Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski

didn't say a word.
    Instead, he breathed in sharply, then smashed the top of our head directly into Fieldman's nose.
    The man's eyes crossed for a split second, then a faucet-strength gush of blood spurted from his nose. Paul stood up--still handcuffed to the chair, as far as I could tell--and smashed our forehead into Fieldman's face again. The agent's legs buckled from under him. He fell to the floor like a puppet with snapped strings.
    I thought he'd never shut up, Paul said, aloud.
    * * * *
    I was relieved, but not as relieved as I should have been. What did Fieldman mean about Alison Larsen knowing what Brad "really" did? What, did Professor Larsen cheat on his dissertation? I didn't know, but I was sure as hell going to find out.
    Hey. Del.
    It was Paul, looking into a mirror. Which, of course, made it look like he was looking down at me from the lobby screen. Somehow, in the few seconds in which I'd turned my attention away from the screen, he'd freed our body from the handcuffs and the wooden chair.
    I hit the microphone button. "Great job. You've gotta teach me that some time."
    Which part? Paul asked. How to stay calm while being interrogated by an accountant? Or how to break someone's nose with your forehead?
    "I guess both." I didn't like Paul's cocky attitude, but I wasn't in a position to be arguing with him about it now. "Look, there's something important I need to do down here. Would you mind taking care of our pal, Fieldman?"
    I thought I'd get a wise-ass reply, but amazingly, I didn't. My pleasure, Paul said, then turned away from the mirror. The hotel room spun like a wild amusement park ride.
    Good. While Paul was busy sticking Agent Fieldman in a closet somewhere, I was going to have a little chat with Brad. I took the elevator up to his floor and walked down his own private hallway, which he had decorated simply--if by simple you mean red velvet wallpaper and burned gold trim and baseboards, along with gold-trimmed electric chandeliers with low-wattage bulbs. Was this the Brain Hotel, or Brad's Brain Whorehouse? Well, as I've said before, the residents are allowed to choose their own surroundings, no matter how bad their taste. I guess it could have been worse. I could have killed and absorbed the soul of the guy who invented "Tupperware."
    I knocked on Brad's door--privacy is everything in here--but got no answer. I knocked again, louder, but again, nothing. I used my master key, which was the phrase, Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear , and the doorjamb clicked open.
    The interior of Brad's room was a completely different story. In fact, it hadn't changed a bit since he moved in. It was still the plain-jane college dorm room template I'd slapped up for him in the first place. Maybe he worked on the hallway for six days, then rested on the seventh.
    He wasn't in here, either.
    I took the elevator back down to Tom's Holiday. It was the only place souls ever bothered visiting, apart from the lobby. But Tom's was empty, too, save Tom, who was buffing his bartop with an old pair of Brain boxer shorts and a can of Brain Olde English wax. "Hey there Del," he said. "What's happenin'?"
    "You haven't seen Brad around, have you?"
    "Nah. Just me and the wax here. Stopping down later? I remembered a couple two, three more songs off that first John Lennon album you might wanna hear."
    "Sure, sure," I said, then headed for the lobby again. As I walked away, I heard Tom moaning, "Mothaaahhhhh..."
    At the front desk, I used the black courtesy phone to open up a line throughout the entire Brain Hotel. I loathed using it, because the souls seemed to get pissed off every time I did. Maybe it was a reminder this was not Reality, that they were still dead and trapped inside my head. Maybe it interrupted their umpteenth viewing of Mary Hartmann, Mary Hartmann . Who knew?
    "Hey guys, this is Del. I apologize in advance for cutting in, but Brad Larsen, I have an important message for you. Come on down to the lobby as soon as