Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Konrath

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been there. The drug hangover from the dart was bad, but I knew that worse was coming; codeine withdrawal. I’d been popping opiates like Tic-Tacs over the past few weeks, and being locked up in there meant going cold turkey. Sweats. Shakes. Vomiting. Worse than the worst flu ever.

  I’d reach a point where I wouldn’t have the strength to do anything but sleep. Which was problematic, because I had no water.

  A person can’t survive more than three days without water.

  I wiped off my sweaty hands and tried to carve faster.

  After an hour, my efforts earned me four inches of the crack that were now thick enough to stick my knife into. But the blade was only one inch long, and it seemed like this door was thicker than that. Since the butt of the gun prevented the knife from going in deeper, I would have to open up the crack to almost an inch wide for me to bore through to the other side.

  I had to piss, and considered the location.

  Would urinating on the wood make it softer, easier to carve?

  I decided I wasn’t that desperate yet, and went on the opposite wall.

  What are you doing? Earl asked. You really want to worry about dignity at a time like this?

  “Why would you even care?” I whispered.

  I want you to get out of here. If you die, I die.

  “You’re killing me anyway.”

  That’s my job. I have a plan for it.

  I snorted. “Looks like your plan went tits up.”

  Earl responded by flaring.

  Since my diagnosis, I’d never been without pain medication, prescribed or not.

  Cancer pain was bad. Really bad. It wasn’t the nasty little sting that I was used to, in between doses of codeine, aspirin, or coke. This was growing, gnawing, red hot pain. It went from my armpit to my right ass cheek.

  The sooner you get out of here, the sooner you can take some pills, Earl said.

  I continued to chip away at the groove.

  My knuckles and fingertips had been nicked several times by the knife slipping.

  I was sure there would be many more to come.

  Time became a hallucination.

  The darkness.

  The cramping, repetitive carving.

  Earl, droning on in my head, telling me I needed to work faster.

  I couldn’t tell minutes from hours, and tried to count my heartbeats, and kept losing my place and starting over.

  The gun was slippery from sweat and blood. My hands were a mess. I could feel two dozen cuts open up like hungry mouths every time I made a fist.

  The wood doesn’t crack or sliver or whittle. It’s too hard. All I can do is scrape it away, into sawdust. Like I was trying to sand my way through a tree, except sandpaper was easier to hold.

  I needed a break.

  No rest for the wicked, Phin. Keep going.

  “I’m tired.”

  You’re going to die if you stop.

  “I’m going to die anyway. What’s the point?”

  And yet, you keep going. I wonder why?

  I wondered that myself.

  JACK

  After pacifying Herb’s food baby with two loaded chili cheese dogs, we headed to Englewood to surprise Dill Remir. He lived in the bottom of a two story duplex, sharing stairs and a front stoop with his upstairs neighbor, their doors side-by-side.

  “You know this is a longshot, right?” Herb asked. “We didn’t find prints in the rental truck. The only connection to Remir is you suspect the truck was towed, and Remir steals cars by towing them.”

  “How many longshots have panned out for us over the years?”

  Herb’s face scrunched-up in thought. “I can’t think of any.”

  “Me, neither. But a longshot is better than no shot at all.”

  We parked in front of a hydrant, and when Herb got out of my car all the beans he’d dropped on his belly rolled free of him, leaving greasy orange trails.

  “Hey, what happened to that tie?” I asked, for what felt like the tenth time.

  “The one you bought me for my birthday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want me to sugar coat it and make up a sweet lie? Or do you want the ugly truth?”

  I considered both options. There have been many times in life where I would have preferred a sweet, sugar-coated lie, and to be offered a choice was a thoughtful gesture.

  “I’ll take the lie,” I said.

  “There was a shooting. Innocent bystander got wounded. I used your tie to stop the bleeding.”

  That was as nice a lie as I’d heard lately. “Couldn’t be cleaned?”

  Herb shook his head. “No way. But the tie played a much more important role than a simple clothing accessory. It saved a life. Whatever you spent on that tie, for that one victim, it was priceless.”

  I liked that story better than the one in my head, that he simply hated it and refused to wear it. Or carelessly lost it. Or returned it for a store credit. So I didn’t press the issue.

  I pressed the doorbell and waited for Remir to ask who it was via the intercom. But instead he buzzed us right in. Herb held the door open for me, gentleman that he was, and we walked down a narrow hallway and came to a second door. I knocked.

  “You UPS?” A female voice from inside.

  “No. Chicago Police.”

  Herb and I held our badges up to the peephole. We heard locks disengaging, and then the door opened. An unassuming young woman of no more than thirty stood in the doorway, clad in a bathrobe. She was either very pregnant, or had eaten a pumpkin, whole.

  “Thought you were my Amazon delivery,” she said. “Gotta buzz them in or my shitty neighbors steal the packages.”

  “We’re looking for Dill Remir,” I said. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Husband,” the woman said. She didn’t seem surprised that the cops were looking for him. “What did he do?”

  “We’d just like to ask him a few questions,” I said.

  She snorted, probably thinking we were lying. Which we were, sort of.

  “Dill went to the ER last night,” she said. “Kidney stones.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “Blessed Joseph, up the street. You gonna arrest him?”

  “We’d just like to ask him a few questions,” I repeated. “What is your name, Miss?”

  “Missus. Missus Jamie Dill. Did you see UPS anywhere?”

  We had not, and relayed that fact.

  “Gotta go shopping, but need to stick around and wait for brown.”

  “Got cats?” Herb asked. He’d smelled the same thing I had.

  “Yeah. Four.”

  “Kitty litter,” Herb said.

  “That’s why I need to go to the store.”

  “Take your old kitty litter. Put it in an Amazon box. Wrap it real nice and leave it on your doorstep. Do that a few times, your neighbors will stop stealing.”

  She smiled like that was the best idea ever. And maybe it was.

  “I’m so doing that. And if you don’t arrest Dill, tell him to call me. I got a shitty cell phone and the keypad is broke. Can’t call out.”

  “We’ll tell him,” I promised.

  And off we went to Blessed Joe’s.

  “Gotta be pretty bad if they admitted him,” Herb said and we climbed back into my heap. “Kidney stones hurt, but they’re usually harmless. Except for the pain.”

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll be all morphined up and talky.”

  It took us ten minutes to get there. We would have been there in five, but my car refused to start. Benedict was stoic during the starter fluid ordeal, and had the good grace not to volunteer to help. Benedict had a brand new car, which he was immensely proud of but downplayed around me because he knew my current credit situation. You don’t brag about your huge dinner to a starving woman, even if she is rocking some three hundred dollar shoes.

  To make up for time lost, I put my cherry on my roof and hit the siren. I didn’t know anyone else who
still used the stick-on roof light. Unmarked cars these days had their flashers in the rear windows and in front by the headlights. But I wasn’t driving an unmarked car, because there was a severe car shortage, and it was easier to take my own than requisition one every time I wanted to drive somewhere. Plus I got monetarily compensated by the city for using my own vehicle for gas, mileage, and general wear and tear. And, to be honest, I also loved the cracked vinyl seats.

  Just kidding about that last part. The vinyl actually pinched.

  Did I mention my rocking shoes?

  Blessed Joe’s was a sprawling affair, taking up most of a city block with various buildings. We parked in front of the hospital in a loading zone. I’m constantly abusing my authority like that.

  The lobby was quiet, usually an indication of a hospital with money. Hospitals which weren’t as financially successful always had loud, jammed lobbies, with people waiting around, babies crying, and occasional cursing and fighting. The difference between having insurance and relying on welfare.

  The elevator doors opened, and a pretty black nurse pushed out a wheelchair containing a very fat man. She had to put her back behind it, and I almost offered to help. But once she got him rolling, momentum took over, and we stepped aside and let her pass. Benedict hit the button for four and the doors silently closed.

  The nurse at the reception desk told us where Remir was when we flashed our badges, and we went to his room.

  As we hoped, we found Remir all morphined up. But he wasn’t talky.

  Our suspect was a white thirty-something paunchy guy with a four day beard and tattoos of flames on his arms. He was watching some hot rod show on cable, and didn’t appreciate it when I reached up and turned off the TV.

  “You cops?” he asked, slurring his words.

  “Yeah.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  He wasn’t even drugged enough to let his tongue slip.

  “We’re not charging you yet, Mr. Remir,” I said. “Whether or not we charge you with anything is up to you.”

  He stared at me, jaw slack, eyes hooded. I continued.

  “We found your prints on a Corvette that you tried to steal. We have a witness who got a good look at you.”

  “Not saying nothing without my lawyer.”

  “If that’s what you want, then we’ll arrest you right now. But we’re not charging you with attempted car theft, Mr. Remir. We’re charging you with murder.”

  He paused, maybe a little too long, then said, “I didn’t murder nobody.”

  “We found the rental truck, Dill,” Herb said. “With the girl in the back. Pretty sick shit.”

  I watched the moment of recognition in his eyes. Like a guy who had trusted a fart and then realized he shouldn’t have.

  “I got nothing to do with that.”

  But Herb and I already had our confirmation. The longshot had paid off. If we played this right, Mr. Remir could lead us to the Mauler.

  Herb moved in closer. “Are you saying you didn’t know the girl was in there when you stole the truck?”

  “I didn’t steal that truck. That was Lester.”

  Remir’s eyes widened when he realized his mistake. Thank you, intravenous opiates.

  “Who is Lester?” I pressed.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  I leaned in close. “Dill, that girl in back was a Motel Mauler victim. We’re homicide cops. We care about murder, not stolen cars. You give us something to find the Mauler, we leave you in peace. But as far as we know, you killed that girl. Is that how you want us to treat you? Like a murder suspect? Think about this, Dill. You got a baby on the way. You want to be facing a murder rap? Talk to us.”

  For a second, I thought we had him. But when he opened his mouth he said, “Lawyer.”

  I sighed. Nothing was ever simple. “Fine. After you call your lawyer, call Jamie at home. She’s worried.” Then I slipped into automatic pilot, part of my mind wondering if this delay would wind up costing another young girl her life. “Mr. Dill Remir, you have the right to remain silent…”

  HARRY

  When we last left our hero, me, my dick condo manager had been shot by some sniper who was perched in the high-rise across the street, I was pinned down and couldn’t get to my phone, my horse, Rover, was trying to stand up, and I’d learned the hard way that horseshit doesn’t stick to windows.

  And I had no idea what to do.

  Was surrendering an option? Did waving a white flag work anywhere outside of old Saturday morning cartoons? Did I even have anything white to wave?

  “Hey, condo guy. You look like the tighty-whitey type. Give me your underwear.”

  I was not a tighty-whitey type. McGlade rolled commando-style, everything swinging free like nature intended.

  “Doctor…” he wheezed.

  “Yeah, you really need a doctor, Looks like you’re already down a pint. Hey!” I had a flash of inspiration. “Got a cell phone?”

  “Pock… pocket…”

  “Can you reach it?”

  He fumbled around for his pocket, his coordination really bad. Probably from blood loss. Then he passed out. Or died.

  What a dick.

  But I had no time to mourn the dick condo manager who I hated. For Rover’s sake, I had to get us out of here.

  Think, Harry! Look around you! Find something to use!

  Hiding behind my big, expensive, heavy sofa, I looked around my condo to see what I could see. The phone was too far away. Condo manager was too far away. There were several fifty pound bags of kitty litter, and they might slow down a bullet, but it wasn’t like I could pick up four bags and make a run for it.

  Or could I?

  I reached out my fake hand to grab the nearest kitty litter bag, and slowly tugged it over.

  The sniper shot it, and litter erupted out like a small, absorbent volcano.

  “Can’t we just wait for dark?” Rover, talking in my head in that yokel voice.

  “Might have a night scope.”

  “We could wait until someone comes over.”

  “Who? Maids just quit. I don’t have any family or friends.”

  “Wow. You’re a loser, Harry.”

  My subconscious apparently hated me.

  “Maybe it’s your subconscious shooting at us.”

  I gave Rover a reassuring pat on the head, knowing it was me, not him. Then I saw it. Under my sofa. A paper plate that my rude cleaning service had missed.

  A white paper plate.

  “Maybe we can surrender,” I said, clamping it between my robotic figures, then waving the ersatz flag above the sofa.

  The sniper put a bullet through the center of the plate.

  I was really beginning to dislike this person trying to kill me.

  A groan, from the dick condo manager, who apparently was still among the living.

  “Hey!” I yelled at him. “Throw me your phone!”

  He groaned again, but made no attempt to throw me his phone. Some guys just can’t take a bullet.

  So how long could I actually stay behind the sofa? Hours? Days?

  That would be boring as hell. Especially since I couldn’t reach the TV remote.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Rover. “No matter how bad it gets, I won’t eat you. But you’ve got to promise me the same, buddy.”

  Rover didn’t respond. I wondered if he was just biding his time, waiting for me to sleep, and then he’d chow down on my face.

  Maybe my only defense was to eat him first.

  Could I do that, with a pet I loved so dearly?

  “Never,” I declared.

  But I also noticed I was drooling a little.

  Then, like an answered prayer that I didn’t pray, my desk phone rang.

  I couldn’t answer. It was still too far away. But maybe I could knock the phone off the hook, then yell for help.

  I looked around for something to throw, considered the horseshit, dismissed the idea because it was already caked under my fingernails and maki
ng me gag, and instead tugged off one of my shoes.

  The phone rang a second time.

  I aimed, cocked my arm back—

  —and missed.

  I was right-handed, and my right hand was missing, replaced by myoelectric sensors and gears and latex rubber. Throwing lefty, I was about as good as that spaz in grammar school that we never picked for sports and always made fun of and bullied and years later he murdered his mother with a fork and had sex with her severed head which no one could have ever seen coming.

  It was a bad throw.

  The phone rang a third time, and I took off my last remaining only shoe left.

  “This is it, Rover. Our one and only chance to avoid eating each other.”

  I let it fly.

  PHIN

  Fell asleep and woke up full-mode heart-thumping startled because I thought I lost the gun, and wound up digging the knife into my palm grabbing around for it.

  All the cuts on my fingers had scabbed over, so crusty my hands felt Kentucky Fried. I made two fists and the wounds cracked open, stinging like I’d dipped them in gasoline.

  I had passed out on my Earl side, and that seemed to pacify him a little. The pain was still bad, but familiar.

  I pissed in the corner again, and put off taking a shit even though I had to. Maybe I could make it out without having to lower myself to that.

  The hole I’d made was an inch deep, with no end in sight.

  I fell into the routine.

  Scrape the knife clockwise. Then counterclockwise. Then clockwise. Then counterclockwise.

  Blow the sawdust away.

  Repeat.

  I couldn’t swallow because my throat was so dry. My stomach was making hungry noises loud enough to hear through the walls.

  Clockwise. Counterclockwise.

  There was a book I read in high school about some war, and the prisoners were packed in a boat for six days without food or water. Many of them resorted to drinking their own urine.

  I didn’t think I could do that. I’d heard that urine is high in sodium, and if I put back the salt I’d just eliminated, I’d get even more dehydrated.

  Plus, I didn’t have a cup, and my aim wasn’t that good.

  I laughed at that thought, and then laughed even harder, and I knew I was hysterical and the tears were running down my face and I just couldn’t stop laughing and then I broke the tip off my knife.