The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)
Craig Schaefer
Prologue
Eugene Planck wasn’t a danger to himself anymore, not since the day he’d chugged down a bottle of acid to burn the snake living in his stomach. He hadn’t overcome what the doctors called “delusional parasitosis”—he’d just realized that the snake couldn’t be killed. Twenty years later, his throat still burned, especially on hot, dry California days like this one. He stared through the wire-mesh window, watched the wispy clouds drift by, and waited to die.
Napa State Hospital was a comfortable place for it. He had a stiff but warm single bed, a little desk with a lamp, and a view of the lawns outside. He had books, four of them, hardcovers lined up in a neat row on the desk. He’d expressed an interest in art history for a while, and the staff was happy to indulge him. Between the pills and the locked doors, it was hard to stay interested in anything for very long.
A letter from the outside would always perk him up, though. Nobody had sent him any mail for almost twenty years, not until the day his new friends came to visit, asking about Lauren Carmichael and his trip to Nepal. Since then he’d gotten three letters, preopened and screened by the hospital staff, checking up on Eugene and letting him know he wasn’t forgotten. They always came with short postscripts at the end, veiled comments just bland enough to slip past a censor’s marker.
“Your former student isn’t doing too well, Professor. One of her real estate ventures did so badly, they had to hold a fire sale. Stay safe—Daniel.”
He had to smile at that one. On the ancient Magnavox in the dayroom, Eugene had watched the press conference where Lauren blamed the destruction of the Silverlode Hotel on an unknown arsonist. He didn’t know anything about Daniel Faust beyond that one time they’d met and even less about the beautiful woman at his side, the one who’d told him in a Scottish-tinged brogue that they could walk in his dreams. What he did know was that they had saved his life. For just one night, they’d given him his voice back.
A metallic rapping echoed at his door. Highcastle, one of the orderlies, peered in at him through the long glass window.
“Hey, Doc. You got a visitor.”
Faust. Eugene’s face brightened as he ran his fingers through his long, tangled white hair and tottered over to the door.
Highcastle strolled beside him as they walked to the visitor center. Light filled the antiseptic halls, streaming in through mesh-covered windows and security glass, putting a bounce in the older man’s step.
He’s coming to tell me she’s dead, Eugene thought. He knew he shouldn’t dare to hope, but he couldn’t keep the dream from swelling in his heart, threatening to burst. She’s dead, and I can leave this place. I’m going home.
The sturdy plastic tables and chairs of the visitor center were empty, baking in the light from slanted windows high in one wall. Empty except for one.
The visitor wore a vintage black hat with a veil of French lace, like a wealthy dowager might wear to a funeral, but Eugene only needed to see the curve of her chin to know who she was. One hand, cloaked in a black velvet glove, lifted. The crook of her finger beckoned him.
“Hello, Eugene,” Lauren Carmichael said. “Come. Sit down.”
The door clanged shut behind him like a falling coffin lid. Eugene looked back, startled, to find Highcastle standing in front of it. Blocking the way out. They made eye contact, and the orderly looked down at the linoleum floor, his lips pursed.
“Sorry, Doc,” Highcastle murmured.
Lauren’s hair had gone silver before its time, but between the veil, gloves, and voluminous mourning dress, that was almost all he could see of his former student. A sudden harsh whirring sound snatched his attention, the sound of the air-conditioning kicking on.
Hissing, he thought.
He raised his chin in defiance and hobbled toward her with as much pride as he could muster. He still had a few scraps of it left, even after all these years.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Lauren said. “You were supposed to be right there beside me in my hour of triumph. Sharing the glory you helped to build.”
“You’re mad,” Eugene said.
“Could a madwoman have done the things I’ve done? Could a madwoman have my drive, my discipline? No, Eugene. Don’t be so narrow-minded, it’s beneath you.”
He stood before her table, but he didn’t sit down.
“I’ve been wondering. How did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Talk to Daniel Faust about our trip to Nepal.” She held up a velvet-sheathed finger. “My efforts to silence you—for your own protection, I might add—were exceedingly thorough. You shouldn’t have been able to speak a word of it or write about it, or express it in interpretive dance for that matter. What did I miss?”
Eugene’s chapped lips curled in a faint smile. “You couldn’t stop me from dreaming.”
“Ah. There it is. Always a loophole.”
“You’re too late,” he said. “I told them everything. Everything I saw, everything you did, the people you and those smoke-faced things murdered. You won’t get away with it.”
“Of course I will. Eugene, beloved, the years have not been kind to you. I see wrinkles where my lips once kissed smooth skin. Your eyes still light up when you’re angry, though. You were always my one weakness. You know that, don’t you? My one indulgence, the one soft spot in my armor that I just couldn’t bring myself to destroy.”