy" to find out what kind of "drug" we'd given him so he could find an antidote and go back to his calm, pressed suit and brown-bag lunch existence.
    Larsen, Fieldman said, putting his face within breathing distance of ours. I'm not going to ask you again.
    Paul