Soul Man E-Book

John Selby

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

As snow falls, a shadowy figure murders psychiatrist David Reynolds.  But when Reynolds approaches the light, he suddenly finds himself seeing through the eyes of his killer, his essence imprisoned in his killer’s body.

David realizes he must be in this position for a reason. First he must solve the mystery of why he was killed, then figure out a way to prevent his killer from killing again.

His host is a man on a mission, trained to push aside any emotions. Learning more about him, David discovers shocking secrets about his past, and the reason why he took David's life. But can he stop him from committing another murder, and find peace for his own soul?

Leseprobe

SOUL MAN

JOHN SELBY

Copyright (C) 2021 John Selby

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by India Hammond

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

About the Author

I have two dedications for this book. The first is to my loving family—my most wonderful wife, Holly, and my two great adult children, Matthew and Elizabeth. Thank you for all your love and support through the good and especially the bad times.

It is also dedicated to all the lost souls out there.

CHAPTER1

Death is not the end. For me, it marked a new beginning.

It was a frosty Sunday afternoon in February in Kansas City. Snow was forecast for that night, although they expected little accumulation. The gray overcast skies darkened the day, accurately reflecting my feelings as I arrived at Panera Bread near the Country Club Plaza.

Keep it together. I can’t give my wife the satisfaction of seeing me have a breakdown. I thought to myself as I went inside.

My divorce attorney, Amy Fitzgerald, met me there. She came highly recommended by a friend who recently suffered his own need for her services.

The divorce had not been my idea, although admittedly, my stupid indiscretion precipitated the process. However, Linda’s rapid escalation from anger to divorce led me to believe separating had already been on her mind. My actions only hastened the inevitable and provided the excuse.

I arrived first, naturally. I hated being late—for anything, which was in stark contrast with my soon-to-be ex-wife. I considered arriving ten minutes early, on time. Linda thought getting there ten minutes late was too soon.

I had just settled down at a table when Amy made her appearance, dressed in a sharp blue business suit, black purse over her left shoulder, and a brown portfolio stuck under her right arm. She cut a nice picture. Being with an attractive woman, even if it was strictly professional, dulled some of the pain. I appreciated her being on-time.

I rose to greet her, taking her offered hand in mine and giving her a quick, friendly shake. Her hands were soft, but her grip firm.

“I know Linda’s attorney, Donald McFadden,” Amy began after we exchanged pleasantries and secured our coffee and pastries. “He is aggressive, to say the least. Some call him cutthroat.”

Amy was in her early thirties, with bottle-blonde hair, blue eyes, and matching blue-frame glasses. She came up to my lower lip, making her about 5’4” tall, or a couple of inches shorter than Linda. Amy possessed an appealing, athletic build with a disarming smile.

“Fortunately,” she continued, “Kansas does not recognize infidelity as grounds for divorce. So, the primary issues are dividing the assets and child custody. You told me there would be no alimony, correct?”

I shook my head.

If anyone were to get alimony, it would be me, given having no income, thanks to the suspension of my license. But I should be okay. I hired a young psychiatrist to take over my practice until my suspension ended.

“What about custody?”

Custody—sounds like someone’s being arrested. In a way, it is a type of prison. Only I’m the one locked out rather than in. How am I going to survive without Anthony and Brittany welcoming me home every night?

The thought nearly had me tearing up, again.

Stop it. You’re going to lose it in front of your attorney. If you can’t hold yourself together now, what hope do you have when meeting with Linda and her attorney?

Amy continued as she referred to her notes, “You mentioned you agreed on joint custody, with the kids living primarily with her. You will have them on weekends and at some points during the summer. Is this correct?”

I nodded. “The biggest issue remaining is making sure our assets get divided equitably, so I can make it until I start earning money again.”

At least Linda is making the divorce as easy as possible. But that doesn’t change the fact she wanted it in the first place. I made one mistake. One. Don’t people deserve a second chance?

“Let's see what we have." With that, she pulled a stack of papers from her satchel.

The rest of the conversation was rather boring—reviewing details of our assets, etc. I did not expect a problem as Linda and I had talked (against our attorneys' wishes) and agreed in principle on most things. It was about getting the divorce that we disagreed.

We met on Sunday because that was the only time everyone could get together. Linda always put work first, and her schedule was often chaotic. I’m sure the kids were at her parents’. I wondered if they knew what their mother was doing.

Then the time to leave had come—time to terminate my marriage—eighteen years of my life. Eternal love no longer. Two wonderful kids. How could it just end?

Amy said she would meet me at McFadden's office because she wanted to "freshen up" a bit first. Why do women have to speak in code when they need to go to the bathroom?

Outside, the darkening gray clouds and chilly air furthered my gloom.

McFadden’s office was only a few blocks away. I pulled into the parking lot, my mind numb, emotions drained. I wiped away the tears that had formed and begun their trek down my cheeks.

As I parked my car in the second row, a metallic blue BMW 6 Series car identical to mine parked a few cars away caught my attention. What were the odds? It even looked to be the same model year—2021. At least whoever owned it had good taste.

I locked the car and ambled towards the front door. Despite the chill, I needed the slow pace to steel myself, knowing what lay inside.

When I entered, the air provided misleading warmth. A receptionist greeted me, a perky brunette in her late 20s. I wondered why they had a receptionist come in on a Sunday. Was she here only for this meeting? If so, was it policy or for show?

“Can I take your coat?” she asked with a disarming smile and sparkling bright green eyes matching her top.

I smiled and raised my hand, declining. “No offense, but the less time I spend in this building, the better. I suspect I will want to make a quick escape.”

She smiled and nodded knowingly, then led me to a nearby conference room. The room reeked of money, with rich mahogany furniture, including a beautiful table and a set of six high-back chairs. Four blank legal pads accompanied by an expensive pen lay on the table in front of each chair. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined each wall, save for the large picture window. Outside, bright white flecks floated down from their lofty perch; each one unique, yet all the same.

I took off the aforementioned navy-blue cashmere overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, and sat in the one next to it.

“Can I get you a refreshment?” the receptionist asked.

“I don’t suppose you can get me a Scotch?”

She chuckled and shook her head.

I flashed a brief smile. “A Diet Coke would be great.”

She nodded and went over to a refrigerator hidden inside one of the mahogany cabinets. Retrieving a soda, she made her way to me and handed me a can of nicely chilled Diet Coke. “The others will join you shortly.” With a warm smile, she left.

Having seen Linda's car in the parking lot, I knew she was already here, probably discussing strategy with her attorney before our meeting. I strongly suspected keeping me waiting would be part of their plan. I pulled out my phone and settled back, making myself comfortable.

Amy arrived shortly thereafter. She was accompanied by the receptionist, who, without asking, went to the refrigerator and retrieved another Diet Coke. Amy smiled and thanked her by name—Sonya—as she settled into the chair next to me.

Damn, why didn’t I ask Sonya for her name? I’m so consumed with my own troubles, I’ve forgotten common courtesy.

We exchanged small talk for a few minutes before Linda and her attorney joined us.

I caught a whiff of my wife's favorite perfume as I rose from my chair. Perhaps more than anything, the fragrance brought home the significance of the occasion, rekindling happy memories—of our love, our family, followed quickly by overwhelming grief. I struggled to keep it hidden.

Why was she in such a rush to get a divorce? The affair lasted all of one month. I should never have told Linda…stupid! Next day, I’m shopping for a new place to live. Now, six weeks later, she’s filing for divorce, and my license suspended for a year.

I fought to keep my eyes from leaking. Being too damn sensitive was a perpetual problem for me. At least it made me more empathetic with my clients.

I couldn’t help admiring my wife. She looked stunning, as she often did. Linda had long, black hair with brown eyes and a disarming smile, which she knew how to use. She was usually the most attractive woman in the room, no matter how large the space.

The attorney's appearance took me back. This man could have passed for my brother—my older brother. He had my dark brown hair, although his was sprinkled with specks of gray. I put him in his mid-to-late-forties. Adding to the similarities, he also had my hazel eyes, height, and a similar formerly athletic build. To be honest, though, it appeared he still exercised on occasion. He wore an expensive tailored suit, complete with matching hanky and silk tie, and a Rolex adorned his wrist. That's where the similarities ended, as I had on khakis and a polo shirt. The way he stood, completely erect, with shoulders back, head extended, exuded extreme confidence, if not arrogance.

After making brief eye contact with me, he turned his attention to Amy. His eyes sparkled, and a slight smile formed as he gave her a quick nod. They clearly knew each other.

Linda spoke first after giving me one of those disarming smiles. "Dr. Reynolds."

I nodded. "Dr. Reynolds," I replied. The routine never got old. We met at medical school where I was a fourth year, and she a lowly first year. What started as an innocent conversation in the cafeteria became a romance that eventually led to marriage and two kids. I went into psychiatry while Linda became a Pulmonary/Critical care specialist. Linda surprised me when we got married by taking my last name. It turned out she was old-fashioned. I had assumed she would keep her last name of Jacobson when we got married, which would have been fine with me.

She grinned, which seemed silly, given the circumstances. "David, let me introduce my attorney, Donald McFadden. Don, this is my husband, David."

I took a step forward and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you, Don."

He took my hand with a firm grip, perhaps a bit too tight. "Good meeting you as well, Mr. Reynolds,” he said with a wry smile.

Any friendly thoughts I might have had instantly disappeared. No doubt, referring to me as "Mr." instead of "Dr." was a deliberate slight and a reminder of my currently suspended license. Message delivered. It also made me think he might have been the one to have turned me in.

"I like your coat," he added, nodding at my overcoat. "I have one just like it…Pinstripes?"

I nodded, knowing he referred to the men's store on the Plaza and not the suit pattern. To have so much in common with this asshole greatly bothered me, and I was confident in my characterization of him.

However, throughout the meeting, Don acted professionally and cordially. Yet his body language and eyes glared hostility toward me. It felt personal. Why? I anticipated some from my wife, not her attorney.

The opposite was true when he gazed at Amy. She returned his friendly demeanor, even flashing a slight smile on occasion.

Did she just bat her eyes at him?

So what if they were friends outside the office? The possible conflict did not bother me. Linda and I agreed on the primary issues and wanted to make this divorce as painless as possible. Not just to get it over, but to protect the kids. Contested divorces adversely affect the children caught between warring parents. We were committed to minimizing their pain. Their parents splitting hurt them enough, no need to make it worse.

Yet, this bothered Don, who acted like a caged tiger, waiting to pounce on his helpless prey. Fortunately, his professionalism prevented him from sabotaging the proceedings. Perhaps having Amy by my side helped.

While Linda and I desired a painless process, it was not a quick one. Many assets needed to be reviewed, evaluated, and divided equitably. Fortunately, Linda had no desire to punish me further, knowing being separated from the kids punished me more than anything else could. She was right.

After ninety long minutes, we reached an agreement on everything. No fists flew. No tempers flared. All very civil. Partly because I gave in whenever an issue came up. While the divorce may have been inevitable, my actions were the precipitating cause. Guilt is a powerful force.

After the meeting, we all shook hands. Linda and Don took the elevator upstairs to finish the paperwork. Given it had gone about as well as it could have, I did not rush out. Instead, I played the gentleman and waited for Sonya to retrieve Amy's coat, so she and I could walk out together.

The air had grown chillier outside. The gray sky was now black, the darkness interrupted only by city lights and tiny white specks floating down innocently, swirling in the light wind, reflecting rainbows from the streetlights. Flecks, like God's dandruff, momentarily appeared on my shoulders before disolving.

Amy congratulated me on surviving the proceeding, although that’s like being praised for surviving a car wreck with only severe injuries. Exchanging small talk, I escorted her to her car. She informed me that the paperwork would take a few days to be completed before it was ready for my signature. She anticipated no surprises or problems.

I opened the car door for her.

“Thanks, David.” Amy smiled and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“I still believe in old school chivalry. Thanks again for your help, Amy. Have a pleasant evening.”

I know I’m not. A bottle of bourbon with my name on it awaits me in my new home, and I fully intend to utilize its numbing abilities.

As I turned to make my way to my car, I bore the blast of an emotional tsunami washing over me, halting me in my tracks. My marriage was over. Eighteen years of living with one woman, gone with a stroke of a pen. No kids running around, no sharing their every triumph and turmoil. My stomach added its protest, threatening to reject my lunch. Water welled in my eyes, preparing to escape as flakes of snow touched my cheek, melting instantly.

Her smile, her laugh, her fragrance, her gentle touch. God, I still love her. What the hell am I doing?

I resumed my erect crawl toward the car, completely distraught, aware of nothing but my sorrow.

The emotional fog enshrouded me as I reached for the door handle. To my surprise, the door failed to open. I tried again and again, with each repetition leading to increasing frustration, then giving way to anger.

Haven't I been through enough today?

I rammed my hand into my pocket and withdrew my keys. Spying the unlock button, I repeatedly mashed on it, to no avail. Frustrated and angry, I banged on the door, cursing loudly—mad at the door, mad at the divorce, mad at Linda, mad at McFadden, mad at me, mad at the world.

Somehow in my anger, I noticed a Starbucks coffee cup in the cupholder. I did not have coffee in the car today—I hadn't been to a Starbucks in weeks. Feeling very foolish, I realized I was at the wrong car. Anger became embarrassment, which only made me madder.

As I wallowed in anger, frustration, and self-pity, I saw out of the corner of my eye a man approaching, striding purposefully through the quickening snow. His very appearance intimidated. He was several inches taller than me, thinner, younger, with a significantly more athletic build and long black hair with matching thick beard. His broad shoulders and muscular frame were noticeable even though he wore a heavy black jacket, Chiefs’ cap, and carried a backpack slung over his left shoulder. The coat was open, revealing a gray sweatshirt underneath, matching the sweatpants he wore. The ever-swirling snow, now coming down harder, partially obscured the shadowy figure, making him even more mysterious. His sunglasses, perched on his nose in the darkness, added to his mystique.

Who the heck is this? Sunglasses? Really? Is he expecting a blinding snowfall?

I assumed he owned the car I appeared to be breaking into. I was about to apologize. As he approached, though, he did not seem like a guy who had a $70,000 plus car. His clothes were old and well-worn, his beard unkempt, and his shoes dirty and tattered.

Given the circumstances, I wasn't in the mood to be trifled with, as the emotional turmoil returned with a vengeance, especially my anger. The well-lit parking lot had obvious cameras covering every inch, making it unlikely the man was there to rob me, although I could not rule out the possibility.

Truthfully, part of me relished a confrontation—I needed something, someone, on which to vent my pent-up anger and frustration. This panhandler picked the wrong time to approach me.

"Look," I said to him in a stern voice as he drew nearer. "I'd like to help, but I have no change. Sorry." I started to turn away, but he kept coming. Now fury prevailed.

"Listen…" my speech stopped by the sudden appearance of a gun in the man's left hand—made more threatening due to the silencer attached.

What the hell?

The absurdity of what I was experiencing delayed any flight. Instead, I simply stared at the weapon then at the man—frozen—not from fear, but complete lack of comprehension. My brain refused to process what my eyes saw. Slowly I began to raise my hands in surrender.

I was not given time to complete the act.

The flash, pop, and pain came nearly simultaneously. Agony such as none before overtook my being, the impact slamming me against the car. Still conscious, I clutched at my chest, hands wet with warm blood against the cold air. As I slowly slid to the pavement, another flash, pop, and phenomenal pain. I lacked the breath to scream.

Why?

My mind filled with anger, anguish, agony, and astonishment.

The moment froze in time. My senses flared with hypersensitivity. As the third bullet tore its way into my flesh, the nerves sent waves of pain to my brain; the sound of it impacting my rib cage made its way to my ears, as the odor of burning flesh assaulted my nose. Intense agony overwhelmed me.

Then nothing. Nothing at all.

The excruciating torment vanished in an instant. The joy from the release of pain overwhelmed. Darkness. Silence. No sensation. Emptiness. Astonishment accompanied relief. I was still there…

How am I still conscious?

Gradually I became aware of a soft light glowing dimly ahead of me, growing slowly in intensity. As I watched, a long, dark tunnel formed, stretching before me, inviting.

This is it. I’m really dead…

What do I do now?

The light grew more intense.

Is it approaching me or I it?

The last of the air escaped my lungs, mixing with the snow-filled cold air, as I headed toward the light.

CHAPTER2

The welcoming glow beckoned at the tunnel’s far end. It radiated peace, tranquility, love, along with warmth and light.

What do I do now? We’re not given instructions…

Yes, I joked. Humor had always been my favored coping strategy. My apparent death had not changed that.

I hesitated.

I can’t go. I must take care of my kids…

The light called. I took a step forward. Then another. My pace was very deliberate.

How am I walking? This has to be my imagination.

I was in no hurry to recognize the reality of what seemed so absurd. Yet I continued onward. The beacon became so brilliant, I paused and closed my eyes for a moment. Dizziness instantly overcame me. Then once again, complete darkness.

My eyes opened. A deep fog replaced the bright, singular light. Gradually, the mist cleared and resolved into a scene.

In front of me was the BMW. Only the color was off. A reddish-brown streak flowed down the door. On the ground next to it, bleeding profusely, was me—or rather my body. Beside it, a growing pool of red on black mixed with pure white of the falling snow. But the snow wasn’t white, but greenish-gray.

How am I seeing my body?

The scene was cloudy. I tried to blink to clear my vision, but my eyes failed to respond. I tried to rub my eyes, but my hands refused to move.

No! This can’t be happening!

As the shock faded slightly, I tried regaining rational thought.

Strange. I see my body over there. This must be an out-of-body experience like those I have heard so much about occurring in near-death situations. I never fully believed it until now.

Except I still sense my body. Only, I can’t move. I am standing, yet I’m lying there, bleeding.

The scope of my vision gradually expanded and I became aware of more than my bleeding body. A left arm and hand stretched out in front of me on its own. I felt it move. The hand wore a glove, its fabric providing warmth.

It's fingers, my fingers, wrapped around the handle of a gun.

Not my glove. Not my hand. Not my gun.

Yet, I feel them, not just see them. What the hell? My mind is playing tricks on me.

Another hand came into view. This time the right. I not only saw, I felt the hand move. Together, the hands quickly removed the silencer, which went into the pants I now wore. The right hand put the gun back in the shoulder holster under the coat pressing on my shoulders.

I felt my head bend as I, we, looked down at the pavement, searching and soon finding three shell casings. The hands scooped them up and stuffed them in the jacket pocket.

What the hell is happening to me?

We began moving, running. I had no control over our actions.

Our feet rapidly beat on the street, but they didn’t generate noise, making brief footprints before vanishing. The snow had not yet started accumulating on the pavement.

Why am I looking at footprints?

My senses worked—the movement of my legs, the slapping sounds of the shoes against the slush, my heart pounding against my chest, whipping wet snow that crashed into my face.

Are they my legs? My heart? My face? They feel like they are mine, but I cannot move them.

I/we crossed the street and headed toward an alley.

Stop! Who are you? Why did you kill me? What did I do to you? Were you sent here to put me out of my misery? Or create a new hell for me?

I shouted, but no one heard. No sound escaped my lips.

Upon reaching the alley, we stopped. Our hand reached up and removed sunglasses I had not realized I wore, and the world obediently brightened, colors corrected.

What dark dream is this? What cruel trick is my mind playing? Have I not suffered enough?

I struggled to maintain my sanity.

Could this be a hallucination caused by my brain running out of oxygen?

I was only an observer as my body removed the backpack that I had not noticed weighing down my shoulder. I say "my," but the body wasn't mine. It was my murderer's.

That bastard! How? Why? Who? God, why are you doing this?

How am I seeing through his eyes? Feeling through his skin? Hearing through his ears?

The body seemed tangible. It felt like it was mine, only it did not respond to me. I was a mere passenger, an interloper, along for the ride. Or, more to the point, a prisoner.

Where’s the ambulance? Is someone going to help me?

Am I dead? I asked again to no one.

Everything appeared real. Too real. Every detail experienced as though my own, only without any ability to manipulate my body or my environment. The plots of dozens of movies and books flashed through my mind.

Am I a ghost? If so, who is being haunted? My murderer or me?

Am I waiting to be released to the afterlife—whatever that is? How do I go? Do I want to go? Isn't an angel or dead relative supposed to appear before me? Did I take a wrong turn in the tunnel? Where the hell is St. Peter and those infernal gates?

The thought tickled me.

The surreal scene continued to unfold.

This can’t be real. How do I get out of this body? I’m trapped. Help. Please, God.

I don’t remember ever praying before. I did then—to no avail.

He/we stopped in the shadows of the alley. He/we pulled out a red sweatshirt, headphones, and another empty backpack from the backpack. The new one was blue while the old red—both were cheap, the same size, with only one large pocket. He took off his light sweatpants, revealing a dark blue pair underneath, the chilly air flowing through the fabric. Next, he took off the gloves, exposing a wedding ring on his deadly left hand. The gloves and sweatpants were stuffed in the backpack, followed by the cap from our head and a black wig.

Next, he took off his coat, seemingly taking no notice of the cold air enwrapping our body. But I sure felt it. Somehow, he crammed the jacket into the backpack. Next, he peeled a fake beard from our face and placed it in, along with the sunglasses. Finally, he took the old backpack and rolled it up tightly before stuffing it in as well.

Every movement precise, rehearsed, quick. Occasional glances around to determine if anyone were there to see him—us.

My fear mixed with fascination as I observed the scene unfolding. In the back of my mind, something else bothered me as I watched, but I dismissed it given the absurdity of the entire situation.

He/we removed the silencer from the pants pocket and likewise put in the backpack. He/we put on the red sweatshirt over the other and the holster, with the gun still in it, and placed the headphones over our ears. Squeezing the backpack tightly, he zipped it up and strapped it to his back. This time, over both shoulders.

We moved toward the opposite end of the alley whence we came, assuming a leisurely pace. The entire episode took less than a minute.

I was confused. Frightened. Angry. Fascinated.

How do I still have emotions? Came the thought from the back of my disembodied mind.

Darkness and cold enveloped us. The air was heavy with snow that had begun to accumulate on the grass but not yet the pavement.

We hugged the shadows for several buildings, then casually moved to the sidewalk. After a few more buildings, we crossed the deserted street and started to jog. He never glanced around to see if anyone followed. The pace was methodical—he was in no rush.

What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming?

No, this seems too real.

Who the hell are you, and why did you kill me?

No answer came.

If this is a dream, it certainly is incredibly realistic. I feel the pounding from the pavement beneath our feet as we jog from the location of my execution and the gentle but wet, brisk breeze on our face. I smell the pungent exhaust of the city bus passing by and hear its loud diesel engine against the background of urban noises. No, the details are too vibrant to be a dream.

Somehow, someway, I am imprisoned inside someone else's body. The body of the person who just murdered me—or at least killed what had been me, the corporal me.

What am I now?

The thoughts came rapid-fire to my brainless mind.

I still think like always. ‘I think, therefore I am.’ I exist. My memories seem intact. Everything that defined “me” as “me” is here—except for my body.

How? Am I a ghost? If so, why am I haunting my killer? Why can't I move on to…wherever you go?

My thoughts alternated between desperation, frustration, anger, pleas, and curiosity.

God, what have you done?

I'm trapped in a killer’s body and I can't escape, can't move, can't communicate.

This isn’t fair. He should be the one in prison, yet I'm the one who’s lost my freedom.

I tried screaming, but nothing came out. I attempted to move my fingers but could not.

While I had the use of “my” senses, they were oddly different. My vision was sharper, colors more intense. The perspective slightly altered as my killer was a few inches taller. My hearing had also improved. Then I realized, I could hear again from my right ear, where I had been deaf since a childhood accident. Everything about my body was altered; I was stronger, more agile, more flexible, more alert. I felt renewed. No sign of the aches in my back and knees. Instead, I became dimly aware of new sore spots concentrated around my chest.

However, having no control over my new vessel more than offset any joy from being in a rejuvenated body.

How long will I be here? Why am I here?

As my emotions began to subside, I began processing my experiences, forcing myself to be rational.

If I am somehow in my killer's brain, can I hear his thoughts? Or communicate with him some way?

I tried quieting my thoughts, sorting through them to determine if any did not belong. Nothing. Only the physical things happening with our shared body entered my awareness.

Who are you?

I need to call you, the owner of my body, something. Okay. From now on, you’re “Host” as you’re Hosting what remains of me.

Host did not respond.

Host jogged casually down the city street, listening to classic rock, apparently unaffected by having just committed cold-blooded murder. In the distance, a siren. Then another. His face remained focused forward, never looking back to see if anyone followed.

No sign of guilt of having taken another man's life. No concern about being captured. Confident in his precautions. Who is this person who stole my life?

We turned the corner and made our way to the trail running alongside Brush Creek. He picked up the pace. The body did not protest…something mine would have done vehemently. We ran about a half a mile before departing the path and approaching an older model red Ford F150 pickup, snow decorating its hood, cab, and bed. Even in the dark, its poor condition was apparent. A sizable dent decorated the driver's door. The rear bumper was missing and there were scratches galore. From its appearance, the truck had to be at least ten years old. As we drew closer, I saw enough of the license to know it was not from Kansas or Missouri.

Opening the door, Host casually tossed the backpack on the passenger seat. After a couple of attempts, the pickup started, and we pulled out and smoothly made our way along Ward Parkway as though nothing had happened.

CHAPTER3

I tried to follow where we were going, which wasn’t easy, as I had no control over where he looked. The darkness made the task more difficult, with blowing snow further impairing vision. I tracked our location for a bit but became lost when he turned off Ward Parkway. Host never glanced at any road signs. He stared straight ahead, and I could not clearly see the surroundings out of his peripheral vision with the darkness and falling snow. I just knew we were headed south. Still, I concentrated on what I saw in case something provided a clue as to our location.

Why do I care? It's not as though I can walk home.

Once I got over the initial shock of, you know, being killed, then finding myself in my killer's body, my anger grew. This gave me pause.

If emotions are only biochemical reactions, how am I experiencing anger? Or sadness?

I don't know, but I am.

My feelings, though, apparently had no impact on the body I was in. My killer/Host remained stoic.

Why? Why? I screamed out in silence, getting no response from within or above.

This made me even angrier. I am not sure what made me madder—being dead, being murdered, being in a body I could not control, being in my killer's body, or knowing my assassin was getting away with my murder.

Where are the police?

As soon as the thought occurred, I realized the irony.

If my murderer is punished, won't I share in his sentence? His fate is now mine, at least for the time being.

There was no way to know whether my newfound state was temporary or if I was now permanently attached to my Host/killer. Given that, I did not exactly want to spend the rest of my existence in prison, especially for my own murder, and since this body seemed relatively young, that might be a long time. While hating the thought of Host getting away with killing me, for now, I had to root for our escape. Justice, or vengeance, would have to wait.

I pushed aside my moral quandary of what was more important—revenge or my new well-being. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. My situation had to be temporary. Maybe, if I ever escaped and could do something about it, I would bring him to justice. First, though, I had some big questions to answer.

Who is Host? Why did he shoot me? Could he be someone I know? Or the boyfriend or ex-husband of my former girlfriend or a client? Or is he connected to someone else?

Another thought occurred to me.

Could my wife have hired him? Was she that angry with me?

I dismissed that thought instantly.

No. Linda is not a killer. I am sure of that.

However, I could not think of anyone else with motive to kill me or who hated me enough to want me dead.

Was it a random killing? He didn’t rob me, didn’t even look, and I had on an expensive watch.

No, he had a silencer and a disguise. This wasn’t random. He planned it too carefully.

Speaking of control, my killer Host had it in spades. He displayed no overt reactions to shooting someone in cold blood. There was no elevation in our heart rate, nor a quickening of our breath, despite running a distance since murdering me. No, it was as though he were used to killing. A professional killer or a serial killer? But would a serial killer use a silencer? And why would a professional killer be after me?

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up at Sandy's Extended Stay Suites—not precisely the luxury hotel I was hoping for. The neon sign had just five of the letters of the name lit, along with "v ca y" below. The paint was peeling from the once white exterior of the three two-story buildings, which were arranged in a U, facing the parking lot and main road.

We parked in front of the building on the right. Judging by the few cars in the lot, not many of the rooms were occupied.

Host hopped out of the truck, grabbed the backpack, and we made our way up the outdoor metal stairs to the second floor and room twenty-five. He unlocked the door using a key with an oversized nameplate. It squeaked open.

Flipping on the light switch by the door, Host entered and flopped the backpack on an old stuffed chair next to the door. The outer sweatshirt was taken off, carefully folded, and laid on top of the backpack before he closed the door, bolted the deadbolt, and slid on the chain.

As he did, the room's musty odor, mixed with the smell of various cleaning solutions and an overworked baseboard heating system framing the floor, assaulted our senses. The reason why became quickly apparent. The room held a few pieces of well-used furniture, including the stuffed chair, an old sofa, a floor lamp, coffee table, and cabinet, on top of an excessively-worn beige carpet. I suspected little had changed in the room since at least the turn of the century.

A 32" TV bolted to the top of the cabinet faced the couch. In the rear was a kitchenette with a counter with two stools. One of which did not appear safe to sit on. A small table with three chairs sat in front of the counter. To the right were two open doors, leading to a bedroom and a small bathroom.

Host took off his holster, with the gun still in place, and hung it on the end of the couch. He then peeled off the next sweatshirt, again, carefully folding it and placing it on top of the other one. From what I could tell, he still wore a t-shirt or something similar.

Host headed to the kitchenette, where he retrieved a bottle of Tank 7 ale from the small fridge. We retreated to the living room and sank into the sofa, which had stuffing showing through several holes in the fabric. It’s not a couch on which I would have voluntarily sat, suspecting it would light up like a Christmas tree under a black light.

Whoever my murderer is, he does not appear to be a man of means. The hotel may say "extended stay," but it looks like they rent by the hour as well. Based on our surroundings, all his money went into the gun used to kill me—unless this is a front.

Could he be a professional killer? Indeed, his calmness and methodology suggest that possibility. If so, who hired him, and why?

Why am I even wondering about this? I’ve just been murdered, for Christ's sake. Now, I’m somehow a prisoner in his mind, and I'm worrying about how my murderer lives?

Host took a long drink from the bottle before reaching to place it on the coffee table in front of the couch. As he did so, our hands began shaking. Slowly at first, then more violently. It got so bad that beer began to flee the bottle, splattering across the table as Host struggled to place it down in an upright position.

Our whole body trembled. Hands rose to greet our sinking face, covering it as Host began to cry. The soft sobs became an all-out wail.

Finally, my killer is showing an emotional reaction to killing another human being—me. He isn't a hired gun. My murder was personal.

That conclusion hardly reassured me.

Perhaps he is former military or an ex-cop, which would explain how calm he had been. If he had seen much action, he would have learned to compartmentalize, pushing emotions away to complete his mission. With the mission over, the veil comes off.

Our body's crying triggered my own emotional reaction as the realization that I, or rather what had been David Reynolds, was now dead. My defenses crumbled as images of my kids flooded my mind. Thoughts of never seeing them again ripped at my heart and refused to leave.

I will never see them grow up, get married, have children—hell, I won't even see them reach puberty. My family—my sisters, my friends, my wife, my life—are gone.

The body cried for two.

The sobbing eventually slowed, then stopped. Following his example, I tempered my runaway despair. This was not the time to wallow in misery. I could worry about that later. Now, I needed to discover what was happening and why.

Host grabbed the beer, guzzled about half of what remained, and plopped the bottle back on the coffee table with a thump. Looking around, he found the slender black remote half-hidden in the cushion of the couch and turned the TV on to Comedy Central—an interesting and unexpected choice. I guess he needed the escape as much as I did.

His being stationary and preoccupied provided a chance to reflect more on my situation. There was a lot to digest. Top on the list was finding myself in someone else's body—one still occupied. This went against my construct of the universe and everything I knew and triggered numerous questions.

Pushing those aside for the moment, the metaphysical implications of my disembodied presence in another man’s body, two questions dominated my thoughts. Why was I killed? And why am I here sharing a body with my killer?

No answers came to me. Then a third question urgently pressed itself into my awareness:

Will he kill again?

Host did not dispose of the murder weapon. That strongly implies he is not through using it. It also suggests he does not think he will get caught. Or worse for me, doesn't care.

Emotions threatened the clarity of my thoughts. Now was not the time. I needed to think…rationally, not emotionally.

The killing was personal. His reactions suggest that. Yet, nothing about him is familiar to me. While not seeing his face, I think I would recognize his body type and behavioral characteristics. But I can't. Could he have killed me to hurt someone else, like Linda? But why? Who?

Staying in a cheap hotel and driving an out-of-state truck suggested he was not local, which added to the mystery. The only people who would be dramatically hurt by my death, realistically, would be my wife, kids, or her parents.

I can safely rule out my kids. Yet neither my wife nor her parents are the kind of people who would create the type of enemy who would kill to hurt them.

I decided to focus more on why than who or how.

There must be a purpose behind all this, and not just to torment me. To die and then find myself in my killer’s body cannot be a random event. I must be here for a reason.

I thought about it more as Host retained his nearly frozen posture. I’m sure the shows were funny, but they failed to draw out more than a slight smile—the only movements came when he finished a bottle and returned to the kitchenette to grab another.

Two possibilities exist: I am here to learn something or do something. The latter implies it must be possible to either control the body or interact with my Host.

That thought gave me a sliver of much-needed hope. It was much more satisfying to feel I was in this situation to do something rather than being punished or for it to be some random act. It also awoke something I did not know I had, faith. If I were here for a purpose, that meant a higher power was directing it. That alone gave me comfort and confidence.

At 10:00 a.m. sharp, Host switched to Channel 5 to catch the local news—no doubt to see if we made the news. Admittedly, I was also extremely curious. His reaction, though, came as a total shock.

When the typically good-looking female news anchor announced, "Psychiatrist David Reynolds was shot and killed outside the law offices of Warren, Ruth, and Associates—" Host flew into a complete rage.

"FUCK!" he screamed, throwing his empty bottle—the fifth of the evening—against the wall, shattering it into dozens of sharp-edged pieces and leaving a sizable hole.

CHAPTER4

Host paced back and forth muttering obscenities non-stop. After five minutes of constant swearing, he went into the bedroom and flicked on the light.

Consistent with the rest of the suite, the bedroom’s furniture was sparse, worn, but functional. A small desk with a laptop perched open on its surface sat in one corner with an office chair. A queen-sized bed with a flimsy headboard, a six-drawer dresser, and a nightstand with a lamp were the remaining pieces. The bed was made and there was no clutter to be seen—not even a stray sock on the floor. A tattered suitcase peeked out from the closet, which also contained several shirts hanging neatly.

He's been here a while. This place doesn’t look like it offers daily maid service, yet everything is neat, clean, and orderly. I suspect my Host has OCD.

Jeez. I can hear Linda now, 'just because someone is neat and you're not, doesn't mean they have OCD.' True enough. He might be former military, and it’s his military discipline, or he was taught well at home. But given how carefully he folded his sweatshirts when most every other guy would toss them on top of the chair, I am confident in my diagnosis.

Host sat at the desk, the chair squeaking under our weight. He opened the laptop and went to The Kansas City Star website and searched for "shooting Warren Ruth." In a second, an article appeared describing my murder.

There is no way to describe the experience of reading about your own murder. How could there be? If I controlled the body, I probably would have thrown up. I tried to be analytical, looking for clues that may help me identify my killer. Who was Host, and what motivated him?

The piece included a couple of pictures. One showed the BMW with a bloodstain by the driver's door—my blood—obscured partially by the snow. Fortunately, my body wasn't there. Since the picture was taken at night, not much else could be seen. The article also contained a headshot of me. I was glad they used the one from my website, which was three years old and more flattering.

Christ, I'm reading an article about my murder, and I'm worried whether they used a flattering photo?

We read the article. Reading without controlling the eye movement reminded me of watching subtitles on a foreign language film, only a lot more intimate. Chalk up one more absurdity in this

Picassoesque day. At least he was a rapid reader.

Details were sparse. The police had no leads regarding the killer’s identity or motivation for the attack, only a surveillance photo showing a shadowy figure standing by the building. You could tell he wore a cap, jacket, backpack, and sunglasses and had long hair and a beard, but there was nothing that could identify Host. The article did mention the police believed the murder was personal, and robbery was not a motive.

Our body tensed as we read about me, my practice, and my family. Host uttered another "fuck" under our breath as the article mentioned the two young kids I left behind. To my relief, the report did not discuss the pending divorce, only calling Linda my "estranged" wife. They did not interview her, although she may have refused any request.

I was not the intended target.

The realization hit me with the force of a semi going full speed, with a new wave of emotions washing over me.

Thank god, my family is not at risk. However, I am still just as dead, mistake or not.

Anger displaced relief. I became furious my life had been stolen because this fuckin' idiot asshole shot the wrong guy. Now my beautiful children would grow up without a father.

At least he showed some remorse at my tragedy.

Wait, if I am not the target, who is? Oh, God…Host will likely try again. The actual target must be the owner of the BMW I mistook for my own. Whoever he is—and it must be a he, since I was mistaken for him—his life is in significant peril. And he may not know it.

Now I had a purpose. Somehow, I had to prevent this murder. I didn't want another family to suffer and be torn apart. And I certainly did not want to be an unwitting and helpless witness to it.

Host stared at the article before slowly shutting the laptop. Sighing, he headed for the bathroom. After flicking on the light, he went to the tub, turned on the faucet without stoppering the drain, and proceeded to undress.

There was barely enough room to do this, as the bathroom was tiny. The fixtures were original, making them seventy years old or more, judging from the rest of the building. Tacky wallpaper adorned the wall, edges peeling.

Host never gazed directly at the mirror, indicating a lack of vanity. It was frustrating, though, as I desperately wanted to know what I now looked like. To get some idea, I paid close attention to our peripheral vision as he undressed to see any reflection of ourselves in the mirror. A few times, I got rewarded for my effort.

While I did not get a good glimpse at my face, I saw enough to be impressed with my new home. We had short-cropped sandy hair and broad shoulders. To my pleasure, we were ripped, including an impressive six-pack with no evidence of excess fat. As far as bodies go, I hit the jackpot—akin to trading an older Volt for a new Ferrari. And, as another glance showed, one with an extra-large engine.

Given that I might have ended up in some crinkly old body near death, I gave silent thanks my prison was at least first class.

A few other details stood out. For one, several scars dotted the body, predominantly on our chest but also on our right leg, our right arm, and Host’s face. They appeared old but still plainly visible, indicating deep wounds, and explaining the soreness.

Before stepping into the tub, Host turned enough for me to see a tattoo on our right shoulder. I recognized it immediately—the "Budweiser"—wings and talon. Host was a former Navy Seal.

Now naked, he headed to the tub and stuck his hand in the water, which was warm. He twisted the right-hand knob, making it hotter. Following a second test, he turned the center nob, which started the stream out of the showerhead, and partially closed the most certainly unsanitary curtain.

Before climbing into the tub, Host stopped at the toilet to relieve the pressure building within, to our shared relief, providing another peculiar moment.

How weird is this—holding another man’s dick? Only, I guess it’s mine now, too. Feels slightly different—yes, bigger. Linda would be pleased.

The perspective is also a bit different; the toilet is slightly farther away. The added height is causing more splatter. Never really watched another man pee so close before. Even his waggle is strange.

Finished, he bent down and grabbed some toilet paper.

You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s wiping up the splatter. Yep. Host is definitely OCD.

The experience drove home the new reality I faced. Whatever "I" was, I now resided in a new body. A great body, but one already occupied.

He took our time in the shower, perhaps subconsciously doing a spiritual cleanse as well as a bodily one. The hot water was soothing. We stood there, face buried in the spray, letting the water run down our body. Steam swirled around. Hot, moist air filled our lungs.

Eventually, he grabbed the small bar of hotel soap. As he soaped, I gained a greater appreciation of our shared vessel.

After toweling off, he proceeded to brush our teeth. For this, he had to stare into the mirror, allowing me to finally gaze upon my new face. I was not disappointed. Perhaps the best description would be ruggedly handsome, with piercing dark brown eyes that were almost black, thick eyebrows, and a square jaw covered with an overly heavy five-o’clock shadow. A long, thin scar down the right side of the face added to the mystique. This boy had seen some action.

Strange, the face seems familiar, like I’ve seen it before. Yet, I have no idea where or when. I am sure I don’t know him personally. His features are classic, though, so perhaps he simply fits the stereotype.

When he finished brushing, Host gathered the clothes lying on the bathroom floor and headed to the bedroom without bothering to dress. He opened the closet door further, revealing a clothes hamper, which he opened and dumped in the clothes. However, before climbing into bed, Host retrieved his gun from the living room and placed it beneath the pillow. Knowing nothing about firearms, I prayed the safety was on and could not accidentally be taken off by our movements when we were asleep. Dying once was enough for one day.

What is he so afraid of? Is this a PTSD reaction? Or is there something real threatening him—us?

We thrashed around in bed, turning side to side and front to back over and over. As we did, I wondered what would happen when Host finally fell asleep. Would I also sleep? Did a disembodied mind need sleep?

The answer came quickly. The thrashing slowed, then stopped as the alcohol consumed likely took effect.

Dear God, what is that wretched noise? Geez. We seem to have a terrible snoring problem. Maybe this is why he’s sleeping alone in a flophouse…

Then the impact of remaining awake while Host slept hit me.

Interesting. My body is asleep, and not only am I awake, but my senses are all working, not just my hearing.

I filed this bit of information for later contemplation as it had significant implications as to my new state and the brain's functioning. But that was for future conjecture. At the moment, I had more pressing concerns.

Since he’s asleep, if I am to gain control of the body, now would be the time to try.

Okay, get up!

Nothing. The body ignored my order.

Unfortunately, the process was not to be quick. The body did not automatically respond to me. But I was determined.

I am receiving input from the body—my senses work, and I feel pain, hunger. So if the nerves work one way, they should work the other. I just need to learn how to communicate with the body.

The thought reassured me. I had to be careful, though, as I did not want to wake Host, fearing he would instantly regain control. That meant keeping our eyes closed for now.

Getting up requires too many actions, too much coordination. I should start with something simple—like moving my little finger.

Move, damn it.

It didn’t.

Maybe I should try the middle finger…

After repeated attempts and utter concentration, the finger had not budged.

Why won't it move?

I paused my efforts to consider.

Perhaps I can't simply "order" my finger to move. After all, our “stream of conscious” does not control our movements but more or less narrates them or acts as a commander and issues general orders. It is up to the older parts of the brain to carry out those instructions. To succeed, I must reach the older part of the brain controlling movement.

I cleared my mind as best I could. Instead of thinking, 'move my finger,' I thought about touching the sheet with my finger.

What does the sheet feel like?

After several more minutes, I felt my finger slowly move, rising to gently touch the coarse sheet.

It worked! Today a finger, tomorrow the world!

I had a body again. For the first time since saying goodbye to Amy and my life, I felt a surge of joy.