Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Outside. Digging.”

  The screen door was open, so Tucker yelled, “Yo! Garrett! You’re up!” He had another swig of beer. “What game?”

  “Pop Cutie! Street Fashion Simulation.”

  Tucker snorted. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s Japanese. You design clothing and put it in a catalog.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”

  Chad paused and peered up over his glasses at Tucker. “What’s your favorite game?”

  “Super Mario Brothers.”

  “Where you’re an Italian plumber who jumps on walking mushrooms while you break bricks with your head to collect coins.”

  Tucker gave him the finger, then yelled again for Garrett.

  Garrett McConnroy entered the cottage via the patio. He wore shades, jeans shorts, and dirty leather work gloves. His trademark Kool cigarette hung on his lower lip, threatening to fall out of his mouth.

  “How’s the hole?” Tucker asked.

  “Holey.” Garrett sucked in some smoke, blew it out. “We need a backhoe.”

  “Take it up with Eddie. He pays for all your shit, doesn’t he?”

  “You mean Eddie’s rich daddy,” Chad said without looking up from his game. “He’s the one that gave him the family business.”

  “Where is Eddie?” Tucker asked. He checked the bank of monitors in the kitchen. Eight of them, each one with a dedicated closed-circuit camera. They were serious about their privacy, and the property was under twenty-four hour surveillance, including night-vision.

  Of course, they didn’t record any video. The point was to see who was coming and going, not to keep any records.

  “He’s on the dock,” Garrett said, taking off his gloves.

  Tucker looked for a dock camera, and didn’t see one.

  “Why can’t I see the pier on the monitor?” he asked.

  Garrett pointed. “Because all you have to do is look out the goddamn patio window.”

  The window did have a clear and obvious view of the pier. Tucker gave him the finger as Garrett walked by. He watched Garrett walk right past the bathroom.

  “Aren’t you going to shower?”

  “Did you?”

  Fair point.

  “Maybe we should make it Club rules,” Tucker suggested. “Always shower first.”

  “Whatever.”

  Tucker killed his beer, got up, and asked Chad if he needed one. Chad declined. Tucker got him one anyway, and one for himself, then walked onto the patio through the sliding security doors.

  The day was glorious. Blue sky, eighty degrees, and almost a whole lake to themselves.

  This was party weather. Beer-drinking hell-raising weather.

  Tucker took a deep gulp of Minnesota air and held it in his lungs, tasting the pines.

  There were many pines on the property.

  Every time they came up, they planted even more. They laid claim to twenty of them so far. They provided good shade, and served a good purpose.

  Thank you, Mother Nature.

  It was summer, and they were on another vacation. Eddie’s father, a very wealthy son of a bitch who liked his privacy, had bought this cabin on Lake Violet seven years ago, along with half of the shoreline land. Theirs was the only cottage on the east side of the lake. For the last seven years, old friends Tucker, Chad, Garrett, and Ed had come up here. Sometimes bringing girls with. Sometimes going stag and finding women in the nearby town of Danburn. Either way, it was always one hell of a good time. Fishing, drinking, tanning.

  The lifestyle of the young and spoiled.

  Eddie Cline was down on the pier, lying on a chaise lounge next to a cooler full of beer and melted ice. He had one of those silly reflector things resting on his chest that helped tan the bottom of the face. Tucker walked over to him.

  “Hey dumbass, I thought I smelled something burning. It was your skin cells.”

  Eddie glanced at him from behind his expensive sunglasses and flashed his perfect orthodontic work.

  “Hey, Tucker. Seen my smokes?”

  “No. Your buddy Garrett has some.”

  “He smokes menthols, man. Those things are bad for your lungs.”

  “So buy some more, rich boy.”

  Eddie nodded. “I was thinking we go into town tonight, see if we can find a good time.”

  Tucker shotgunned his beer and set the empty on the pier. He reached for one from Ed’s cooler and popped it open.

  “I think I’ll stay here with Julie tonight. Take the others if you want.”

  “Oooh, lover boy wants some time alone with the chick. Tell me, Tucker. Is it love?”

  Tucker gave him the finger.

  Eddie pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looked at Tucker over the lenses. Both began to laugh at the same time.

  “How’s she doing anyway?” asked Eddie as the chuckles died down.

  “Okay when I left her. Garrett’s with her now.”

  “You’re not afraid Garrett is gonna try something with your girl, are you, Tucker?”

  Tucker grinned wickedly. “Go to hell.”

  On the half of the Lake that Eddie’s father didn’t own, there was a speedboat pulling two water-skiers. Tucker watched them for a while.

  “I think I’ll take a swim,” he said.

  “Work up a sweat with Julie?” said Eddie.

  Tucker poured some beer on his friend’s head. Eddie punched him in the hip.

  “To The Club,” Tucker said.

  Eddie raised his beer. “To The Club.”

  They clinked, drank, and Tucker poured the backwash on Eddie, then took off down the pier and dove into the water.

  It was cool and dark, and tasted like a clean lake should taste. Tucker found the bottom, which was only ten feet deep or so, and snatched a handful of sand. He brought it up to the surface and rubbed it into his palms.

  His grandfather told him many years ago that sand was the best soap in the world. Rub your hands in sand and water and any stain will come out.

  Tucker took a couple of strokes outward, then turned and headed for the pier again. He wanted an inner tube, and more beer. There was a faint westward breeze and the waves lap-lapped against the shore like suckling calves. He swam until his feet found the bottom, and then walked over to a beached tube that he had been using the day before.

  Tucker paddled back out with that, kicking behind it like a child taking swimming lessons, and pulled himself into a sitting position in the center of the tube. The sun felt good on his forehead, and he remembered the beer. The pier was twenty yards away.

  Screw it, he was too comfortable.

  Eddie got out of his chaise lounge and walked to the house, past the pricey waterski boat docked to the pier. He wanted to eat something, preferably something sugary and unhealthy. Chad was in the kitchen, drinking a beer and playing his DS.

  “How’s that stupid game?”

  “In the middle of a fashion battle.”

  Eddie didn’t get it. “What’s the point?”

  “What’s the point of anything?”

  Eddie checked the fridge and found some supermarket jelly donuts. He took out the box. With all the beer he’d been drinking, he didn’t need a donut. But what the hell. He only got to hang out with his old high school buds a few times a year. He’d hit the gym when he got home.

  There was a cry from the bedroom. “Garrett’s taking a turn?”

  Chad nodded, then held out his hand for a donut. Eddie handed him one, then popped one in his own mouth. The grape jelly was cold.

  Another scream from the bedroom.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Eddie yelled, in mock parental tones.

  “What do you think?” came Garrett’s laughing reply from the bedroom.

  “Hurry up!” Eddie yelled back. “Some people want their turn too!”

  Chad swore and slammed down his handheld game.

  “Lost the battle?”

  “Fashion,” Chad said,
“is brutal.”

  Eddie finished the donut and grabbed another.

  “Tucker is talking about changing Club rules. Showering first.”

  Eddie regarded Chad. “Makes sense. Like wiping off the gym equipment when you’re done.”

  “More like wiping it before you get on.”

  “We can put it to a vote. Tonight.”

  A sweaty Garrett trudged down the hall, breathing heavy and looking pissed.

  “Bitch bit me,” he said, holding up his knuckles. “When we gonna do her, Ed? I’m sick of her crying.”

  “Soon as we find a replacement, buddy,” said Eddie. He looked at the blood on Garrett’s knuckles and found himself getting aroused. “Maybe I’ll try to calm her down.”

  Julie was where she’d been since they’d found her hitchhiking, three days ago; tied to the bed, naked and spread-eagle. She looked much the worse for wear, with bruises almost blackening her face and cigarette burns covering a lot of her body, especially her tits. Eddie complained to Garrett about that, because then her nipples tasted like an ashtray, but Garrett was Garrett, set in his ways.

  “Hi, Julie,” said Eddie.

  Julie screamed, and Eddie smashed her across the face, hearing her jaw crack. They should have done that sooner, like they had with the one before.

  Can’t bite with a broken jaw.

  Eddie pulled down his swimsuit and straddled her face. She screamed, but it was okay because his father owned half the lake. No one would hear her. Just like no one had heard the previous twenty. And when it came time to kill her, they’d just dig a hole and plant a pine tree on top of her.

  Best. Fertilizer. Ever.

  Someone banged on the door.

  “Occupied!”

  “Figured you’d be done by now,” Chad laughed.

  “You’re a riot,” Eddie said as he pumped away.

  Julie had passed out again.

  “Hey, Julie, wake up,” Eddie slapped her face. “You never thanked us for the ride.”

  Eddie laughed as he finished, and then went to tell Chad he could go take his turn.

  PHINEAS TROUTT

  When your business is dying

  It’s an apathetic death

  When dying is your business

  You feel every dying breath.

  THE PROBLEM SOLVER

  My name is Phineas Troutt.

  On bad days, which are frequent, I think of myself as a scumbag loser drug addict who lost his last shred of humanity the day I got my cancer diagnosis. On all-too-rare good days, I consider myself a problem solver. If you have some sort of problem, like your ex-husband is threatening you, or you’re being blackmailed, or your delinquent teen joined a gang, I can help.

  Cops and licensed private investigators have rules and laws and a sense of self-preservation.

  Not me.

  I’m more like a gun. Just point… and shoot.

  CHICAGO

  MAY 2008

  PHIN

  Chicago was as good a place as any to die.

  If I had a choice I wouldn’t be dying. But that’s not up to me. The location I choose is, so when Earl invades the rest of my body and puts a halt to all of my vital processes, it’ll happen in Chicago.

  Not that I have any particular love for the city. But I’ve lived here all my life, and a change of scenery this late in the game would be pointless. You don’t start watching a movie if you know you’re just going to turn it off after the first twenty minutes.

  Besides, spring had finally come to the South Side, and even a cynical bastard like me had to admit it was pretty.

  The air was fresh and moist, tinged with a barely perceptible floral scent. Budding trees and blooming flowers and growing plants. The birds were back. The squirrels were romping around. Even the people seemed energized, subconsciously aware of the rebirth that spring represented.

  It had been a bitter, harsh winter, made all the more unbearable with chemo and radiation therapy, but I’d scraped through it.

  If I died now at least I wouldn’t die cold.

  I was on Cermak in Chinatown, looking for a birthday present for the doctor I’d been falling in love with over the past few months. So far nothing caught my eye, unless I wanted to spend fifty bucks on a bamboo plant in an ugly pot that said LUCKY LUCKY.

  That probably wouldn’t have the desired romantic effect.

  I walked past a little knick-knack boutique and peered into the window to see if anything stood out. A smiling jade Buddha waved at me. I didn’t know much about Pasha’s religious convictions, other than she didn’t follow Hinduism. Buying her a Buddha would probably open up a conversation I didn’t want to have.

  I squinted at the price tag. Too expensive anyway. I hadn’t worked in a while, so my bank account was on the low side. And by bank account I meant the cash I had on me.

  I walked on.

  “Hey, baldy.”

  Since I was bald, I turned to look. The greeting came from one of the three Chinese teenagers who had been tailing me for the last few minutes. I tried to act surprised anyway. After all, they’d put in the effort.

  “We know you,” said the tall kid in front. He was wearing gang colors, his stance loose and controlled at the same time. His accent was urban ghetto, not Asian. I blamed rap music.

  He took several bouncing steps toward me, his gang buddies flanking him on either side. They also sported the green jackets and bandannas that identified them as members of the Clan, a very small and very obnoxious entry in the gang files of Chicago.

  I’d recently put five of their little club into the hospital for running a protection racket on the local merchants. Last I heard, three of the five still had problems bending their knees.

  “You the guy that hurt Sing and Johnny,” said the tall kid. He halted his approach at punching distance and peered up at me with a scowl that he probably practiced in the mirror. He stood about 5’8”, in heels. Since he wasn’t wearing heels he was closer to 5’6”. When I said he was tall, I meant for a Chinese kid. The guys on either side each gave up an inch or two to him. But I learned a long time ago that size doesn’t matter too much in fighting. You don’t have to be tall to slit someone’s throat.

  Then again, if these kids wanted to slit my throat, they’d need a boost.

  “Answer me, baldy.”

  For a moment, I considered replying with some tough guy line. Maybe ask him if he wanted to be a DJ, because I was going to lay down some sick beats. Or tell him I couldn’t hear him from down there, maybe he should go fetch a ladder.

  But I had shopping to do, so I just hit him.

  He had decent reflexes, and managed to flinch fast enough that the punch I aimed at his nose landed on his cheek instead. It still knocked him down.

  The other two guys assumed fighting stances. I kicked the first one between the legs with my size eleven cowboy boot.

  He tried to block it with his hand, and got a broken hand for his effort. His buddy came at me with a butterfly knife, snake-quick. I side-stepped the lunge and grabbed his wrist, using his own momentum to propel him past me. Then I dropped to one knee and snapped his elbow over it. He let go of the knife and howled, staring at an arm that wasn’t supposed to bend that way.

  The tall guy got back up, a gun now in his hand. He thrust it at my head.

  Time stopped.

  I could have pivoted on my knee and used my free leg to sweep his feet out from under him.

  I could have dropped my head and lunged at his midsection under the gun.

  I might have been able to get to my feet and veer left or right, coming up on either side of him and out of the gun’s sights.

  But I didn’t.

  I didn’t do anything at all.

  I simply stared into the barrel.

  It was a semi-automatic.

  Blackened steel.

  Nine millimeter.

  The front and rear sights had been inexpertly filed down, so the gun wouldn’t get snagged on clothing during quick draw
s.

  The hammer was likewise filed.

  An old gun, scarred and scratched.

  It was pointed directly into my left eye.

  I stared into the depth of the barrel.

  My world became that tiny dark tunnel, a pinpoint of black.

  I noticed a black grease smudge on the safety.

  The gun needed cleaning.

  I stared as his knuckle flexed and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The kid looked at the gun in disbelief, then turned and ran off.

  I remained on one knee, like someone waiting to be knighted, or proposing marriage.

  I remained there, while the two other gangies scurried off, moaning over their wounds.

  I remained there, as the people who had seen the whole incident slowly came over, curious and wary. Finally, I had hands on me, helping me to my feet, asking me questions.

  I didn’t hear any of them.

  All I saw was the barrel of that gun. Inches away from my head. Deep and black. The dirty finger squeezing the trigger…

  And I had done nothing to stop it.

  Earl woke me up, stabbing me with a sharp pain that kept time with my heartbeat. I pulled my sweaty body off my bed and walked naked to the bathroom, seeking Vicodin. There were three tablets left, and I popped them on my tongue, washing them down with a swig of Sauza tequila. Prescription pain killers was one advantage of having a doctor girlfriend. Another was an unlimited supply of tongue depressors.

  I took a second swig of tequila and made a mental note to ask Pasha for a pill refill. Codeine and tequila were no substitute for cocaine, but I’d given up coke. Earl liked coke a lot. So did I. But I also liked Pasha, and she wouldn’t put up with me doing hard shit again. At this point in my dwindling lifespan, a warm body was more of a comfort to me than a nose full of blow.

  Besides, codeine seemed to lull Earl enough.

  Earl is what I named my pancreatic cancer. For some reason, giving my tumors their own identity made the disease easier to deal with. I guess because it gave me an entity to focus on, rather than just the vague notion of my body somehow turning against me.