“No.”
“No God? No heaven? No nothing?”
“This is it,” Phin said. “Nothing comes after.”
The man coughed, his lips scarlet. “Used to go to church, back in the day. Keep seeing all that fire and brimstone and shit waiting for me. Mama said ain’t gonna amount to no good. Gonna go to hell.”
“You’re not going to hell,” Phin told him. “You’re getting out of hell.”
Number 16 smiled. “Heh. Killed by a goddamn comedian. What’s your name, funny man?”
“Phin.”
The crowd began to chant. “Matarlo! Matarlo!”
“Name is Darnell. What they yelling?”
“They want me to finish you off.”
“You gonna?”
Phin dropped his spear. “No.” He pressed his hand to his own belly, which was bleeding heavily, then sank to his knees.
The gong rang, and three guards began to walk toward them. Their machineguns were raised.
Darnell spat blood into the sand, then laughed. “Stabbed a dude in the stomach, once. Knew it hurt this bad, woulda shot homeboy instead.”
Two guards pointed their weapons at Phin, one placed the barrel of his against Darnell’s temple.
“What a waste of a life,” Darnell said. “I hope you’re right, funny man, and there’s no hell. If there is, be seeing you.”
Phin made himself watch as the guard pulled the trigger. Darnell slumped over, eyes still open.
The gun was then turned on Phin.
In the balcony, Lucy whispered something to Luther.
Luther lifted a hand—
—extending a thumbs up.
Phin was yanked to his feet, to fight another day.
After being marched back to his cell, Phin was given a wrapped suture and several pills along with his six pack.
“Antibiotics,” said the guard wearing Phin’s boots.
The door was slammed. Phin crawled into the corner, his back against the bars.
“You’re looking pretty bad,” Kiler told him. “How about you give me that beer? You won’t enjoy it anyway.”
Phin popped the first beer, pouring it onto his stomach laceration.
“Aw, shit!” Kiler said. “That’s just a fucking waste!”
The second beer, Phin pounded in just a few gulps. Then he stared at his dislocated pinky, jutting out at a right angle, and before his mind talked him out of it Phin grabbed the digit and shoved it back into place.
Phin’s screaming was interrupted by his stomach turning over, expelling the beer he’d just drank onto the ground.
“That’s two you wasted, you asshole!” Kiler rattled his bars. “Pass those other four over here.”
Phin drank the third beer, managing to keep it down, and then unwrapped the suture and stared at his stomach. Stitching himself up proved harder than he expected. Not because of the pain, though it was substantial. But because it wasn’t easy to get the needle through. Skin was tougher than he would have guessed, and there was much pulling and stretching. He finally managed to do a Frankenstein patch of eight large stitches, and then he sat back and took the antibiotics, which were in a plastic bottle along with a few Advil.
Kiler continued to antagonize him, but Phin tuned him out, closing his eyes, focusing on Jack and Sam because if he didn’t he was sure he would start screaming and not be able to stop.
JACK
St. Louis
I should have flown.
Tequila slept for four hours. Katie put in some ear buds and avoided conversation altogether. And Herb the potbellied pig ate half of Harry’s carpeting and two pillows, pooped it all out, and ate it again. He also kept nudging and snorting at my feet with his wet nose.
“Pigs root,” Harry said. “They’re naturally curious, and dig for the sake of digging. That’s why I got him the rooting trough.”
Apparently the rooting trough was a large tray of dirt that was supposed to satisfy Herb’s digging instinct.
Herb ate all the dirt. Then he pooped it out and ate it again.
Watching the pig’s dining routine, I vowed to never eat ham again. In fact, veganism was looking better and better. I’d never seen a carrot or a soybean eat its own dung.
As we approached the outskirts of St. Louis, Katie removed her headphones and made her way to the Crimebago’s front seat. Harry referred to the area as the cockpit, for obvious rude reasons. Herb began to oink, nudging me with his wet nose, demanding to have his head scratched. I did so, while trying to listen to what Katie was saying.
“The Kansas City route is quicker. You should go west.”
“GPS says Oklahoma City.”
“I’ve gone both routes. KC also has a shooting range I like. It would be good to get in some practice.”
“I’m pretty sure Oklahoma has shooting ranges.”
“Look, McGlade, KC is closer, and if I don’t get out of this RV and away from this pig I’m going to start screaming at the top of my lungs and not stop until my throat closes up.”
“Kansas City it is.”
Looking smug in victory, Katie came back into the cabin and sat across from me on the sofa. She was a few inches lower than me because Herb Bacondict had eaten her seat cushion.
“What do you shoot?” I asked before she could put her headphones back on.
Katie reached for her duffle bag, which was in an overhead compartment and out of the pig’s snacking range, and set it on the floor. When Herb snuffled it, she gave him a firm slap on the thigh and said, “No!”
Herb oinked, then began to gnaw on the handle to the refrigerator.
Katie unzipped the bag and removed a walnut gun box. She handed it over. I opened the lid and whistled, staring at a .357 Colt King Cobra. Blue steel with black Pachmayr grips. I took it out of the form-fitting velvet and swung out the cylinder, staring at six rounds of Hydra-Shok expanding bullets.
“Hunting for bear?”
“When I shoot something, I want it to drop. Bear, mountain lion…” Her eyes crinkled. “Pig.”
I glanced at Herb Bacondict, who had managed to pull open the refrigerator door, and had discovered a cardboard box of leftover pizza. Which he was eating, box and all.
“Shot a lot of pigs?” I asked.
“Only thing I’ve ever shot is paper targets. I actually picked that up after reading about you. Do you still carry that Colt Detective Special?”
I hid my wince. That was still a sore spot. “It was damaged a while back. I’ve got a Python now.”
A corner of Katie’s mouth turned up. “Revolvers never jam. Fewer working parts means fewer chances for the weapon to fail. You can’t lose the magazine, you can cock it for an easier trigger pull, and you’ll never leave the safety on, because it doesn’t have a safety.” She leaned closer to me. “You said that. To a reporter, in 1989. It was one of the first times you were in the newspaper.”
I remembered the case, which was the first of my encounters with an elusive killer named Mr. K.
“You dig that up at the library?”
“No. I read the article when it came out.”
Katie must have been older than she looked. Or a really precocious child. It had been in a feature done on female cops for USA Today, and they’d been particularly focused on what we carried.
“I’m surprised you remember it.”
She shrugged. “I read everything I could when I was younger. That was my escape.”
“Is that why you became a writer?”
“To escape? Or because I liked to read?”
“Either.”
“No.”
She didn’t elaborate, reaching for the gun and box and tucking them away.
“So why do you write?”
“I like closure. Life is an ongoing story, and some parts of it are never resolved. Books have endings. I… I find comfort in the fact that things end.”
I sensed there was more, but Katie seemed to be keeping her guard up.
“You told me this w
as personal for you,” I said. “What is your interest in Luther Kite?”
Pain flashed across her face, and vanished just as quickly. She stayed silent.
“Family?” I prodded.
Katie nodded, just barely.
“When?”
“It’s been a long time,” she said after a dozen silent seconds. “A very long time. But some pain… it never goes away.”
“I know what that’s like,” I said. “I’ve lost people. My fiancée. My ex-husband.”
“I never talk about it.” Katie put her bag back in the overhead. Herb the pig was noisily eating a plastic jar of mayonnaise. One of those big gallon jars found at Costco. I wondered why McGlade needed that much mayo, and then decided some things were best left unknown.
“Keeping things bottled up isn’t healthy,” I told Katie.
“He seems healthy,” Katie pointed her chin at Tequila. “And he keeps everything bottled up.”
“I’m an open book,” Tequila said, surprising me by being awake.
“No secrets, huh?” Katie asked.
Tequila shook his head. “Jack’s right. Keeping things bottled up is bad.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he answered.
“So tell me, then,” Katie went on, “how many people have you killed?”
“Forty-eight.”
Whoa. That was a lot higher than I would have guessed.
“And you’ve shared this with someone else?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Shrink? Priest?” Katie raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”
“Dog,” Tequila said.
For some reason, I hadn’t pictured Tequila as a dog owner. “What kind?”
“Neo Mastiff. Her name is Rosalina.” Tequila sat up and looked pointedly at me. “She’s staying with a friend right now. My friend’s name is Thelma Erno. E-R-N-O. She lives in Rogers Park.”
“That your sweetheart?” Katie asked.
“We see each other sometimes. She tolerates the dog, but isn’t a dog person.”
“Does she know you killed forty-eight people?”
Tequila laid back down and closed his eyes. “No.”
Katie folded her wiry arms across her chest. “I thought the point was to share things with one another.”
“I do share things,” Tequila said. “With my dog.”
“The albino Smurf has the right idea,” Harry said from the front seat. “Pets are the perfect sounding board. They’re always there. They always listen. They never judge. For example, I told Herb Bacondict all about my addiction to clown porn.”
“You’ve told everybody about your addiction to clown porn,” I said. “I’ve seen you stop random strangers on the street to tell them about your addiction to clown porn.”
“Clown porn?” Katie asked. “Like with face painting and rainbow wigs?”
“Rainbow wigs are pure sex,” Harry said. “And any shoe size over 22 give me a rager.”
“That’s… disturbing,” Katie said.
“Does anyone want to see the pics on my phone?”
We said no simultaneously.
“How about you, Grumpy?”
“No.”
“How about your six little dwarf buddies? Would they like that?”
“Would you like two prosthetic hands?”
“See, that negative attitude is what I’m talking about, white Gary Coleman. I try to share something, and I’m met with disapproval and threats of bodily harm. And how did you even know it’s a prosthetic? This thing is state of the art. They guaranteed me no one could tell the difference between my fake hand and a real hand.”
“Real hands don’t make a whirring, robotic noise when they open and close,” I opined.
“Also, the shade is off,” Tequila said.
Harry made a face. “Herb Bacondict doesn’t judge me like you guys are doing now. You need to be more accepting of others, people. Take some lessons from the pig.”
The pig was eating his own feces again.
“Pass,” I said.
Katie put her ear buds back in and cranked up the music. Tequila’s breathing slowed, indicating he’d gone back to sleep.
Herb Bacondict found a wrapped pound of butter in the fridge, and swallowed it in two large bites.
“That can’t be healthy,” I told the pig.
“Soo-wee!” Herb answered.
I couldn’t tell if he agreed with me or not. Probably not, because the next thing he ate was a plastic bottle of mustard.
I glanced at Katie. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. She looked peaceful.
I believed her when she said the only things she’d ever shot were paper targets. But I wondered how long that would remain true if we found Luther Kite.
This was a woman with demons in her past.
But then, who didn’t have demons? I had too many to count.
There’s an old joke that life is 100% fatal, and no one gets out alive.
No one gets out unhurt, either. Everybody gets wounded. Physically, and emotionally.
Herb Bacondict snuffled my knees, and I rested my hand on his stubbly head and scratched behind his ears.
“We’re all going to be hurt,” I told him. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Then I leaned back and tried not to think about Phin.
And failed.
PHIN
Somewhere in Mexico
Hey! Hey, asshole!”
Phin opened his eyes. He’d been dreaming about Jack, slow dancing with her to an old Tom Waits song, and could still feel the warmth of her cheek against his, her scent clinging to him.
That was quickly replaced by the smell of body odor and human waste as the reality of his situation came crashing back at him.
“I’m talking to you, asshole.”
Phin sat up on his bed roll and faced the cell opposite his. Glaring at him from behind the bars was a giant of a man, at least six and a half feet tall, three hundred pounds easy. His shirt was off, revealing a decade’s worth of crude jailhouse tattoos, mostly of the white supremacist variety.
“I told you to give me your beer if you won,” Kiler said. “You give me the beer, and when we face off I’ll kill you quick. Now I’m gonna drag it out. Make you hurt for a long time.”
Phin laid back down.
“Don’t ignore me, asshole! You want me to fuck you before I kill you? I’ll do it. Right in the middle of the arena, with everyone watching. What do you think your odds are against me? Ten to one? Twenty to one? I’m gonna make you my bitch.”
Phin figured twenty to one was about right. Kiler was big enough to be a professional wrestler, and unlike the other dozen or so men who were locked up in this hellhole, he seemed to actually be enjoying himself. On his cheek, under his right eye, were nine tattooed tears. Jailhouse tats. Each one represented a man Kiler had killed.
Or kiled.
“What’s your name, punk?” Kiler asked.
Phin knew better than to antagonize the gigantic psychopath that he’d eventually wind up having to fight, but his mood had been soured by being rudely awoken.
“Sheldon Liebowitz,” Phin said.
“That some kinda Jew name? I hate Jews. Hate them even worse than the stinky spics in this dump. You a Jew?”
“Half Jewish, half African-American,” Phin said. “My middle name is Tupac.”
Kiler unleashed a tirade of hate speech, which wasn’t as narrow-minded as Phin expected because his word usage was so limited.
When the large man finally calmed down, Phin said, “You spelled killer wrong on your stomach.”
“What?”
Phin figured Kiler never knew that, because no one ever had the guts to tell him to his face.
“Killer is spelled with two Ls, dummy.”
“No it ain’t.”
“Double L. They must have kicked you out of grammar school before you learned that.”
“I wasn’t kicked out,” Kiler said. “I just didn’t wanna go n
o more.”
“You should have stayed. Because that’s not all that’s wrong. That swastika on your neck is facing the wrong way. The way you’ve got it says you hate Nazis.”
Kiler’s eyes widened. “Does not.”
“You know how an upside down cross means you’re a Satanist? A backwards swastika means you think all men are equal.”
Kiler touched his neck. “That ain’t true! Take it back!”
“You know it’s true,” Phin said. “You claim you hate Jews, but you told me yourself that you want to have sex with me. In front of the whole arena. You’re obviously a Jew-lover. I bet you want to move to Israel.”
Kiler stretched his enormous arms through the bars, his biceps so big they almost didn’t fit, in an effort to reach Phin.
“Dead! You’re dead, Jew boy!”
As Kiler screamed in rage, Phin closed his eyes and tried to focus on Jack’s face. The tilt of her chin. The curve of her cheeks. The smile lines around her eyes. He remembered a night, not long after Samantha had been born, holding her at three in the morning to stop her from crying, Jack taking the baby from him just as Sam threw up all over her. Jack passed her back to Phin and she puked again. They both began laughing so hard they started to cry.
Phin had resolved himself to dying, years ago when he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The cancer was now in remission, but Phin no longer had the ability to look death in the face and spit in its eye. He wanted to get old with the woman he loved. He wanted to see his daughter grow up. He’d gotten a second chance.
Now he wanted a third one.
The guard came in, short and Mexican and smelling of Old Spice, and read off a clipboard in Spanglish.
“Número diecisiete…”
Seventeen. That was Phin.
“Y doce.”
Twelve.
Phin thought he knew who that was. Some college kid, built like a football player.
His cell door opened.
For some odd reason, Phin thought about the wedding ring he’d given his wife. The inscription inside the band.
For forever and beyond.
When Phin had written that, he’d meant that his love for Jack would outlive him.
Mexico was doing its damnedest to test that hypothesis.
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 13