Secret Dead Men Read Online Free PDF Page B

until I was hidden beneath the window.
    They couldn't have found me this fast--could they?
    I snatched a peek from behind the curtain, then slid back down. A sheriff's car, lights whirling. Not many others--a few curious truckers. This wasn't a Fed deal, unless they'd sent advance word, and the local boys were here to scoop me up. If they were, it would be better to find out now. (And besides--locals, I could handle.) I stood up, brushed the wrinkles out of my trousers, then walked over to the bureau. I ate a few crackers to cover the smell of scotch, then tucked my piece under the mattress.
    Once outside, it became clear I was not the focus of attention. A couple of blues were entering a room a half-dozen doors away from mine. Other motel occupants had come out of their rooms, too; I was merely one of the crowd. Finally, somebody cut the flashing lights. I heard some woman mutter, "Thank the sweet Lord." The cop who spared our collective retinas started walking in our direction.
    "Nothing here, people," he said, holding up his hands. He was young. "A li'l family squabble. Go on back to your rooms and watch some TV."
    "Bull shit, " mumbled a thick guy next to me. His eyes found mine. "I heard they got blood all over a shower down there."
    "You're kidding," I said.
    "Wish I were."
    Meanwhile, the kid cop was still trying to put everyone to bed. "Come on now ... please return to your rooms." His tapped his nightstick in his right hand, pretending it was something he'd used before. The crowd did start heading back to their beds, but not because Captain Nightstick was putting the fear of God into them.
    The thick guy and I started walking together. "What happened?" I asked.
    "Who knows?" he said. "Some couple checked in yesterday. Now, nobody can find them, and there's a whole lot of blood all over the bathroom. This is all I need--some friggin' nutbag slashing my throat in the middle of the night."
    "They think it's a serial killer?"
    Thick Guy gave me a stupefied look. I'd strayed out of his vocabulary. I amended: "Some kind of nut?"
    "Yep." At this point, we'd both reached a door--his. "Well, happy dreams."
    I wished him the same and wandered back to my own room.
    I wondered if it was me, or if the world was becoming increasingly, strangely, violent. I ate more pepperoni, drank some Fresca, then pulled my pistol out from under the mattress, tucked it beneath my pillow and tried to sleep. Soul collecting took a lot out of a guy. Ordinarily, just to keep the Brain Hotel functioning, I needed about 10 to 12 hours sleep per day. Any less and the residents start complaining about maintenance problems. Considering the events of the past few days, I was going to need to sleep for three days straight.
    * * * *
    After two days of lounging in the motel, I decided I'd stalled long enough. I'd had plenty of food and rest. Brad Larsen's soul still wasn't in shape for any kind of interview, and nothing else was worth investigating until then. So, now it was time to get down to the dirty work. Now it was time to rearrange my face.
    Boy, did I hate this part of the job.
    This is important, I reminded myself. They feared his face.
    I packed a small paper bag with a few necessary items, left my motel room and drove outside of the Greater Buckeye Lake area. It took about one minute. Eventually I came to a grassy area that seemed relatively abandoned, so I scooted my car into a spot that couldn't be seen from the road. I opened my paper bag and spread my supplies on the dashboard. I flipped down the visor and taped up some of the photos I'd taken of Brad Larsen's corpse. I set my first aid kit on the passenger seat, and fastened my seat belt.
    I wished this were as easy as absorbing a soul. Why did the gods who invented these strange abilities make this one so difficult? Why bother calling it a "gift" if it was so hideously painful? The last time I did this, I almost went into shock and died.
    Okay. No more procrastinating.
    They feared his