Daniel Faust 03 - The Living End

by Craig Schaefer

  Two gunshots crackled through the sky, scattering a flight of birds from the kill-house roof and sending them winging over the deserted development.

  “Wow,” Pixie said, walking past me with a cardboard box of electronic odds and ends in her arms, heading inside with Bentley and Corman in tow. “Good shot, G.I. Joe. Those dolls won’t mess with you again.”

  Now I had to worry about splinters along with my aching back. I’d shot each puppet square in the chest, and now they looked like trees that had met the business end of a lumberjack’s ax. I lugged them through the kitchen door one by one.

  “We brought everything you asked for,” Bentley said. He laid out a pair of battered tackle boxes on the kitchen counter next to Pixie’s overflowing carton of odds and ends. “It’s exciting to be doing a little acting again!”

  “It’s not exactly Shakespeare,” I said.

  Corman waved a hand and poked his head in the refrigerator. “Eh, close enough. He means it’s exciting to be pulling a grift again.”

  “He knows what I meant, Cormie,” Bentley said.

  Corman shut the fridge in disgust. “Seriously, Nicky doesn’t even keep snacks in the house? And no beer? He really is half demon.”

  Caitlin waved to me from the living room. She took my arm and led me up a short hallway into a guest bedroom at the end. It was unfurnished, like the rest of the house, but sunlight streamed through a big picture window and painted the beige carpet in squares of gold.

  “What do you think?” she said. “Outside access, the hall’s visible from the living room, and there’s a small closet off to the side.”

  I nodded, looking around, counting the paces from the door to the closet.

  “I think,” I said, “you’d make one hell of a magician’s assistant.”

  “Bugger that,” she said, taking my arm again. “You can wear the sequins. I want to wear the top hat.”

  It pays to have a mixed bag of tricks. When they’re expecting a gun, whip out a little sorcery. When they’re expecting the supernatural, think like Harry Houdini instead. We had a few surprises in store for Alton Roth. That was, if he took the bait. Back in the kitchen, Pixie handed me the key to the van.

  “Console’s all set up. A monkey could operate it,” she said. Then she looked over to Caitlin. “He might need your help.”

  We idled the Wardriver’s engine to get the air-conditioning running. The computers were liquid cooled, but we weren’t, and the van’s shell didn’t take long to turn into a sauna on a hot afternoon. Caitlin and I sat side by side in front of the bank of controls, double-checked everything one last time, and put on twin headsets.

  A dial tone reverberated in my ears. I lowered the volume a little, running my fingertip over a slider on one side of the headset, and made the call.

  “Senator Roth’s office,” said the nasal voice on the other end of the line. “How may I direct your call?”

  “I need to speak to the senator, please,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the senator is in meetings all day. I’d be happy to leave a message for him, or you could schedule an appointment—”

  “He’ll want to take this call. Tell him the word ‘Calypso.’ He’ll understand.”

  We waited patiently. I imagined one flunky flagging down another flunky to pass a hurried message to a third, running through the halls of government power like relay racers. After four minutes of vaguely inspirational, vaguely patriotic hold music, Roth picked up on the other end. His voice was a hushed murmur just on the edge of panic.

  “Calypso? Is that you?”

  “Nope,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “But I’ll give you three guesses.”

  He got it in one try. “Faust. Lauren warned me about you.”

  “Of course she did. She wanted to make sure you wouldn’t trust me, when the time came to take action. Truth is, we have a mutual friend. Calypso hired me to protect you.”

  “I…I don’t know what that is, or who that is,” he said hurriedly. “Or who you are. This is a crank call and I’m hanging up.”

  “Before you do, check your email,” I said. Caitlin rattled off a quick message on the Wardriver’s console, sending him the scan of his infernal contract. On the other end of the line, I could hear Roth’s mouse clicking.

  “That’s proof,” I said. “Proof we’re on the same side. I could never have gotten my hands on that contract without Calypso’s permission. If I hurt you or exposed you, that’d bust your deal, and that’s the last thing he wants. Therefore, I must be trying to help you. Think it over, Senator. Simple logic.”

  “All right,” he said, reluctant. “If that’s true, then what do you want?”

  “To save your life. Lauren’s going to betray you.”

  “Ridiculous. Lauren’s a traitor? Why? She’s literally getting everything she wants. I’m showering her with money and support. She gets to—” He paused, catching himself.

  “To become a goddess,” I said. “We know about the Enclave. We know everything. What you don’t know is that Lauren doesn’t like to share. You think she’s going to reward you with eternal life for your loyalty? Guess again. That makes you competition, and she doesn’t like competition. She’s planning on having you killed. We can prove it.”

  “How?” he said.

  As he spoke, another monitor running a speech-to-text program displayed a running transcript. Reminding me what words he’d spoken, and what I still needed to get on tape for the second half of the plan.

  “Not here, not on the phone. Let’s meet tonight, just you and me. I’m sending you an address in Eldorado.”

  “You want me to meet,” he said, “alone? With a murderer who’s trying to destroy my life’s work and my best chance of salvation.”

  “And what happens if I kill you tonight, Roth? Oh, that’s right, contract’s null and void, and you don’t have to burn in hell. Want more proof that I’m looking out for you? Try this on for size. I’ve got a document, in your handwriting and with your verifiable signature, literally selling your soul for political power. What happens if I email this to every media outlet in the country? If I was really out to get you, I’d have already done it.”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “All right,” he said, chewing it over. “I’ll come.”

  “You’ll come alone?”

  “Yes!” he snapped. “I’ll come alone!”

  Caitlin tapped the transcript of his words on the screen and gave me a thumbs-up before sending another email. Pixie had set the system up for us in advance, making sure anything we sent would bounce off proxy servers from here to Beijing and land in Roth’s inbox with nothing but a generic user name and a dead trail behind it.

  “Did you get the email?” I said. “Confirm the address, please.”

  “Uh, 14082 Sauk Trail, room six,” he said. I heard him typing in the background. “Wait a second, that’s not in Eldorado at all. Google Maps says it’s a motel off I-15 about ten miles outside Vegas.”

  Another thumbs-up from Caitlin.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said. “Ignore that. That’s for a different meeting. Sending you the right one now.”

  “I can’t believe Lauren’s trying to kill me. After all I’ve done for her! You’d better be right about this, Faust.”

  “Trust me,” I told him. “I’m your best friend in the world right now, Roth. I’ve got no reason to lie.”

  Thirty-Two

  With Roth on his way, it was time to get the hard work done. Caitlin and I helped set up a cluster of remote cameras in the house, little gray plastic orbs smaller than a cue ball, fixing them in place with ceiling brackets. Pixie linked them up with the screens in the Wardriver, calling in to give us directions.

  “Little to the left,” she told me. “No, your other left. Right there, perfect. I can see all the way down the hall.”

  Caitlin and I shared a stepstool, our bodies pressed dangerously close. She held the camera in place while I slipped the bracket un
der it, screwing it in tight with an electric screwdriver. I jumped down and ran into the living room to check the sight lines. It was perfect. The cameras were already unobtrusive, but thanks to a low-hanging bit of molding, this one was literally impossible to see from where Roth would be standing.

  Bentley and Corman practiced their moves like they had been born on the stage, coordinating with Caitlin and Pixie. I stopped Corman near the basement door, nodding at the stairs.

  “You sure about this? That’s a pretty steep climb,” I said.

  “Kiddo,” he said, “did you just imply I’m too old to run up and down a goddamn flight of stairs?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  He nodded grimly. “Good. Because I’m also not too old to smack you upside the head. You just worry about getting Roth on his mark, so he gets a nice clear view. We do this right, he’ll be pissing his pants.”

  The guns were the last ingredient. A black nine-millimeter Glock for me, a pair of big chromed .45s for Bentley and Corman. I checked my load; then I checked it twice. Then a third time, just for safety. If everything went right, nobody would get hurt tonight. Problem was, it’d be real easy for everything to go wrong.

  • • •

  Night fell over the abandoned development. Pixie and Caitlin took the Wardriver, pulling it into a half-built garage across the street. Bentley and Corman took their marks. I took a slow, deep breath and waited.

  Tires rumbled over fresh asphalt. I ran out the back door and into the dark, standing in the oncoming headlights and waving my arms.

  The headlights died along with the engine. I had to squint for a second, getting my night vision back, as Roth clambered out of a compact rental car. I ran over and grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the back door.

  “Are you crazy?” I said, moving my hand from his arm to his back, giving him a little push. “Are you trying to get killed? Listen to me—”

  He tried to pull away, and I turned him around, grabbing his other arm, my hand slipping and brushing his waist. The light from the open kitchen door spilled out onto the cold grass. I put my hands on his shoulders, holding him in place.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Did you come alone?”

  His eyes bulged, not sure what to make of the crazy man pawing at him. “Yes! I said I would!”

  “Well, that’s a big fucking problem,” I said, pulling him inside and slamming the door shut behind us.

  I wasn’t just trying to make him uncomfortable. The groping had been an impromptu pat down, feeling for suspicious bulges or the seam of a shoulder holster. The last thing I wanted was another gun in the house, one I didn’t control.

  “Wait,” he said, “it’s a problem that I came alone? Why?”

  I led him into the living room. A walkie-talkie sat on the sill of a picture window, leaning against the drawn blinds. I snatched it up.

  “Roth’s here with me,” I snapped into the handset. “You’re sure you saw what you saw?”

  Caitlin’s voice echoed over the static. “Positive. I shadowed him for the last fifty miles. He had a second tail.”

  “You hear that?” I said, turning on Roth. “You damn amateur! You had two tails, and you didn’t spot either one of them. My operative and hers.”

  I thought Roth was going to have a heart attack. Good. That was the entire point. Pour on the pressure, don’t give him a moment to think. The most important key to any short con is that you never give a mark time to think.

  “Hers?” he said.

  “Lauren! Which means she sent Meadow Brand. Which means she’s coming here to kill both of us right now!”

  “W-we have to go!” Roth stammered. “We have to run—”

  “There’s a van blocking the development exit,” Caitlin said over the walkie-talkie. “Looks…yes, looks empty. The occupants are already on the move.”

  I shook my head. “We can’t go outside. Out there in the dark, on foot? It’s a shooting gallery. No, we stay here. We hunker down. We wait it out until sunrise. Come here, get away from the window.”

  I got him into the middle of the empty living room, right where I needed him. Guaranteeing him a front-row ticket to the show.

  “I can get us through this,” I said, “but you have to trust me. You do trust me, yes?”

  “Yes,” he parroted, instinctively echoing the cues in my voice. He took a Blackberry from his pocket, working the tiny buttons with shaking fingers.

  “I’ll—I’ll call for help,” he said. “Caine can send his men—”

  I yanked the phone from his hands, hung up, and shoved it back at him.

  “And they’ll get here just in time to scoop our dead bodies off the carpet. Forget it. Stick with me, stay close, do exactly what I tell you, and you can call for a ride once we’re free and clear.”

  Right on cue, glass exploded in the back bedroom. Another clatter rang up from the basement as a casement window smashed open. I pulled my gun.

  “Relax,” I told Roth. “This is what I do.”

  Bentley jumped out from the side bedroom, spinning, raising his .45 to fire. I shot him twice. His chest erupted in billows of scarlet blood, and he staggered back, his arm jerking up and a return bullet going wide, screaming over our heads and punching into the freshly painted wall. Bentley fell back, clutching his chest, and staggered into the bedroom.

  Behind us, the door to the basement slammed open. Corman emerged from the darkness and fired, his shot winging close enough to ruffle my sleeve. I fired three shots and gunned the old man down, sending him reeling toward the open doorway. We heard the grisly thumping as his corpse rolled down the steep staircase all the way to the concrete floor.

  All was silent. The air smelled like blood and gun smoke. Roth’s mouth hung open, his jaw trembling. I held up a finger for silence and led him up the hall, over to the guest bedroom.

  A wooden mannequin lay on the ground, broken and lifeless, its chest splintered exactly where I’d shot Bentley. It was frozen in a crawl, one arm stretched toward the broken window, as if it had succumbed to its wounds while trying to escape.

  “Meadow Brand,” I snarled. “She uses illusions to disguise her puppets as humans. That’s how she gets them close to her targets.”

  “I-I know,” Roth whispered. “I’ve seen her do it.”

  We jogged to the basement door. Down at the bottom of the stairs, silhouetted in the light of a slowly swaying bulb, a second mannequin lay shot and dead.

  “Come on,” I said. “She has to be close to control these things, but she won’t stick around for long.”

  He froze as we approached the kitchen door. “Wait, how do you know that’s all of them?”

  “You know how Brand operates,” I told him. In fact, I was counting on him knowing it. “She always goes for the overkill, and she doesn’t send two puppets when she can send ten. If she had more to throw at us, she already would have.”

  Roth nodded, getting it. We ran out to the driveway just in time to see the Wardriver speeding away with a screech of tires.

  “There she is!” I shouted. I dropped to one knee, brought my gun up in both hands, and shot at the van, pulling the trigger until the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. I cursed and stood back up, shoving the worthless gun back under my jacket.

  Roth watched me, eyes wide as his brain tried to catch up with his eyes and ears.

  “You…you saved my life,” he said.

  “Told you I would.” I nodded at his rental car. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before she sends reinforcements. We need to talk.”

  The key to stage magic is playing on assumptions. You don’t need elaborate stages and thousand-dollar props to perform a good trick—you just need an audience ready and primed to be fooled. I had figured that Roth knew all about Meadow Brand through his partnership with Lauren, and that he’d have seen her mannequins in action along with how she used illusions to disguise them—for a little while, at least—as dead-eyed human beings.

  That was al
l I needed.

  My gun? Loaded with blanks. Made for a nice loud bang and a smoky sizzle, but the “blood” from Bentley’s and Corman’s wounds came courtesy of squibs and dye packs hidden under their shirts. Back in the Wardriver, Caitlin and Pixie used the hidden cameras we’d placed to keep track of the action, setting off the squibs in time with my shots.

  We’d placed the “dead” puppets in the guest bedroom and the basement before Roth even arrived. Meanwhile, Bentley hid in a side closet, and Corman—dragging a garbage bag of junk down the stairs to simulate the sound of a tumbling body—just ducked around the corner and out of sight. It was so simple it was almost complicated.

  Roth was so rattled he didn’t even notice the one giveaway: the broken windows were both smashed open from inside the house.

  As we pulled out of the development and onto the main road, I saw the van parked on an unlit cross street. Once we were out of sight, they’d double back to pick up Bentley and Corman and yank out the cameras. As for the broken glass, the red-dye-stained carpet, and the bullets in the walls, I figured Nicky could send me a bill. I’d be sure to get right on that.

  We drove for ten minutes in a direction close to random. I wasn’t sure if Roth kept turning to throw off an imagined tail, or if he was just too scared to plot a course, and I didn’t care either way. I owned him now. I spotted an all-night diner and pointed for him to pull in under the yellow neon sign.

  “Here’s good,” I said. “Time for us to have a little chat about your former partners, and what we’re going to do about them.”

  Thirty-Three

  Waylon Jennings crooned from the speakers of a jukebox as we slipped into a booth lined with yellow vinyl and hard plastic. The diner smelled like fresh hash browns and black coffee from a day-old pot.

  “Two eggs, scrambled,” I told the sleepy-eyed waitress. “Side of white toast, and a Coke.”

  “Nothing for me,” Roth said.

  I slid the laminated menu in front of him.

  “Eat something,” I said. “It’ll help your stomach settle.”

  “Really,” he said, “I can’t.”