The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(46)

I groaned. Longer than I’d wanted to spend in a drug-induced haze, but at least I had something resembling a lead. Assuming, of course, that the smoke-faced men weren’t walking me into a trap just like they’d manipulated Lauren. But I had to check it out. Didn’t have a whole lot in the way of alternatives.

I pushed myself up, willing my stubborn muscles back to life. “Need to get in touch with Pixie.”

Jennifer gave her hair a little flip. “Yeah? Say hey for me, all right?”

“Jennifer,” I said, catching her tone, “we already talked about this. Pix is straight edge. She’s not going to work for a drug dealer.”

“Work, nothin’. That girl is fine. You ever find out what team she’s playing for, you let me know.”

I called Pixie on my way downstairs. She told me she was on her way to St. Jude’s to start prep work for the evening meal. I arranged to meet her there in twenty minutes and hoped I didn’t get conscripted into peeling potatoes.

I walked out under the watchful gaze of the Cinco Calles, feeling eyes on the back of my neck. The kid on the street gave me a nod and gestured to my car. Untouched, like he promised. I started up the Barracuda’s ignition and the radio came on, tuned to the hourly news. My ears perked up.

“—raid of a homeless shelter resulted in the rescue of nine people who were allegedly being kept in a makeshift prison cell. The prisoners, who were heavily drugged so they could not identify their abductors, have been taken to local hospitals. An official statement came from FBI Special Agent Harmony Black.”

Harmony’s voice drifted from my car speakers. “Thanks to the efforts of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police, we were able to take decisive action. We believe that the prisoners were being forced to compete in what the perpetrators called a ‘bum fight club,’ streamed to a paying audience over the Internet. At this time we cannot release any names or details about the persons responsible—”

I flipped over to the blues station, swapping Agent Black for a crooning Billie Holiday.

“Couldn’t even give me a thank-you call,” I muttered as I put Jennifer’s fortress in my rearview mirror. It was a good bit of spin, I had to admit, with an explanation just sleazy enough to be believable. The media had the attention of a gnat hopped up on raw sugar. A week from now, nobody would think to follow up on the story.

Pixie waited for me on the sidewalk outside St. Jude’s, wearing an army surplus canvas backpack and pacing a groove in the concrete. I guessed she’d heard the news, too.

“So how much of that was total bullshit?” were the first words out of her mouth.

“Ninety-nine percent of it. Only true part is that they got nine people out, plus the two who left with me. Some of the others didn’t make it. Anyway, job’s not done.”

“No kidding it isn’t. I know thirty people who disappeared, and that’s just our regulars. There’s no telling how many people are still missing all over the city.”

It’s not our only clinic, Nedry had said back at the standoff.

“That’s not all,” Pixie said. “Remember how I broke down the whole Nevada Heritage Coalition thing for you? They cut ties. According to the state records, all of a sudden there’s no connection between the NHC and the McMillan Trade Group at all. The paper trail’s been destroyed, real names scrubbed from corporate charters and replaced with bogus ones. It’s a total burn job.”

“How?” I said. We walked into St. Jude’s, swapping the arid heat outside for the muggy, wet heat inside.

“Senator Roth has a hacker who’s as good as me,” she said. “Or better. No. Just as good. Maybe a little less.”

“Okay, I get the idea. I’ve got a lead, but I need help. Can you do some research for me?”

“Normally I’d make a comment about not being your personal Google,” she said. “But for this I’ll make an exception.”

We set up camp at an empty table, and she slid her laptop out of her backpack.

“Search for articles on, what was it called, Ausar Biomedical? From about twenty years ago, just before the big scandal. I’m looking for pictures of their research staff. Especially anyone named Nedry, Clark, or Bob.”

“Anyone named Bob?” Pixie said, arching an eyebrow. “Real specific there, Faust.”

I shrugged. “It’s what I’ve got to work with.”

It took her less than three minutes to hit pay dirt, pulling up an archived Time magazine article. The grainy scanned photo showed the three men standing side by side—all smiles, with Nedry still wearing his mirrored glasses—in the laboratory the smoke-faced men had showed me.

“The future’s so bright, they’ve got to wear shades,” the caption read. “Pictured: Dr. Francis Nedry, Dr. Noah Clark and Dr. Bob Payton of Ausar Biomedical, celebrating the FDA’s approval to begin human trials of the eagerly anticipated fertility drug Viridithol. Industry insiders have named Ausar as this year’s hot stock to watch.”

“Who are these guys?” Pixie said.

“The two on the left are serious bad news. It’s Payton I’m interested in. He was stabbed to death in a subway bathroom, probably not long after this picture was taken. I think—”

I paused, straining to remember the vision. It all felt so far away now, slipping from my memory like strands of gossamer. I’d seen the newspaper blow by, past a pillar, under a slate-gray sign…