The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(54)

I nodded. “That’s how Payton explained it to me.”

“So we cowboy up. Crash the gate, guns blazing, and toss a bomb or two. Don’t matter how big a machine is. Take out a few cogs, and it just stops workin’.”

“Only problem there,” I said, “is the small army of mercenaries that’ll be standing between us and the front doors. I’ve seen these Xerxes guys in action, and they’re no joke. Their boss knows his way around our world, too, so I’m betting they’re bringing more than guns to the table. Brute force isn’t going to work this time. We need finesse.”

“Seems to me,” Margaux said, “we know everybody’s dirty business except for one person. The senator. What’s his story? He’s the glue binding this whole mess together. Without him, Lauren never would have met up with these Ausar boys.”

“I-I might have something there,” Pixie stammered. She was still reeling. “I was digging into his finances and…it’s weird. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but maybe it’s something you guys…you know, something that you’d understand.”

“What’ve you got?” I said.

She pulled up a spreadsheet on her laptop. Margaux leaned in to see, and Bentley walked around behind the sofa. He slipped his reading glasses on.

“Okay,” Pixie said. “Alton Roth comes from oil money. Big Texas family, oilmen for three generations. He’s the first of the family to go into politics. He’s never met a lobbyist he didn’t like. Pretty much takes money by the wheelbarrow to sell his influence. A lot of it off the books, if you know what I mean. Business Insider named him one of the wealthiest people in the Senate last year. So here’s where it gets weird. That’s all on paper. In terms of real cash? He’s broke. Not only broke, but mortgaged up to the eyeballs on every piece of property he owns.”

I frowned. “Where’s the money going? Footing Clark and Nedry’s research bills?”

“Only recently. About seven years ago, he was as rich as he looks on paper. Then all of a sudden he started spending money like it was going out of style. First, there was a longevity clinic in Tucson. Turned out the owner was a quack, and the feds shut it down. Then he was pouring cash into a cryogenic research think tank. Then he cut them off and started throwing money at this guru who claimed he could teach his followers how to live forever through meditation. For a smart guy, Roth isn’t too smart, you know?”

Bentley rubbed his chin. “Desperation sometimes leads people down foolish roads.”

“That’s a guy who’s afraid of the reaper,” Corman said. “Is he sick?”

Pixie shook her head. “No sign of it that I can see. He’s in his early fifties, gets regular checkups, big exercise-and-healthy-eating guy. He ran in the Tristate Marathon last year and finished, so he’s not faking being fit.”

“Then it’s not death he’s afraid of,” Caitlin said. “It’s what’s waiting for him on the other side. This is a man who knows where he’s going when he dies, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t suspect, or fear, or believe—he knows, as sure as he knows the sun will set. Suffice to say, I’ve seen this kind of behavior before.”

“What’s your take?” I said.

She paced the carpet, thinking. “I need a closer look at our dear senator. In person. I have my suspicions, but once I look in his eyes I’ll know for sure.”

“Where’s he at?” I said. “D.C.?”

Pixie typed out a quick search and shook her head. “He’s home this week, doing a round of fundraising. Looks like he’s in Carson City. Only the third time he’s visited his home office in the last five years.”

“Carson City’s a seven-hour drive,” I said. “Road trip?”

“Road trip,” Caitlin said.

“What can we do in the meantime?” Corman asked.

“I think our best lead is figuring out where Meadow Brand buys those mannequins she uses,” Caitlin said. “I’ve been doing a bit of research, checking out woodworkers in Nevada and Seattle, but if someone could take the list and pick up where I left off—”

“Research?” Bentley said. “My forte. Done. Everyone can pitch in.”

Pixie shut her laptop. “I’ll keep following the money. Maybe they slipped up somewhere and left us something we can use.”

“I could help with that,” Jennifer offered, a little too eager.

Pixie blinked at her. “You’ve…done forensic accounting before?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“Okay,” I said, “everybody stay in contact, and spread the word if you find anything. We’re working on borrowed time. Let’s act like it.”

? ? ?

We took my car.

There were 420 miles of lonely Nevada desert between Vegas and Carson City, a long and winding drive along US-95 that never seemed to end. Occasionally we’d roll through the main street of a town so small you’d blink and miss it, or ride past a rusting gas station frozen in time since the 1950s. Mostly it was just me, Caitlin, a roaring engine, and a cloudless blue sky.

We listened to the radio for a while, until our favorite stations crackled out and died one by one, replaced by static or silence. Eventually, the only thing left was a show broadcasting from the middle of nowhere, a preacher with a Georgia twang spitting into the microphone about the end of days and the time of repentance. He ranted on for a couple minutes, and then Caitlin leaned in to click the radio off.