Everybody Dies - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 3)

by J. A. Konrath

  There was some sense of shared genetics. The nose. The jutting chin. But Hugo was to Phin what a timber wolf was to a terrier.

  When Pasha had first met her boyfriend, she’d thought him as tough and as formidable as a man could get. But Hugo would tear Phin apart without even breaking a sweat.

  In the lobby, Pasha heard the TV. Hugo’s accomplices, the boy and the woman, were watching some reality show where people yelled at each other.

  Hugo remained seated. His eyes fixed on her.

  Pasha didn’t know what to do. Try to talk to him? Ask questions? She’d met all kinds of personality types on the job, including many with emotional and mental problems, but never anyone like this. Some people on the autism spectrum didn’t like to converse, but they didn’t make eye contact, either. Hugo was silent, but very much alert and aware of her. Staring. Unblinking. Unmoving.

  Like a spider in the middle of a web. Waiting to strike.

  Human communication and interaction involved a lot of social cues, courtesies, and silent interactions. Being stared at violated them all. The discomfort factor was off the charts, and Pasha feared she was going to start crying.

  But she reeled it in, forced herself to stay calm. She was in serious trouble, but thus far unharmed. Her mind still worked. So did her body.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  Pasha tested the duct tape, flexing her wrists and arms, trying not to reveal what she was doing. She wouldn’t be able to break it. But there, on her desk, was the pair of cuticle scissors she’d been using earlier. Less than half a meter in front of her.

  She didn’t stare, fearing Hugo would follow her gaze.

  She didn’t speak, fearing what that might lead to.

  He wanted to silently stare? Fine. She could do that.

  Pasha inhaled through her nose, blew it out through her mouth. Pranayama. Yoga breathing. Slowing her heartbeat. Fighting the panic.

  An hour dripped past, as evidenced by the clock on the wall behind him. An endless, frightening, count-the-heartbeats hour where she felt every single second of every single minute.

  Hugo made another call, using her phone. She heard a ring. No one picked up. Hugo disconnected.

  He was calling Phin.

  And Pasha wondered where Phin was, every bit as much as Hugo.

  She tried to stay in the moment. To be aware of any opportunities that arose, or any change in Hugo’s demeanor. But her mind invariably began to drift. While the silence wasn’t comfortable, the fact that Hugo hadn’t tried to hurt her made him less and less of a threat. Evolution was pretty clear about familiarity. If you could recognize something, it lowered your stress levels. The biological reason for this was simple; if it hadn’t killed you yet, how bad can it be?

  So rather than remain in a state of adrenaline-fueled panic, Pasha’s thoughts meandered to what Phin had mentioned about his brother. He’d told Pasha his parents were dead. Dad was an abusive alcoholic. Mom took drugs and died when he was young. And older brother Hugo was a monster.

  Pasha tried, on a few occasions, to get further details. Phin never provided them.

  “He abused you?”

  “Yeah,” Phin had told her.

  “Sexually?”

  Her boyfriend hadn’t answered, leaving Pasha to guess what had happened. She assumed the worst.

  “Most people can’t wait.” Hugo’s deep voice startled her so badly that Pasha almost yelped. “You’ve been quiet for a whole hour. Usually, they start to whine after only a few seconds. They ask questions. They tell me about themselves, as if me knowing their mother’s name will change the inevitable. Then, eventually, they beg.”

  Pasha stayed silent.

  “I can see you’re trying to be brave,” Hugo said. “Maybe looking for a way out. Waiting for a chance to run away. Or to grab those scissors on the desk. It’s a good thing you didn’t try, because I’d use the rest of the tape to wrap up your whole head and stick it to the floor.”

  Pasha had a deep fear of suffocation, dating back to her childhood. She’d been four years old, and had gotten her head stuck under the sofa while reaching for a fallen toy. It was one of those older couches, that had flaps of fabric that hung to carpet-level, and though there was plenty of air, and her predicament hadn’t lasted any longer than a few seconds before her screaming prompted a quick rescue, Pasha distinctly remembered the feeling of being trapped in the dark, unable to breathe.

  No, having her entire head mummified in duct tape wasn’t something she wanted to have happen. She stayed quiet, kept still, and didn’t look away.

  After a minute passed, Hugo asked, “Where did you meet my brother?”

  Answer? Or not?

  Answering was probably the wiser move.

  “I hired him.”

  “What for?”

  “He solved a problem I was having.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I… hired him to take care of some people who were trying to run me out of business.”

  “Now who would want to run you out of business, a baby-killing whore like you?”

  Pasha didn’t answer.

  Hugo shook his head, as if Pasha was a child who did something bad. “We were having such a nice conversation, and now your lips are sealed? I know someone who can help with that.”

  He reached down into his massive combat boot , and pulled out something that looked like a comb.

  Then he flicked it open, and Pasha saw the blade.

  “This is Göth. Göth can unseal any lips.”

  The razor’s blade caught the overhead light and glinted.

  Pasha tried to push herself backward into the chair, her whole body starting to shake.

  “Do you think my brother will still like you after Göth has sliced your mouth off?”

  “You’ve… you’ve been to jail,” Pasha said.

  Hugo brought the razor closer, until it almost touched her nose.

  “What do they call the ones… the ones in jail… who rat people out. Tattlers….” No, not tattlers. What was the damn word? “The ones who talk. Snitchers. Snitches.”

  “Squealers,” Hugo said.

  The cold steel tapped Pasha on the chin. She almost wet her pants.

  “Squealers. Are they respected in jail?”

  “No. They’re garbage.”

  “Phin… when he helped me… he did something illegal. If I say what he did, I’d be a squealer. Garbage. Like you said.”

  Hugo hesitated, seeming to think it over. “But you already squealed. You told me where he was and when you expected him back.”

  “I said I didn’t know,” she quickly added, “which is true. You can’t squeal if you don’t know anything.”

  “So what did my brother do that was illegal? Did he rough up those mean men who were trying to shut you down?”

  Pasha pursed her lips together.

  “Did he kill them?”

  Pasha tried to maintain eye-contact, but briefly looked away.

  Hugo crinkled his eyes, the seven tattooed tears rising up on his cheek, making him appear almost jovial.

  “Little brother Phineas. A killer. But then, he was always a tough little shit. I broke his arm once. Compound fracture. Bone came right through the skin. He didn’t even shed a tear.”

  Pasha chanced a look at the razor. “I… I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. I admire you for not squealing. I know many men who have said more, when threatened with less.”

  Though Hugo seemed amused, the razor stayed directly under Pasha’s nose.

  “But I’m not the one you have to please. Göth really wanted to cut your lips off. Maybe if you apologize to Göth, he’ll forgive you.”

  Pasha had no idea what to do. Hugo wanted her to treat the straight razor like it was a person, and apologize? Would doing that make the situation better? Or worse?

  Encouraging psychosis wasn’t good medical practice. And so far, she’d stayed strong, and Hugo seemed to re
spect that. If she started apologizing, it could very well diminish her in Hugo’s mind. She knew what those blue tears meant. He was a killer. And all it took to kill without regret was a very specific type of detachment. She didn’t want the tiny rapport she’d built to vanish.

  At the same time, she didn’t want her mouth cut off with a razor.

  Pasha forced the fear deep down inside of herself, and tried to appear aloof. “You want me to apologize to a shaver?”

  “I don’t. Göth does. Can’t you see how hurt he looks?”

  Pasha sucked in a quick, deep breath, then said. “Okay. Göth, I’m truly sorry.”

  The razor touched her lips.

  “I don’t think he accepted your apology,” Hugo said. “Maybe you should give him a kiss.”

  As awful as the hour of silent staring had been, this was much, much worse.

  “I don’t… kiss… strangers.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll make introductions. Bipasha, this is Göth. Göth, this is Bipasha.”

  The flat of the blade pressed against her mouth. Tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked them away. Then she pursed her lips—

  —and kissed the razor.

  “Okay, I—”

  And then the razor was in Pasha’s mouth. She opened wide, so she wouldn’t get cut, and Hugo tapped it against her upper teeth, making a clink-clink-clink sound.

  Then he touched the spine to her tongue.

  “Göth,” Hugo warned, “don’t do anything crazy. We need her to talk. Remember?”

  But rather than remove the blade, Hugo pushed it in deeper, sliding it across the back of her tongue like a doctor with a tongue depressor. He inserted it all the way to the handle, so the tip almost touched her epiglottis.

  Pasha shut her eyes.

  Don’t gag. Don’t cough. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.

  “Do you taste it?” Hugo said. “The blood of the man that Göth just skinned?”

  Pasha felt a scream building up. She was already leaning back in the chair as far as she could, and full-blown hysteria was only a moment or two away—

  —and then the blade was withdrawn.

  “I’m impressed by your gag reflux,” Hugo said. “My brother is a lucky man.”

  Pasha turned away, gasping, coughing. The only thing that prevented her from throwing up was an empty stomach.

  “Göth enjoyed that,” Hugo said. “I bet he’d enjoy your other holes, too.”

  “What do you want with Phin?” Pasha blurted out.

  The amusement in Hugo’s eyes disappeared. He slowly raised a hand and pointed it at his cheek. “See these?”

  The question seemed to be rhetorical, but Pasha nodded anyway.

  “Seven tears,” Hugo continued. “Do you know what they mean?”

  “Those are people you murdered.”

  In one sudden, explosive movement, Hugo lifted up his gigantic leg and slammed his foot on Pasha’s desk. His shoe was bigger than a loaf of bread. He hiked up his pants leg, revealing a shin lined with scars running from his knee to the top of his socks, like a bar code. The last few were scabbed over, and the final one was still bleeding.

  “These are people I murdered. Common, worthless, meaningless people. When I kill you, this is all you’ll get. But these—” He jabbed a finger onto his face. “These are special. And the eighth one, the last one, will be the greatest one of all. My brother. Phineas.”

  Pasha was still shaking from the encounter with Göth, and half out of her mind with fear, but she clawed back hysteria and let logic overtake emotion. Hugo seemed eager to talk about his tear tattoos, and to avoid any more potential violence, Pasha decided to keep him talking.

  “I want to hear about your tears,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Tell me about them.”

  Hugo blinked.

  Hugo stayed quiet for several seconds.

  Then Hugo began to talk.

  HUGO

  STATEVILLE CORRECTIONAL CENTER

  1993

  On his first day of a five year sentence, Hugo Troutt walked into the yard, signaled out the scrawniest guy there, and broke the man’s left arm, jaw bone, and four ribs before the guards shot up the ground in front of him.

  He’d done brief stretches before, but Stateville was the real thing. Maximum security, in the middle of Nowhere, Illinois, where the county sent men with violence problems.

  Hugo spent two months in solitary, and when he was released he was approached in the mess hall by a big son-of-a-bitch with a blue tear tattoo on his cheek. Hugo didn’t meet many men his own size—he was six-five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle, bone, and mean—so he was actually looking forward to the fight. But instead of throwing down, the guy pointed to his armband. A white bandana.

  “Peace, dude. Bandana is white. Means parlay. Here to talk, not fight. If it was red, that means no quarter. Then we got a problem. But white is right, and white no fight. Name is Bruiser. Who are you?”

  “Hugo.”

  “Hugo, I’m an emissary. You know what that is?”

  Hugo shook his head.

  “Means I was sent here by Whitman. He runs the strongest gang in the joint. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “That would be a mistake. Look around you, brother. Animals everywhere. Got a group of uppity blacks who would love to run a train on your lily white ass. Got an even bigger group of ‘Spanics—man, you don’t even know what they be saying while they kicking the shit out of you. Hell, even the fags got their own gang. You don’t find a group to watch your back, don’t matter how big you are. Got me?”

  “Where’s Whitman?”

  “He would like to invite you to his table. Follow me.”

  Hugo stood up, taking his tray along, and followed Bruiser to a table next to the exit. The first thing Hugo noticed was the food. He’d eaten slop while in the hole, and the food in general pop wasn’t much better. But Whitman and his group were eating fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, and corn on the cob.

  Whitman himself was a small, weaselly-looking guy with glasses, old enough to be gray, his beard patchy like a dog with mange. While Bruiser had one tattooed tear on his cheek, Whitman had four. He smiled when Hugo approached, then snapped his fingers and one of the men sitting there stood up and stepped back.

  “Sit,” Whitman said.

  Hugo still wasn’t sure what the play was, but sitting would put him at a disadvantage if shit got real.

  “If I wanted to hurt you, Hugo, I could have gotten to you in solitary. Sit.”

  Hugo sat.

  “You’re in for assault and battery. A white guy. And your first day here, you went and attacked Pete. Also a white guy. What do you got against white guys?”

  “I got something against everything.”

  “Not anymore. Now you work for me. Any white-on-white violence has to be approved. You want to go beat up a few schlammensch, help yourself. But we don’t attack our own.”

  Hugo didn’t know what schlammensch meant, and Whitman seemed to sense it.

  “Schlammensch. Schlamm is mud. Mensch is men. Mud people. Anyone who isn’t white. God made Adam and Eve out of clay, white as the clouds above. The mongrel races; blacks, Latins, Jews, Arabs, Asians; they were all made of mud. Do you believe that?”

  “No. That’s stupid.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  Whitman made a motion with his hand, like he was brushing salt off the table. Everyone got up and left.

  “I don’t give a shit what you believe, Hugo. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that most men believe something. And they believe the craziest shit, about God and UFOs and white nationalism and bigfoot and Zion ruling the world and mind control drugs in the goddamn drinking water. None of that matters. What matters is this; if you want to control people, you tap into what they believe. Doesn’t matter what it is, or why they believe it. People are ignorant, and afraid, and superstitious, and stupid
, and hopeful. You don’t have to believe what they do. All you have to do is encourage them.”

  “Why?”

  “Power, Hugo. Do you think you could kill me? Right now?”

  The giant considered it. Might be fun to try. “Maybe.”

  “I got five of my men ready to spring, the moment you turn unfriendly.”

  “I see them. I can handle that.”

  “Do you also see the two guards watching our conversation? Bull on the north side, his name is Lance. I’m godfather to his baby boy. On the east is Filmore. He’s tweaking off the speed I just sold him. I so much as fart, and you’ll have five rounds in your heart before the stink even hits you.” Whitmore leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “That’s power, son.”

  Hugo considered his options. He liked chaos, and it had served him well in life.

  That is, up until he was caught and sentenced and thrown in Stateville.

  Maybe it was time to try something new.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want your allegiance. I want to be able to ask you to do something, and consider it done. In return, you get my protection, along with special benefits. Food. Cash. Contraband. And most of all, you get the thing you want most.” Whitman grinned, showing off a gold tooth. “Power.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Hugo said.

  1994

  After six months inside, Hugo had put on thirty pounds of muscle. Much of it was pressing weights; when stuck in limbo at the Hell Hotel, you fought against time by fighting against gravity. Lifting had been a way to ease the boredom in between Whitman errands.

  The jobs had been mostly easy. Standing guard during a deal. Dropping off a package. Sodomizing a squealer. Acting the carry. The bulls cracked down hard on weapons, but Whitman insisted that one of his men always carry a shiv. The carry changed day to day, until Hugo just stopped turning over the duty and kept the blade. If he was caught, he’d deal.

  Whitman considered him fearless. But to Hugo it was calculated risk. If shit went down, he wanted to be the one packing.