“You report all of this to Bains?” I asked.
“He already knew. Jack… he’s giving it all to the Feebies.”
Ah, hell.
“We don’t need them. We can coordinate with Minnesota and extradite, and just stakeout this shop here and wait for Garrett to come to Illinois.”
“Too much heat. Mayor wants to be rid of this whole thing.”
This was going from bad to worse. “The Mayor already knows?”
“Bains told me the FBI was gonna take over anyway. Now, with the suspect out of state, they’ll have jurisdiction. They’re already sending a team over here.”
It all sank in. “So… we’re done.”
“We did all we could. We broke the case. You broke the case. Without you figuring out the rental truck was stolen, we wouldn’t have anything. The Feebies will coordinate with Minnesota, they’ll get the guy, we testify if needed, and we’re done.”
I knew I wasn’t in this for the fame or the glory. The point was to get the bad guys off the street. It didn’t matter if I arrested them, or if the Feds did.
But this still felt lousy. A big anti-climax. And there wasn’t anything we could do about it.
“Want to get a drink?” Herb asked.
I nodded. “First round’s on me.”
HARRY
I woke up to Rover licking my face.
“Want to go for a walk, boy?”
He didn’t answer. Because he was a horse.
I checked the clock. Coming up on noon.
After meeting with Fakir yesterday, I drove around for an hour to see if anyone was following me. Being shot at tends to make a guy paranoid.
I didn’t spot any tails, so then I carefully plotted my next move. I could have staked-out Puma’s building and waited for the Jeep to come back, but that doorman was watching it for me. I could have gone to Maple Hills again, and staked-out the trailer, but that was a long drive and seemed a lot like work. So I went to see a movie. Alone. Then I went out to eat. Alone. Then I had a few drinks.
Yes, smartass, I was alone for that, too.
During a rare bout of self-reflection, I wondered why I was alone all the time, and came to an obvious conclusion; the whole world sucks.
Would I ever have a family? Being an orphan, that question came up a lot in my thoughts. It seemed like it would be nice to share my life with someone, and maybe raise a child. But they’d probably be jerks, and cost a lot of money.
Anyway, it hadn’t been a productive day.
Today would be different. I’d walk my horse, then do something private-eyeish and clever to find that creep who was seeing Cherry, and then do something daring and heroic to find the creep who was trying to kill me.
Sounded like a foolproof plan.
I did some basic grooming, dressed, then took Rover outside. That depressed carriage driver who I over tipped was parked up the street, and when Rover saw another horse he actually broke into a gallop, tugging me behind him. Upon meeting Mirna, there was much nickering and nuzzling between the equines.
“He’s magnificent,” said the carriage dude. “Where did you get him?”
“Texas,” I said.
“Where in Texas?”
“At the best little horse house in Texas,” I said.
I’d been aching to use that joke for the last few days.
“They like each other,” said sad guy.
“Well, I can rent Rover out for stud fees, but you’re going to have to be the one who holds him up to the right height.”
The sad guy laughed, and I pulled Rover away and we did a stroll around the block, stopping twice to take pictures with kids. I was explaining to some young mother that of course her precious little darling could sit on the cute horsey, for twenty bucks, and then my cell rang.
“Mr. McGlade? It’s Jasper.”
The name sounded familiar. “Jasper? Glad you called. Been a long time since we shared that bottle of wine in the backseat.”
“It’s Jasper. The doorman from Meredith Star’s building.”
That name also sounded familiar. Wait! It was the guy I told to look for the Jeep.
“Hey, Jasper. Did the Jeep come back?”
“It did. He had Meredith’s friend with him, and they picked her up and left.”
“How long ago?”
“Five minutes.”
“Did you get the plate number?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
A pause, then, “Mr. McGlade, we had an arrangement.”
“Right. What did I say? Twenty bucks?”
“You said forty.”
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
I hung up. The mother was holding a twenty dollar bill out to me.
“Sorry, lady,” I said. “The price of horsey rides just doubled.”
PHIN
The tollway was packed, but I didn’t mind the traffic. I dug out one of the tapes I’d taken from Tucker’s safe, and popped it in.
I listened to ten minutes of the tape, hearing Shears talk to a friend of his named Garrett about a Blackhawks game, hearing a message from a phone solicitor wanting him to take a survey, hearing Shears talk to a girl named Wanda, hearing a message from Wanda, etc.
He was obviously one of those weirdos that kept all of his phone conversations. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he used it to get dirt on people. Either way, he should have learned from Nixon, because now his tapes were in the wrong hands.
I checked the dates on the labels, and put one in from the month Amy disappeared.
The first recording featured Tucker talking to what I quickly realized was a phone sex line. His kink, as described in explicit detail, involved hurting women. The actress, who didn’t scream in pain convincingly enough for Tucker, eventually called him a creep and hung up on him.
Then came an even more disturbing call, where Tucker went through the same litany of threats and sick fantasies, but this seemed to be with a woman who wasn’t a phone sex worker. It was someone who sounded genuinely terrified.
I’d met a lot of emotionally unstable people in my line of work. Violent offenders usually came in three categories. Those, like me, who used violence as a means to an end, and desensitized themselves against it. Those who had anger issues, and got physical when they lost their temper. And the rarest of the bunch, those who really enjoyed hurting others.
My father had anger issues.
My older brother, a monster named Hugo, was a bully, a sadist, a psychopath, and worse. The only reason he hadn’t killed me when we were younger was because I ran away before he could do it. Last I heard, Hugo had emotionally connected with some like-minded guys in some sort of militant fascist hate group. I still had occasional nightmares about Hugo. I really hoped he was dead.
Tucker sounded a lot like Hugo. And that scared me. If we lined up all the bad traits of humanity, sadism was the worst of the worst.
Another recording played.
“Tucker, you there? This is Amy. I got arrested for having the coke in my car. I’m in deep shit. Dad is coming to bail me out, but I need you here.”
Then Tucker picked up the phone and they discussed where he’d meet her after she got out.
After she hung up, Tucker made another call, and the real reason Amy ran off made complete sense.
I’d heard it said the definition of family was a bunch of strangers you were forced to spend time with. Which was also the definition of prison. It boggled my mind that you had to pass a test and get a license to operate a motor vehicle, but any two dysfunctional yahoos could raise a kid without needing any training, permission, experience, or supervision. I’m not saying that we need the government to issue parenting permits, but there has to be a solution somewhere in between a Big Brother State and allowing kids to be neglected, abused, starved, and raped.
I listened to another twenty minutes of Tucker trying to cinch his nomination for worst human being of the year, but not hearing any more from Amy. I ejected and tried
the latest tape, fresh from his answering machine.
“This is Tucker.”
“It’s Eddie, dude. When you coming up to the lake?”
“Tomorrow. Some asshole came knocking on my door asking questions.”
“Sounds like an epidemic. I had some guy follow me out to the trailer. Was he kinda pudgy, unshaven, brown hair?”
“Naw, this asshole was bald.”
“Think this is about the truck? All over the news, dude. Cops linked the truck to the motels.”
“Don’t say anything stupid on an open line, stupid.”
“You got some serious paranoia.”
“You never know who’s listening in.”
No shit. That’s why you don’t record your phone calls, dumb ass.
“Where’s your guy?” Eddie asked.
“He took a vacation. I don’t expect him to come back. The accommodations are very private, and very exclusive.”
Eddie chuckled. “You’re a trip, dude. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“How about your guy?”
“I paid Garrett to take care of him. He thinks he did.”
“Thinks?”
“If he missed, he’ll try again. Garrett’s solid.”
“Your moron friend is the reason the truck got discovered.”
“Relax. It’s clean.” Another chuckle. “Well, not clean clean. But we wiped it.”
“You got a tree ready?”
“Garrett is handling it.”
“Jesus, does he hold your dick for you when you piss?”
Eddie laughed again. “No. But maybe if I gave him a raise.”
“Hey, want me to bring a girl? I can stop for hitchers on the way up.”
“I got two chicks, man. And check it; they’re strippers.”
“No shit! Aren’t you the suave lady killer.”
“Dumb bitches think I’m a talent scout.” More laughter. “I love it when they get here and don’t know what’s happening.”
“I gotta go. See you tomorrow at the cabin. Chad be there, too?”
“If we can pull him away from his video games.”
“Later. Make sure Garrett brings two trees.”
Eddie laughed again. “I think we can find a few. Later, dude.”
I spent the next half an hour listening to more messages and conversations, much of it tedious, some of it repulsive, but nothing that spelled out any specific criminal activity, or told me where Tucker was going to meet Chad, Garrett, and Eddie. Tucker was stupid enough to record his own conversations, and to keep the driver’s licenses from what I assumed were a few dozen missing women that he probably killed. But he stopped short of implicating himself in any sort of felony.
I put in an earlier tape, enduring more banality, more profanity, more poor conversation that Tucker and his dickhead friends mistook for clever banter. They talked about sports a lot, and bitched about their rich parents, and mentioned a cabin in Minnesota several times. They alluded to bringing women there, and alluded the women didn’t come voluntarily. Sometimes they mentioned a lake.
Maybe there was something in the address book I found.
I exited the expressway and made my way through Chinatown until I reached the Michigan Motel. Three hard raps on Kenny Jen Bang-Ko’s check-in window brought the ancient man out, looking more harried than usual.
“They come back,” he told me.
“Who?”
“Clan. They say they going to kill you.”
“Any messages?”
“Pasha. Four times. Clan will come back.”
“Anyone else?”
“Your TV friend. Harry McGlade. Said he thought you were dead. He’s too busy to help you, but he wants to get together sometime. Unless you’re really sick. That would bum him out.”
That sounded like Harry.
“The Clan is coming back,” Kenny said. “It is going to be big bad trouble.”
I tried to convince him not to worry about the Clan. This had little effect on Kenny, because while I was soothing him the Clan showed up.
Timing, as they say, is everything.
There were seven of them, and they strutted into the parking lot with all the swagger and ignorance of broken-home juvenile delinquents. I once walked like that, cocksure and invincible.
Sometimes I still did.
I watched them approach, and recognized the punk in the middle as the one with the faulty pistol.
I didn’t plan on giving him a chance to try his luck again.
I went to my Bronco and opened the bag, staring at the weapons. A gun would scare them off. Probably. I didn’t want to have to kill any teenagers, but shooting, even a warning shot, would bring the cops. I took my 9mm, just in case, and tucked it into the back of my jeans. I pocketed my knife, slipped on the brass knuckles, and tucked the dart gun into my jacket, keeping one eye on the Clan’s advancement.
They had obviously been watching the motel, waiting for me to show up. As they got closer, the two on either end broke off and began to flank me. So far I didn’t see any weapons.
“Hey you! Bald head!”
It was Mr. Faulty talking. He and two of his buddies had stopped four meters in front of me.
“You got this coming,” he said.
“Please stop scaring me,” I said. “I may have a heart attack.”
I had bravado by the bucketful, but not much else. This wasn’t looking good. I should have paid more attention to Kenny’s warnings.
The leader reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of nunchaku; those sticks with a chain connecting them that Bruce Lee made so popular. He began to flip them around his shoulders and back with frightening skill, all the time making little squealing noises.
Getting beaten with nunchucks wasn’t on my to-do list, so I took out the dart pistol and shot him in the chest.
To my right, someone pulled a weapon that looked like a pipe. In his other hand was a ballpeen hammer.
A zipgun.
Probably welded it together out of an old copper tube. I’d seen similar homemade versions, and rather than a trigger, you hit the back of the pipe with a hammer. In theory, that acted as a striker, setting off the bullet.
In reality, zipguns were ridiculously inaccurate, and highly dangerous to the user.
I ignored him for the moment, and checked to my left, where the two gangbangers were coming at me. I pointed the dart gun at them.
“Slow your roll, kids.”
They stopped. My gun was empty, and I had no more darts, but they didn’t know that.
It was only a matter of time until they figured it out.
The leader’s legs were getting rubbery, and the rest of the gang seemed unsure what to do. I was unsure myself. I didn’t know any martial arts. I won fights because I hit first, hit harder, and could take a few punches. Maybe I could handle two of these kids, possibly three. But six would beat me to death, also not on my to-do list.
I realized I didn’t want to die, and that self-affirmation went hand-in-hand with fear. Fear of injury. Fear of death. Fear of losing everything.
It had been a while since I was really, truly afraid.
Fear made you sloppy. It made you hesitate when you needed to act.
It got you killed.
I considered the 9mm in my pants. It would be self-defense.
But these were just dumb kids. They needed an ass-kicking, and maybe some prison time. But the youngest of them didn’t even need to shave yet.
Could I kill children to save my own miserable life?
A POP!, to my right, then screaming. I saw the punk with the pipe go down. Lying next to him were the remnants of his zipgun. He had obviously misread the instructions when putting it together, because it seemed to have gone off in his own hand.
Then, the bum rush; two bangers coming at me. I made out the blur of a knife and my reflexes kicked in, raising the dart pistol with one hand to block, and coming up in an undercut with the other, the brass knuckles adding spe
ed as well as weight to my swing.
In the age old battle of metal vs enamel, metal usually won. It certainly did this time, and the guy went down, for the first time in his life seeing his own teeth without needing a mirror.
The kid behind him kicked me in the side of the head, and I slashed the dart gun at his head, missed, then threw it at him.
He flinched, covering his face even though my throw was bad. I dropped to one knee and socked him with the brass knuckles in the one place a man doesn’t ever want to be hit.
He fell over.
Mr. Faulty finally gave into the dart juice, and face-planted.
That was four down, leaving three.
I could handle three.
Zipgun’s partner came at me, quick as a cat, and he kicked me in the chest. I had more mass, so I didn’t stagger, but I heard a distinct snap and had enough experience to know he’d broken one of my ribs. Chordotomy side; all I felt was a tickle.
I took a step away, and he was on me again with the same kick. This time I anticipated it, and turned just enough to catch his leg between my side and armpit.
As I said, I had more mass, so when I dropped, he went down with me, and when I rolled, my weight was stronger than his knee, and when it popped, he howled louder than any human being I’ve ever heard before in my life.
Then I was being kicked and stomped by two more kids; I’d lost track of which ones. They got in three or four good shots before I was able to sweep one of their heels, taking him down to my level.
I swung the brass knuckles. No matter how long this kid lived, he would always be confronted with the question, “What happened to your nose?” because when my fist hit his face his nose split open as cleanly as a chef-sliced tomato.
His partner was still kicking me, but I’d had enough and I drew the 9mm.
He immediately stopped his assault, his hands going up.
“This can end in two ways,” I said. “You and your gang can leave me alone, forever. Or I kill all of you right now. What’s it gonna be?”
He stuck out his chin and said. “Death before dishonor.”
Dumb kid.
I hit him in the knee with the brass knuckles, and he went down, sobbing. Then I got up off the asphalt and looked around.
Seven men down and out in less than a minute. Not bad work for a terminal cancer patient who just spent three days in a box without food or water.
Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2) Page 26