The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(24)

“Well then, you, sir, are in luck, because I have just one of those left!”

He offered me a sandwich, sealed in a plastic baggie. The sight of thick, rich beef and lettuce leaves poking out from between slices of fresh bread made my stomach gurgle. I looked from him to the sandwich and back again, pretending to struggle with thinking through an alcoholic haze. It was hard to pull away from his eyes. He had these big baby blues the color of a childhood summertime.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Go on, it’s free! We make them fresh every morning. Turkey’s always harder to give away for some reason, and I always pack a few lettuce and tomato sandwiches for, you know, vegetarians, but I knew you were going to be a roast beef man. I can always pick ’em!”

“Nothin’s free,” I mumbled, but I took the sandwich.

“We’re blessed to have generous donors with deep pockets,” the Missionary said. He offered me a business card with his other hand, his fingers cupped to hold it by its edges. “The New Life Project. Have you heard of us?”

I shook my head and took the card. There was something funny about this guy, beyond his zeal to help his fellow man. His patter was too smooth, his moves too slick, like a stage actor playing a well-rehearsed part. I didn’t feel like I needed to be on my guard, though. If anything, the more he talked, the more relaxed I felt around him.

The business card felt funny. Slick on the bottom, like it had gotten damp and left to dry out. I shoved it in my pocket.

“We’re just trying to make things a little better out here,” he told me. I believed him. He had wide, bright eyes younger than his body, like a kid who hadn’t seen enough of the world to be beaten down by it yet. “You should come by our shelter some night. We have food, cots to sleep on—it’s a safe place.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, trying to move him along. I felt bad taking his time when there were real people he could be helping.

“Just think about it? And I promise, no religious hard sell, no jive, just a roof over your head and a hot meal in your belly. We’re here to help.”

“Yeah, man,” I mumbled. I curled my legs up against me, folding into myself, changing my body language to shut him out. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

He gave me a wave and strolled away, whistling under his breath as he vanished into the crowds. I sat there a minute, perfectly still, not quite sure why I wasn’t getting up.

My fingertips were numb.

I thought back to how he’d offered me the card. Holding it by the edges, not with his thumb and forefingers gripping the middle like most people would. I took it out of my pocket, carefully this time, and gave it a sniff. It was faint, in the swirl of odors from the street, but I could still catch the tang of chemicals.

He f*cking dosed me, I thought, pushing myself to my feet. My legs were wobbly. I would have chalked that up to the last few hours of sitting on the brutally hot concrete, but now I could tell that my reactions were off. Just a little slower than usual, just a little less steady.

Worse, now that the Missionary and his stream of patter were gone, I could sense what he’d left in his wake: a faint trail of golden motes sparkling in the air and fading fast, invisible to the untrained eye. The aftermath of an enchantment.

No wonder I’d trusted him at first sight and it was so hard not to fall into his eyes. His slick little aura spell, blended with whatever drug he’d slipped me, formed a lethal one-two punch: each one covered the traces of the other and amplified the effect. He made me trust him, and it wasn’t until he was long gone that I could put the pieces together. A regular joe off the street wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy. I stared at the address on the card, thinking about his offer of shelter.

Why kidnap homeless people off the street when you could make them come to you?

By the time I got to my car, I felt fine again. I flexed my fingers, running my thumbnail across the pads to test for sensation as I rummaged in the trunk for a plastic bag to store the card and sandwich. Then I revved up the engine, got out while I waited for the air-conditioning to kick in, and called Pixie.

“Think I’ve got something on our missing-people problem,” I told her. “Look up everything you can on this New Life Project operation. They’re running a shelter in town. I want financials, history, anything you can get about who runs it and where they came from.”

“If they’re a 501(c)3, that’ll all be public record,” she said. “Easy sauce. You want me to check out their office too, do some Dumpster diving?”

“No. Stay away from there. At least until I figure out what the hell they’re up to.”

My next call was to Harmony Black.

We met in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. I pulled up alongside her car, a dour blue government-issue Ford, facing the other way so our windows lined up. She rolled down her window and gave me a tired look.

“What unreasonable thing do you want today?” she said.

“You have access to a chemical lab?”

“I do, yeah.”

I reached out the window, offering her the plastic bag.

“I need this analyzed,” I said.

“Okay, you seem fundamentally confused on the nature of our relationship, Faust. You’re the criminal. You’re going to prison. I’m the fed. I’m going to put you there. I don’t run errands for you.”