Daniel Faust 03 - The Living End

by Craig Schaefer

  Caitlin brought the hardware, everything we’d need to keep Meadow pacified while we transported her. She carried it in a black plastic garbage bag and emptied it all out on the bedspread: handcuffs, a coil of stout yellow rope, a cotton head sack, and one other thing.

  Jennifer held up the bright pink rubber ball, buckled to a pair of black leather straps, and arched an eyebrow. “A ball gag? Really?”

  Caitlin shrugged. “It’s all I had in my dresser. Short notice.”

  “Let’s run through it one more time,” I said. “Three rings and a hang-up from Margaux means Meadow’s pulling in. Caitlin and I get ready just inside the door. Jennifer, you’ll come out from room five, run up behind her, and give her the bum-rush. We’ll open the door and help pull her in.”

  “Not the most elegant of plans,” Caitlin said. “But it should work nicely.”

  I nodded. “We take her down fast, before she even knows what’s hitting her. Toss her in the trunk of my car, bring her to the Scrivener’s Nook. Bentley and Corman should have the back room set up by now.”

  Jennifer wandered over to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain. A shaft of sun pierced through the dusty gloom.

  “Still not sure about this plan, sugar. Not the smash-and-grab. The part after that.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” I said, “but we don’t have a lot of options. Now remember: she relies on her puppets to do her dirty work, but that doesn’t mean she can’t scrap. She’ll fight like hell.”

  “No guarantees she won’t get a little more banged up than strictly necessary,” Jennifer said.

  That was what worried me. Every member of my family had a personal reason to want Meadow Brand in the ground. I hadn’t put Bentley and Corman on the sidelines because I was worried about their safety. Given that one of Meadow’s victims was an old friend of theirs, I was more afraid they’d “accidentally” kill her before we got what we needed.

  As for Spengler’s death, well, we all owed her for Spengler.

  After the setup, we had nothing but time on our hands. Time to sit in the dark, bracing for a fight, watching the minutes crawl past like an hourglass filled with molasses. My watch said 8:42. I could have sworn it said 8:41 ten minutes ago.

  I figured I had time, so I stepped into the bathroom for a minute. When I came back out, rubbing a cheap washcloth between my damp hands, Caitlin and Jennifer were sitting dangerously close on the edge of the bed and talking in hushed tones. They both looked over and giggled at the same time.

  “What?” I said.

  “Just talkin’,” Jennifer said.

  “What? About me?”

  Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Yes, pet. When two women have a conversation, it’s only natural to assume they’re talking about you. That’s a perfectly reasonable conclusion to jump to.”

  “If you really want, we could talk about ya,” Jennifer said, grinning. “Hey, Cait, does he still do that thing in bed where he gets that whole-body shiver and his leg twitches when you bite his neck? That always worked for me.”

  Caitlin nodded solemnly. “Every time. But if I really want to get him going, I simply need to curl my finger, just like this, and slide it—”

  I threw up my hands. “Okay, okay! Point taken! Stop. Please. Really. Sorry I asked.”

  “We were talkin’ about Pix,” Jennifer said.

  I valiantly resisted the urge to bury my face in my palm.

  “Jen,” I said, “we don’t even know if Pixie is into girls. Or sex. With anyone. She might be, I don’t know, robosexual.”

  They both stared at me.

  “You know, because…computers,” I said.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I quickly tugged it out halfway and shot a glance at the screen. Mama Margaux.

  I snapped my fingers and pointed to the connecting door. Jen nodded, darting through to room five and out of sight. Caitlin bounced off the bed and ran to the edge of the curtains, peeking out as far as she dared. I moved up behind the door. Outside, I heard a car door slam.

  My heart pounded, pushing a straight shot of adrenaline to every nerve in my body. This was it, the dizzy-sick drizzle drip of time right before a brawl breaks out, the moment when every animal has to choose between fight or flight.

  My phone kept buzzing. Margaux wasn’t signaling—she was calling. She wouldn’t do that unless it was an emergency, but with Meadow coming up the walk I didn’t have time to talk. Caitlin looked over from the edge of the curtains and gave a sharp nod, letting me know Meadow was outside.

  With seconds left I grabbed my phone and caught the call. “What?” I whispered.

  “Something’s wrong, Danny.” Margaux hissed in my ear. “It looks like her, but it’s not her. There’s nothin’ inside there!”

  I dropped the phone and freed up my hands. Right now, Jen would be coming up from behind, putting herself in danger. Couldn’t risk it. I flung open the door, reached out, and grabbed Meadow Brand’s hand.

  I had just enough time to recognize her dead eyes and slack expression, and the way her moves couldn’t quite mimic a real human’s. A second later I yanked my hand back, jolted by a lance of pain as a serrated knife slashed across my palm. The illusion ripped away in the space between breaths, and the wooden mannequin on the threshold raised its knife hand to stab me dead.

  I caught its wrist and grappled the creature, trying to force it into the room. Tires squealed as a Jeep Cherokee spun out from its hiding spot behind the building and came to a stop in the parking lot.

  Meadow Brand grinned from the driver’s seat, her scar twisting along her face. She gave me a gleeful wave and drove off, launching over a speed bump and out onto the street.

  Jennifer ran up, trying to grab the mannequin from behind, but I waved her off. “Go, go! Catch her!” I shouted. I didn’t have to tell her twice.

  Caitlin stepped back to open up some space in the cramped motel room. “Here, throw it!”

  I ducked back from another frenzied swing of the puppet’s knife, grabbed its shoulders, and shoved, sending it staggering off-balance right toward Caitlin. She spun on her heel and lashed out with a roundhouse kick straight to the creature’s abdomen, crunching home with more force than any human could muster. Wood splintered, and the mannequin wobbled on its bent inner core. Before it could recover, Caitlin grabbed it under one arm, turned, and used her momentum to ram it headlong into the television set.

  The screen shattered, and the mannequin collapsed with its head still buried inside the set and its arms limp at its sides. I scooped my phone off the floor and ran over to grab the damp bathroom washcloth, pressing it hard against my cut hand. Cherry stains seeped out through the dingy cotton.

  “Looks worse than it is,” I told Caitlin. I tossed her the car keys. “You drive. I’ll shoot.”

  The Barracuda squealed out of the parking lot, kicking up asphalt and dust. While Caitlin gripped the wheel I dug my gun out of the glove compartment and checked the load. The washcloth had soaked through to useless, and I tossed it to the floor mat. Getting bloodstains on my slacks was the least of my concerns.

  Jennifer called in. I set the pistol in my lap and picked up.

  “She’s too damn fast!” Jennifer shouted. “I’m chasing her up the interstate, but I’m gonna lose her any second now!”

  “We’re on our way. Turn around, go pick up Margaux at the motel, and meet us back at the Scrivener’s Nook.”

  I hung up and looked over at Caitlin.

  “Drive fast,” I said.

  She wriggled in the driver’s seat, getting comfortable, and smiled. “With pleasure.”

  The hemi roared as we barreled up I-15 with the needle kissing the red. The speedometer rose past ninety, then a hundred, then a hundred and ten. We saw Jennifer’s blue Prius dart by in the opposite direction, and we knew we were getting close. This time of day, this stretch of road, there wasn’t much to dodge but the occasional camper or dirt-encrusted pickup. Just open air and a razor-straigh
t road for the next fifty miles.

  There she was, just up ahead, pushing the Jeep as hard as it could go. Caitlin pushed harder. As we slowly closed the gap, I rolled down my window.

  “Get us close and on her left,” I said. “I’ll try to take out a tire.”

  Easier said than done, especially when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig and chewing up road faster than you can see. My left was my gun hand and that one was useless, so I clutched the Judge in my right and leaned out the window. My first shot went high, and the bullet tore into the Jeep’s back fender.

  I didn’t see the access road up ahead. Meadow did. The Jeep’s brake lights flared, and suddenly she was gone, bouncing along a nameless road leading off into the desert. We overshot the turn. Caitlin slammed the brakes and spun the wheel, sending us into a skid, whipping the car’s tail around and pointing us the wrong way on the interstate. I didn’t have a second to catch my breath before she stomped the gas pedal and shot off in pursuit.

  Meadow had a head start. Worse, she had home-court advantage. Muscle cars were built for smooth straight runs, but now we were chasing her along a road that wasn’t much more than a suggestion. The run was coated in sand, loose rocks, and neglect. Her Jeep was made for this kind of terrain, while we jolted from pothole to pothole, our suspension taking a pounding.

  The road rose up ahead, angling toward the red rocks in the distance. I saw it curve, sinuous and serpentine. She’d lose us on the curves. As we closed the gap again, taking advantage of the final straightaway, I knew I’d only have one last chance to take her down.

  Thirty-Nine

  “Little closer,” I murmured as I leaned out the window. The arid wind whipped through my hair and burned my cheeks. I held the fat pistol out as steady as I could, fighting every bounce and jolt of the tires.

  Caitlin saw the curves coming, too. “Running out of road, pet!”

  “Little closer!”

  Inch by inch we closed the distance, rolling up on Meadow’s left side. I could taste the dust kicking off the Jeep’s fat tires. Two hundred feet left before the first big turn. We were coming on fast, too fast, and I had just enough time to squeeze the trigger.

  Her back tire exploded as Meadow spun the wheel. The Jeep launched off the road, flipping over, rolling end over end across the rocky sands. Caitlin punched the brakes, throwing me back in my seat as she fought to keep the Barracuda steady. The car went into a fishtailing spin, then evened out, and finally the wheels ground to a stomach-lurching halt.

  I sat there a second, gasping for breath, waiting for my brain to catch up with my pounding heart. Meadow’s Jeep lay fifty feet away, a capsized wreck of twisted metal and spilled gasoline.

  “Nice shot,” Caitlin said, breathless.

  “Nice driving,” I said.

  She held out a shaky fist. I weakly bumped my knuckles against hers.

  In the debris, something moved.

  A battered door swung open, tortured hinges shrieking, and Meadow Brand climbed out on top of the wreckage. Her blouse was torn and a gash in her forehead spilled blood down her face, clotting one eye shut. She punched her fist against the twisted metal.

  “That’s right,” she wheezed. “King of the hill. King of the motherfuckin’ hill.”

  She tried to climb down from the wreck, lost her grip, and tumbled off, landing hard on the sand. Then she pushed herself back to her feet.

  “Aw, shit, she’s still breathing,” I said.

  “I thought we wanted her alive?” Caitlin said.

  “We need her alive,” I said. “Still, I’ll admit to a certain level of disappointment here.”

  Meadow stumbled blindly, dazed, throwing punches at the air.

  “Yeah,” I said, opening the car door. “We should probably give her a ride.”

  I walked straight toward her while Caitlin circled around, careful not to get too close. Meadow spotted me and snarled like a rabid ferret. I didn’t see where the buck knife came from, but I couldn’t miss the gleam of the blade when she snapped it open.

  “C’mere,” she growled, waving the knife in front of her. “I’m gonna gut you.”

  She lunged faster than I thought she could move, and I jumped back as the knife slashed toward my face, slicing air. She pulled her arm back for another try, and that was when Caitlin stepped up behind her, curling her arm around Meadow’s throat.

  “Stop fighting,” Caitlin whispered as Meadow flailed, her movements slowing as Caitlin squeezed off her airflow. Finally, she went limp. Caitlin let go, spilling Meadow’s unconscious body to the ground.

  We stood over her for a moment. I shook my head.

  “Well, this whole thing could have gone smoother,” I said.

  Caitlin shrugged. “We got what we came for. Same end result.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “Let’s throw her in the trunk.”

  “How’s your hand?”

  I gave it a look and grimaced. The cut had congealed, my palm thick with lumpy blood and black dirt, and it throbbed like I was holding it under a tattoo needle.

  “Ugly. You mind driving us back?”

  Caitlin got her hands under Meadow’s arms and scooped her up, dragging her toward the car.

  “That,” she said, “is the silliest question I’ve ever heard. I may never give your keys back.”

  • • •

  While we were off-roading in the desert for fun and profit, Bentley and Corman had prepared the storage room in the Scrivener’s Nook to receive our special guest. They’d taken out anything remotely dangerous—like their special shelf of restricted books, for close friends only—and cleared a ten-foot circle of bare floor around an old metal office chair.

  We pulled up around back. Jennifer and Margaux played lookout while Caitlin and I opened the trunk and hauled out Meadow—cuffed, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and her head bagged—to drag her inside. Bentley had the honor of shackling her to the chair. Trust a former escape artist to know how to tie somebody up properly.

  We worked in silence and left her in the dark.

  Out in the store, Corman checked to make sure the front door was locked and the closed sign was facing the sidewalk. We couldn’t afford any interruptions.

  “What are we waitin’ for?” Jennifer said. “Let’s get started on her right now.”

  I shook my head. “I want her to stew for a while. Let her sit there and wonder why she isn’t dead yet. I’m sure she’ll come up with all kinds of nasty reasons. I want her good and scared before we start talking to her.”

  “Let her torture herself,” Caitlin said. “One of my favorite tactics. I approve. Corman, do you have a first-aid kit?”

  Bentley caught sight of my hand and tsked his way across the store. “Daniel, that’s going to get infected. Come on, let’s wash that up. Cormie, grab the Neosporin and a bandage roll.”

  Cleaning the wound out and rubbing in antibiotic cream stung like hell all over again, but I felt better with a clean cotton bandage wrapped around my hand. At least I’d have a scar with a good story behind it.

  The six of us lingered a while out front, keeping our voices down. Bound, hooded, confused in the dark—I had to think Meadow was having a hard time of it, imagining every horrifying thing we could do to her.

  I heard something through the storage-room door. I thought I’d imagined it at first, but as the sound grew louder, more grating, I realized what it was.

  Meadow was trying to sing through her gag. Specifically, she was singing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” by Iron Butterfly.

  “So much for terror,” I said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Okay, everybody, let’s do this.”

  Jennifer and I went first. Meadow knew both of us and knew how badly we wanted her dead. Bentley, Corman, and Mama Margaux followed us, spreading out around the storage room while Caitlin stood off in the shadows with her arms crossed and a curious look on her face.

  Jennifer yanked the sack off Meadow’s head, exposing her eyes to the glare of the light d
angling directly over her. Her face was a mess of caked-in dirt and congealed cuts, one eye swollen over from the crash. Drool ran down her chin. Somehow, she still managed to look defiant.

  I unbuckled the bright pink gag and pulled it out of her mouth. Meadow spat on the floor, wincing.

  “A ball gag?” she said, looking from me to Jennifer. “Really? Do you wanna kill me or do you wanna shoot some bondage porn? Or maybe both. Yeah, probably both. You look like a couple of necrophiliacs.”

  “You wanna take this seriously,” Jennifer said, her expression darkening by the second.

  “I take it very seriously,” Meadow said. “Necrophilia is a serious crime, and you should be ashamed—”

  Jennifer punched her in the face.

  I didn’t even see it coming. One second Jennifer’s fist dangled limply at her side, and the next Meadow’s head snapped back and fresh blood ran from her split lip. Meadow grinned viciously, showing her scarlet-stained teeth.

  “Whoo!” she shouted. Her chains rattled as she nodded her head and bounced in the steel chair. “That is what I’m talking about! That is a morning pick-me-up! Aw, but honey, you were just joking with that punch, right? Because if you think you’re gonna get me to talk, and that’s the best you can manage? Well you’d better order an extra-large pizza because we are gonna be here all! Fucking! Night!”

  “I can do worse,” Jennifer said softly. “I can do a lot worse.”

  Meadow bounced giddily. The chair legs thumped in time with the clacking of her chains.

  “All right!” she said. “Let’s get this party started! What’ve you got? Waterboarding? Little waterboarding action? Gonna pull my fingernails out? Yank my teeth out with pliers? Here, here, do me a favor, get this one in the back of my mouth. It’s got a cavity. Drastic, I know, but you know how much health insurance costs these days? Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

  “Like killin’ Spengler and Sophia? That something you had to do?” Jennifer said. She took a step closer, and I reached out, putting my hand on her shoulder. Reminding her what we were here for. Vengeance had to wait.