Secret Dead Men

by Duane Swierczynski

  When my vision dimmed and my head flopped to the left, I started to worry. This was beyond my bag of resurrection tricks. If someone were to poke out Ray Loogan’s remaining eye, I’d be screwed, blued and tattooed. And as much as I’ve complained before about all the miserable places my soul had been shuttled to, this was by far the King Daddy shit-pick of the year.

  I could still see, though, out of my remaining eye. Susannah had the gun back on Fieldman. Why didn’t he use the distraction to disarm her?

  “The law is coming for you,” Fieldman said.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll explain everything to them. How you killed all of these nasty people. How you tried to kill me.”

  “They won’t believe you, Ms. Lewalski.”

  “No, but they will believe Susannah Winston. She has powerful friends. She has a powerful father. She can explain her way out of anything.”

  Feds kicked in the front door; footsteps thundered up the hallway. My old buddy—Special Agent in Charge Dean Nevins—whipped out his pistol, doing the best Dirty Harry impression he could muster. “Drop your weapon!”

  “Oh, can she?” Fieldman whispered, looking directly into her eyes.

  “Explain this.”

  Susannah’s trigger finger twitched, enough to fire the gun. At first, I’d thought she’d flinched, but then it became clear what had happened. God, that clever, stupid bastard. His face—which looked like Brad’s, but used to belong to a Philadelphia police officer—exploded in a blur of wet crimson, and his body flipped back to the ground. I wonder what kind of gizmo he’d used to do that. The look on Susannah’s face was priceless. Absolute and complete horror.

  One might say what happened next speaks volumes about the self-control of Dean Nevins—after all, any other agent would have immediately started pumping lead into the psycho bitch. But Nevins didn’t do that. He calmly and sternly repeated himself. “Drop your weapon now, woman!”

  Susannah turned to face him, gun still in her hand. Ooh, bad form, girl.

  “Drop it!” Nevins squawked. His entire body seemed to tense.

  “God, NO! He did this—”

  “I said DROP IT!”

  “Yes, yes, of course…” Susannah bent down to put the gun on the floor.

  “That’s it.”

  Susannah complied, even offering a weak, vulnerable smile.

  “Now just step away from the body….”

  I couldn’t believe it. Despite Fieldman’s last-minute efforts to the contrary, it looked as if Susannah Winston was going to explain her way out of this one, too. Her whole life had been lying her way into bigger and better social circles—shit desert town to gun moll, gun moll to high-society mistress, high-society mistress to … what? Directrix of the FBI?

  Thankfully, it wasn’t to be. A thirst for justice runs in the Larsen family.

  From behind, Alison slid her hand across Nevins’ beefy forearm. For a brief second, he looked confused: Why was this attractive woman touching his arm? A sudden manifestation of gratitude for saving her life?

  Of course, a second was all that Alison Larsen, robot, simulacrum, android, whatever—needed. She found Nevins’ trigger finger and managed to squeeze off three shots before he could stop her. Susannah’s chest and face exploded in near-tandem. She choked and flung her hands to her throat, then stumbled and collapsed back to the floor.

  Nevins wrestled the gun away and threw Alison to the ground. He stared at the bodies on the floor, then at Alison. He lowered his gun and closed his eyes tightly.

  I let a sigh escape my dead lips, and then I involuntarily passed out.

  I heard movement, then decided it was okay to opened my one working eye again.

  Alison had scrambled up from the floor and ran to Brad’s side. She was ignoring Susannah, who was lying nearby and choking on her own blood. Alison grabbed her husband’s hand, crying. “Brad, please … please don’t go now … not now.” She took his face in her hands, rubbed his forehead, passed her thumbs over his eyes.

  And then the crying stopped. Alison sniffled, then cleared her throat.

  “Sorry it has to end this way, Larsen,” she whispered. But it wasn’t Alison talking anymore.

  Brad’s corpse didn’t make a sound, but something inside must have.

  “No,” Alison/Fieldman said. “You’ve done enough for now. It’s time for you to rest.” Another pause. “Shhh. See you on the flip side.”

  Alison walked over to me and forced open my eyelids. “Your investigation’s officially over.”

  I didn’t reply. I knew it was Fieldman talking, and I knew it would be useless to resist. For the first time, I was ready to accept that my investigation was over.

  She was the last thing I saw before my own, borrowed, dead eye fluttered shut.

  Twenty-Seven

  Four and a Half Dead Bodies

  The next time they opened I was staring at Special Agent Dean Nevins. My long lost friend in the Bureau. After spending a month with the ghost of his former flunky, I was almost happy to see him. Nevins forced my eyelid up with a fat thumb.

  “Hello, dead guy,” he asked, deadpan. “And what happened to you?”

  I decided it was time to work the magic just one more time.

  “The usual,” I said. I watched his face turn white and his eyes bulge—very, very wide—and then I jumped into his body.

  Practice must make perfect, I guess. Nevins’ knees didn’t even buckle. I stood up and started barking orders, just like Nevins would have done himself. Get these bodies tagged and I.D.’d. Where are the print guys? Come on, fellas—are we running an investigation, or a three-ring circus here? At that moment, the phone rang. One of the other agents answered it. He seemed to listen for a long time, then turned to me.

  “Boss? It’s a Mr. Gard. He’s asking for Susannah Winston or Paul After?”

  “I’ll take the call,” I said. “Hello, Gard? Hi. Special Agent Nevins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How are you doing tonight?”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “Well, there are a bunch of dead bodies scattered all over the living room floor of your parents’ house. Including your mistress, Susannah Winston, nee Lana Lewalski, a hooker from Las Vegas wanted for murder. Pinned to your parents’ couch is her ex-boyfriend, cheap hood Ray Loogan, also wanted for murder. Then across the room is Leah Farrell, yet another piece of Vegas scum. She had her throat shot open. Lastly, there’s a guy who’s face has been blasted beyond all recognition. Frankly, we don’t know who he is. Quite possibly, he’s a rogue FBI agent we’ve been looking for.”

  “Who?” Gard asked. “What … what are you talking about? I … I don’t know these people!”

  “Yeah, well that’s the funny thing, Gard,” I said. “Right after I got here, I ran into the P.I. you hired. He wanted me to pass on a message to you.”

  “Wh-Wh-What?”

  “He said if you ever bounce a check on him again, he’ll feed you your own spleen. Have a nice day.” I hung up.

  Next order of business: rescuing the souls I’d left behind in Leah’s body. I figured they were probably flung out into the space of the room when Leah’s head went up like a melon with a roman candle inside. I checked pieces of furniture, the shag rugs, nature paintings, dopey white plastic World Class Father & Mother statuettes, lamps but nothing. Not a glimmer of life.

  Fieldman must have taken them with him in the Cyborg Alison body. Or perhaps they’d all made it to the Great Beyond. For all of their sakes—even that pain-in-the-ass Harlan, even cranky Kevin Kennedy—I hoped that was the case.

  There was a final piece of business to take care of, though. I approached a young-looking agent holding a clipboard. Most likely, Fieldman’s replacement on Nevins’ team. “Call the cleaners in here. I want this house razed to the ground.”

  “But sir,” Agent Boy said, “this is a private residence. It belongs to…” he glanced down at a clipboard. “…a Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Gard.”

  “Y
ou want everyone to know the Witness Protection Program can’t be trusted? That the very fabric of our judicial system is consistently being ripped out like some Tijuana whore’s panties?”

  Agent Boy got the idea.

  I sat across the street in Nevins’ car, sipping a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Still lukewarm and milky, but I didn’t mind. This was the first fully-functional body I’d been in all night, and it felt like a dream. I didn’t even mind that Nevins had polluted his liver and treated his lungs like smokestacks. This was the healthiest I’ve felt in years.

  What was my next move? That was the best question I’d asked myself in a long time. I realized how much time and effort I’d wasted by only reacting to life. I’d been reacting for five years. Now, there nothing left to react to. My long-awaited, Association-smashing information was non-existent. Hell, there wasn’t even an Association to smash.

  Was this how it felt to want to quit a job? I wasn’t sure. I’d always loved the only job I’d ever had—newspaper reporting. That particular career had been ended for me, and this new one thrust into my hands. Being the consummate professional, I expended the same, tireless amount of energy on it. But was my heart in it? Was it ever?

  I sat in Agent Nevins’ body, and his car, for a long, long time. When dawn broke over Merion, I turned on the ignition and started to drive back to Philadelphia. After all, the Bicentennial was only a few days away.

  It was something to look forward to.

  author’s note

  This novel is largely set in the year 1976, which was an interesting year for me. On the Bicentennial, when I was four years old, I got lost. Right in the middle of festivities, in the heart of downtown Philadelphia.

  My father was working that day—playing in a band hired to perform outside of Winston’s Restaurant in Old City, Philadelphia. The name of the band was “The Shuttlebums,” and since my dad was also a carpenter, he came up with the idea of making business cards for the band on tiny slats of wood. Someday, when the bombs drop and cockroaches start throwing their own Bicentennial celebrations, those business cards will be around.

  Since my father had a gig, and my mother was The Shuttlebums’ de facto manager, I was brought along too, as well as my year-old baby brother. I don’t remember much of the gig, except that it was in front of Winston’s Restaurant, near 2nd and Chestnut Street, three blocks from where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also remember what was going through my young brain: Big Boat. Very Cool Big Boat.

  You see, my father’s full-time carpentry gig was on this restaurant ship called “The Moshulu,” which, in 1976 (and again, about 20 years later), was docked at Penn’s Landing, three blocks east of Winston’s. I somehow put the geography together, and I knew if I walked over the Very Big Bridge (in actuality, a pedestrian footbridge over I-95), I could see the Very Cool Big Boat. So in the middle of the largest crowd ever gathered in Old City Philadelphia, I ran away.

  But not alone. I took an accomplice along with me: my Aunt Diane. Relieved? Don’t be. She was only nine months older than me at the time. (My grandmother became pregnant with her late in life—the last in a series of five girls, spanning 22 years or so. God bless my grandpop Lou.) Why Diane followed me, I’ll never know. I’ve never been the persuasive type. And you’d figure a five-year-old would know better. But, oh well.

  I don’t remember the walk over there. It was probably scary as hell, and I’ve blocked it from my memory. But I do remember walking into the restaurant portion of the boat, and Diane and I sliding into two seats at a table. A frazzled waitress with a nameplate emblazoned VICKY came over and dropped two menus and a large wicker bowl of popcorn on the table. She must have assumed we were brother and sister, and our parents were nearby. Of course, this was not the case. We were alone, and lost.

  For about five minutes.

  A man in a big suit appeared next to our table, looking down at us with a strange expression on his face. I remember worrying we were about to get yelled at, but he didn’t. “You two aren’t supposed to be here, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling.

  Neither Diane nor I made a peep.

  The man pulled out a chair and sat down with us. “Well, that’s okay. I’m not supposed to be here, either.” I watched him pull a cigarette out of a steel case in his pocket, and saw a big thick belt under his arm, with a Big Gun inside it. Wow. That was even cooler than being on a Big Boat. But the man quickly covered it up, lit the cigarette, and stared at us both. Then I saw him look up, behind us.

  I felt the thin, scratchy breeze of fabric across the back of my neck, and caught a whiff of perfume. A woman sat down at the table. I recall her being incredibly beautiful—almost as beautiful as Lori, my babysitter.

  “Who are these two?” she asked.

  “I’ve been busy the past couple of weeks,” the man said.

  “Very funny,” the woman said. “Are they lost?”

  “Yeah. The waitress clued me in to them. I’m just doing my job.”

  The woman smiled. “Funny to hear you say that, after all this time.”

  “Well, I was kind of forced out of my old one,” he said.

  “Now, now, Collective. Don’t be bitter. You know this was for the best. You’re not supposed to complete every task. Some have to be finished by others.”

  “I know. If I didn’t, I’d plant a bullet in you right now.”

  The woman was quiet for a moment. I got bored and started to eyeball the popcorn basket. I loved popcorn. But Diane beat me to the punch: she already had her hand in the basket, almost tipping it over.

  “I have a question for you,” the man said. “How much of that stuff you’d always tell me—you know, about what I am…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well. How much of it was true?”

  The woman smiled. “Excellent question. I’d say you could place my factual accuracy at about 50%. Some things were outright lies, meant to keep you confused, or bitter, or a little of both. But everything else was the truth. More than you know, actually. More than you’ll ever want to know.”

  “What are you going to do now?” the man asked, righting the basket before we lost all the popcorn.

  “Well, first I have a small matter concerning a certain hotel here in Center City Philadelphia. There’s going to be a plague this holiday, and I have to make sure it doesn’t spread to end life on Earth.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “I guess that’s important.”

  “You might say that.”

  The man nodded, then turned to look at us kids. I always got uncomfortable when grown-ups stared at me, so I started to fidget with the tablecloth. Eventually—thankfully—the man turned away.

  “And what about you?” the woman asked. “Any plans for the immediate future?”

  “I’m going to make sure these kids get back to their parents. Nothing beyond that. Nothing I can think of, at least.”

  “You need anything? Money?”

  “Only the air that I breathe.”

  “Catchy,” the woman said, smiling. “It would make a good song.”

  The man sat there, staring at the basket of popcorn on the table. Which, of course, prompted me to grab a handful and stuff it in my mouth. I looked at the man to see if was going to stop me, but he didn’t. He looked like he was going to cry. I’d never seen that in an adult man before. It was weird.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the woman said. “Rest assured, I’ll take care of her. She’s happy here.”

  “Can I say something to her? Just for a second?”

  “Sure. But remember: I’ve wiped her memories away. The bad ones, I mean.” The woman swallowed and closed her eyes.

  Again, I reached out with my tiny fingers and grabbed as much popcorn as I could hold, then tried to shove it all into my mouth. Most of it missed.

  “Hi,” the woman said.

  “Hello,” the man said. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you.”

 
“Of course you don’t. I look different now. I wanted to wish you luck in the future. You deserve it. In fact, you deserve the world. I wish I were the one who’d be able to give it to you.”

  “Oh, okay,” the woman said. “Uh, thanks.” The woman blinked, and then sighed. Then she stood up from the table, patted us both on the heads, and said, “Be good.”

  The man sat with us for a while longer, not saying anything. Diane and I made short work of the popcorn basket, and the waitress brought over a full one when the man stopped her, smiled, and then took us both by the hand and led us off the ship, back across the bridge, back to the corner of 2nd and Chestnut, back to my parents. I don’t remember their reaction; I can only assume they were overwhelmed with the urge to hug us and choke the living shit out of us, simultaneously.

  My last memory of being a four-year-old was this: The man in the suit walking away.

  I never saw him again.

  October 2003

  Philadelphia, PA

  About the Author

  Duane Swierczynski was playing keyboards in a bar band at the age of 10, hauling garbage at 15, interviewing fashion models at 17, and working at a magazine at 19. He was born and raised in Philadelphia, lived for a while in Brooklyn, and now has returned to Philly with his wife, son and daughter.

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