The Living End (24 page)

“We can still use him,” I said. I rolled up the contract and tied the ribbon around it. “And we can still use this. I’ve got an idea.”

We rolled along down US-95. Caitlin found a blues station broadcasting out of Reno, but the tinny recording was just a ghost of a live show. She twirled the old radio’s dial until it landed on dance music. Thumping, pulsing bass carried us out into the desert night.

“What’s the plan?” she said.

“Roth thinks Lauren is his best hope,” I told her. “Let’s disabuse him of that notion.”

I
fell into a fitful sleep around the time the last radio station died, leaving us in the long dark silence between cities. I woke to soft sunlight and dusty streets, home again.

“You should have woken me up. I would have taken a turn driving,” I said, wincing as I shifted in my seat. A jolt of pain shot up my neck, punishing me for sleeping slumped against the passenger door.

“You needed your rest,” Caitlin said. “Besides, I’ve never driven a car with a hemi before.”

I eyed the dashboard clock. We’d made great time on our way back. Suspiciously great time.

“Cait? Exactly how fast were you driving?”

“I drove five miles under the speed limit, stayed in the slow lane, and made sure to properly signal at all posted turns,” she said. “Honest.”

Now I was glad I’d slept through the ride home. My blood pressure was high enough already. I had a message from Bentley waiting on my phone, and I called him back.

“I have good news!” he said. I hadn’t heard him sounding that chipper in a while.

“So do I,” I said, “but let’s hear yours first.”

“I think we’ve found the place. The source of Meadow Brand’s minions. There’s a furniture workshop here in town, Y&M Custom Woodworking, and they handle all kinds of special requests. Well, I gave them a call and indicated I was in the market for a human-sized armature doll.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They’ve already got ’em in stock.”

“More or less. The gentleman I spoke to said that he’d already fulfilled several requests for that very item lately, and he invited me to stop in and discuss the particulars.”

I smiled. “Fantastic. Pick up anything hinky about the guy? Like he might know what he’s doing or who he’s really working for?”

“Not at all. He seemed a little befuddled by the request and asked if there was some sort of big art project in the offing. Brand is keeping him in the dark.”

Even better. I got the address and passed it on to Caitlin, who pulled a U-turn at the next stoplight.

“What do you think?” she said. “Find out when she’s making her next pickup, then ambush her? Deny Lauren an ally?”

“I’ve been looking forward to putting a bullet between Meadow’s eyes, and no one can say she doesn’t have it coming. Lauren’s ally, though? I’m not so sure. Last time we faced off, Lauren almost locked her out of her safe room while Sullivan and his Choirboys were tearing up the joint. I’ve gotten the idea that Lauren uses Meadow like a junkyard dog. She’s rabid, vicious, and pretty much disposable the second Lauren doesn’t need her anymore.”

“The question then becomes does Lauren still need her?” Caitlin said. “And if not, how can we turn that to our advantage?”

Y&M was tucked away on a backstreet, inside what used to be an auto repair shop. I could still read the old lettering reading “Tire and Battery” under the new coat of paint on the sign out front. They had the old garage bay doors open, letting natural light stream into the grease-stained concrete hull where a couple of guys in T-shirts and jeans labored over a screaming table saw. They powered down the saw as we walked across the tiny parking lot.

“Mornin’!” one called out as his partner took the freshly sawed chunks of pine over to a worktable. He had a bright smile and a chestnut-colored mustache.

“Hey there,” I said. “This your place?”

“Y&M,” he said, nodding to the sign. “He’s Young, I’m Messner. In the market for new cabinets? We just finished some real beauties that need a good home.”

“Something a little more offbeat. Friend of mine called over earlier. Looking for armature puppets. Big ones.”

Messner rubbed his mustache, looking between Caitlin and me.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, I don’t mean to be nosy, but you’re the second person who’s asked about commissioning those things. I sure don’t mind the money, but mind telling me what the darn things are for? Young’s guessing it’s some kind of art installation.”

“She didn’t—” I said, then looked to Caitlin. “She didn’t tell him. Can you believe that?”

Caitlin caught my drift and shook her head. “Oh, that’s Meadow for you. She’d forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“I’m Peter Greyson,” I said. It was an alias I’d used before. “Regional manager for Del Rey Fashion. This is Zoe, our director of marketing.”

“Charmed,” she said.

“Our flagship stores are in Florida,” I said. “Think Abercrombie and Fitch meets Miami chic. We’re getting ready to make a big splash on the West Coast. Those life-sized armature dolls are sort of a store trademark. We use ’em instead of plastic mannequins for setting up clothing displays. Looks a little classier, you know?”

Messner put his hands on his hips. “You hear that, Young? Y’owe me five bucks. Art installation, my ass.”

Young pulled on a pair of plastic safety goggles, flipped Messner the bird, and turned back to his workbench.

“Now, this part’s a little embarrassing,” I said. “See, the reason you got multiple calls, and we had to track you down like we didn’t know you were already building the puppets for us—”

Caitlin folded her arms and glared. “Oh, just
say
it, Peter. We fired the bitch. We trusted that woman to set up our entire Nevada retail hub, only to find out she’s done nothing for months. We haven’t broken ground on a single store.”

I put on an apologetic, sheepish smile. “Right. Ms. Brand’s basically dropped out of sight entirely, and we’re still trying to recoup some of our lost assets. Did she make any arrangements to pick up the next batch of puppets?”

“Nope,” Messner said. “In fact, we’ve been calling her, but she hasn’t called back. Hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks. So, uh, does that mean you’re gonna pay for this batch? Because the order’s just kinda sitting here, and there isn’t a whole lot of demand…”

He trailed off with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“Of course,” Caitlin said primly. “That’s why we’re here. Will cash be acceptable?”

Messner’s eyes lit up. “Cash is always welcome here, miss.”

She stepped a little closer, holding him in her gaze.

“And you wouldn’t mind helping us wrap up our paperwork, would you?” she said. “Having copies of Meadow’s receipts would go a long way toward unraveling the mess she left for us. I’d consider it a favor.”

Messner nodded and waved us into the shop. “Of course! Long as you’re taking this last order off my hands. You’re helping me out, I’ll help you out.”

The mannequins, four of them in all, were wrapped up in plastic sheeting and stacked like corpses in a shadowy back corner of the garage. Their blank, featureless faces stared out from under their glossy shrouds. I noticed their left hands were all missing. Meadow must do that part herself, I figured, equipping her murderous minions with their knives and rusty awls while bringing them to life.

“That’s, uh, twelve hundred for the lot,” Messner said.

Caitlin opened her purse and counted out a string of hundred-dollar bills. While Messner went to put together all of the paperwork on Meadow’s past purchases, I called Pixie.

• • •

We wrestled two of the puppets into the backseat of the Barracuda and the other two into the trunk. “This isn’t creepy or anything,” I said as I shut the lid.

“If anyone looks in the backseat, we’ll just tell them we’re exploring an exciting new fetish,” Caitlin said.

“You don’t think that Meadow—” I caught myself as I slipped behind the steering wheel. “Never mind. That’s on my list of mental images to never have again.”

Pixie met us at the Scrivener’s Nook. She pulled up out front in the Wardriver, an old white Ford panel van that rattled and wheezed when she killed the engine. It looked like a clunker, but that was just for show. Inside, the Wardriver sported enough electronics and surveillance gear to make an FBI agent drool. A bumper sticker slapped up on a control panel, just under a row of closed-circuit screens showing the street outside the van from every possible angle, read “This Machine Kills Fascists.”

I pocketed my phone as Caitlin and I climbed in back. “Our first stop is Sapphire Skytours. Pix, can you scan this contract? We’re going to need to email it to somebody.”

“Whoa,” Pixie said, reading it over. “So this is legit? Roth really sold his soul? Wait…
no
. Uh-uh. No fucking way, Faust.
President
? Roth is a thug. Do you even read the news? Just last week he voted in favor of—”

I held up my hand. “We’re not going to help him, Pix. We’re just not going to stop him. Not today. It’s a question of priorities. Lauren’s going to become a world-devouring goddess sometime in the next few days. Roth is just going to stink up the Senate for another decade or two and pass some bills you don’t like. Let’s aim higher, huh?”

“I don’t see why we can’t fix both problems,” she said.

“Because,” Caitlin said, “the other signatory on that contract is a very old and very powerful creature who isn’t fond of being meddled with. We can use Roth with the understanding that we do nothing to endanger him, physically or professionally. Whatever you might be considering right now, I can promise you two things. One, it won’t work. Two, you will regret it. Now bottle your hatred and store it in your heart’s pantry for a thirstier day.”

“I don’t…I don’t
hate
him,” Pixie said, suddenly deflated. She sat in the driver’s seat, not looking back at us. “I don’t
hate
anybody.”

“I don’t judge,” Caitlin said with a faint smile.

The faded billboard outside Sapphire Skytours, spelling out the name in big puffy cloud letters, screamed “tourist trap.” The place was just a small lot and a couple of outbuildings, with a Big-Bird-yellow, six-seater Bell 407 sitting in the middle of it all like a museum piece. The sky was clear as springwater, but nobody was flying.

We parked and walked over to the management office. The trailer sat up on cinder blocks, and an air conditioner bolted to one fat end whirred like a chainsaw, working overtime against the midday heat. I didn’t bother knocking on the door.

Nicky sat behind the manager’s desk with his Italian loafers up and the stem of a frosted margarita glass in his hand. Juliette leaned against one wall of the trailer and flipped through a celebrity gossip mag while Justine loaded a blender for the next round of drinks.

“Oh, hey,” Nicky said. “Just come right in. Don’t knock or anything. Make yourselves at home.”

“I’ll get more glasses!” Justine said.

Nicky shook his head. “That was sarcasm, babe.”

Juliette squealed and threw her magazine on the floor. She ran over to Pixie like a puppy on a sugar high. “Sis! She’s back she’s back she’s back!”

I stifled a groan. This could get ugly.

J
ustine quickly joined her sister. The twins circled Pixie like piranha eager for a bleeding calf.

“We were thinking, after the last time we met,” Juliette said.

“We were thinking about
you
,” Justine said. “And about our duty to help the less fortunate. Which you clearly are, dressed like that. It’s all right. We’re here now, and your days of shopping in thrift stores—because you’re trying to be ironic, or you’re poor, or both—are over.”

“We’re thinking
makeover
!” Juliette squealed.

Pixie cocked her left hand into a fist.

“I’m going to give each of you a different black eye,” she said, cool and calm, “so I can tell you apart.”

I looked at Nicky. Nicky sighed and looked at the twins.

“Girls?” he said. “It’s a nice day outside. Why don’t you go get some flight time?”

“
Flight time!”
they cheered simultaneously. A moment later they were gone, leaving the trailer door swinging in their wake.

I just blinked, staring at the door.

“Nicky?” I said. “That’s a euphemism, right? You don’t actually let them—”

Outside the trailer window, the rotors of the Bell helicopter started to spin.

Nicky sipped his margarita. “I know, weird, right? Turns out they’re actually really good pilots. I bought this place so I could launder money through it, but you should see the reviews we’ve been getting on Yelp. So I’m guessing you didn’t come out here for cocktail hour. What’s up?”

“Your house in Eldorado,” I said, memories of his torture basement fresh on my mind. “Is it clean?”

“Clean as the day it was built, long as nobody goes digging up the backyard. Why? You got someone you wanna take out there?”

“Senator Roth,” Caitlin said.

Nicky arched an eyebrow. “I’d like to take a crack at the guy myself, but ain’t that a little imprudent?”

“He’ll survive,” I said. “We’ve got a plan to get him out of the picture and pave the way for a shot at Lauren. Thing is I need a nice, remote, quiet place to get the job done. A place where nobody’s around to call in a gunshot or two.”

“Fine,” Nicky said.

He rummaged in the desk drawer and took out a small ring of keys.

“Also I need to break a couple of windows,” I said. “And maybe stain the carpets with blood.”

He set the keys down on the desk with his hand over them.

“It’s for verisimilitude,” I told him.

Nicky sighed, looked at the keys, and tossed them over to me.

“I don’t know who this Verisimilitude guy is,” he deadpanned, “but he’s gonna pay for anything he breaks. I’m planning on flipping that entire development once the housing market picks up again.”

“Even with bodies in the backyard?”

He shrugged. “It ain’t my name on the deed.”

Bentley and Corman met us in Eldorado. They pulled up behind the Wardriver in Bentley’s sleek silver Caddy while I was busy dragging wooden mannequins into the backyard of Nicky’s kill-house. They were heavier than they looked. I still hadn’t figured out how Meadow Brand’s animation trick worked, but I could have used a little of that magic.