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

by J. A. Konrath

  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 pist
ol 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 speed 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.

  I brushed some broken glass off my shirt, and began picking it out of my bandages while looking for the dart gun. Kenny had come out of his little bullet proof booth and was running around the parking lot yelling at no one in particular. I’m sure it was only a matter of minutes before the cops came and hauled the garbage away.

  I found the dart gun lying under a Mazda, and stuck it in my pants. The gun, not the Mazda. Then I began a distasteful but necessary task. Since I didn’t want these punks to be waiting for me every time I turned a corner, I had a choice.

  I could either kill them, as promised, or put them out of commission for a while.

  So I broke all of their fingers.

  It was a hands-off job, and not too difficult while wearing cowboy boots. I stomped on sixty fingers in all. It would have been seventy, but Zipgun took care of his own fingers by blowing all of them off. Well, all except one, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to break that.

  It would be quite a while before they were able to come at me again, unless they learned how to twirl nunchaku with their dicks.

  By then the cops were arriving, so I went to my motel room to figure out my next move.

  JACK

  Back in Chicago, we stopped at an Irish bar near the precinct house. Not a real Irish bar; the fake kind that served overpriced potato skins and had old sports equipment nailed to the walls. But they served black and tans, and that was good enough for us.

  During my third beer with Herb, Latham called.

  “Are we on for tonight?” he asked.

  Going on a date was the last thing I wanted to do. That required an effort. I was more in the mood to curl up in bed, alone, with a few more beers, maybe some delivery pizza, and an exciting evening of Home Shopping Network, staring at things I couldn’t afford.

  “Hon, I’m really not feeling it tonight.”

  “You sick?”

  “No. Work stuff.”

  “You want to talk about it? I can come over with some beer and a pizza.”

  “I’m really not up for that,” I told him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I hung up.

  “You’re pushing him away,” Herb opined. My partner and friend freely offered advice without being asked, but a couple of drinks made him more eager to do so.

  “Herb, we just got one of the biggest cases we’ve ever had taken away from us. I don’t want to talk about my love life.”

  “So talk about it with Latham.”

  Here we go again. “Do you discuss the Job with Bernice?”

  “No way.”

  “You don’t see the hypocrisy there?”

  “Bernice doesn’t want to hear about it. Latham does.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk about the case.”

  “I thought we were talking about Latham.”

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

  “Fair enough.” Herb stood, took out his wallet, and threw some cash on the table. “I’m gonna go home, have sex with my wife, and fire up the BBQ. You’re welcome to come over.”

  “I don’t think of your wife in that way.”

  “For dinner, smartass. Latham is welcome, too. We invite you guys over all the time, you never come. Is it my cooking?”

  Herb’s cooking wasn’t very good. “Your cooking is fine. I just hate making the trip to and from the burbs
. Especially after one of your drunken barbeques. You okay to drive?” I was feeling the booze.

  “I weigh a hundred pounds more than you. Plus alcohol effects women harder than it does men. How much time off you got coming?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. A few weeks.”

  “Same here. I think I’ll take a week. It’ll do me, and my marriage, good. Call me if you’re coming by.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks for the invite.”

  Herb left knowing there was no way I was going to his house later.

  Or maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe it was an earnest invitation, and he was hoping I’d show up. We could eat his mediocre BBQ, then do something common and banal, like play Scrabble or Yahtzee.

  That’s what people did, wasn’t it? When they weren’t pushing away others and feasting on their own self-loathing?

  The waitress came by, an upbeat little thing who had a lot of empty holes in her lip, nose, and face, probably because corporate wouldn’t let her wear facial jewelry. I ordered another black and tan, and some potato skins. When in Rome.

  That’s when he walked in. Lester Warknuckle. The height-challenged car thief misogynist bully who ratted out his friends.

  Except they must have forgiven him, because he was with three of them.

  They were seated across the room and hadn’t seen me yet. My waitress stopped by their table, and they said something to her and snickered. When she walked away she didn’t look nearly as upbeat as she had a moment earlier. And when she came by a few minutes later with my drink, her eyes were red.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Got a bad table.”

  “You talk to your manager?”

  “They’re just jerks. I can handle it. Your skins will be out soon.”

  She left. I glanced at Lester, who had finally noticed me. He saw me staring and grinned. Then he gave me the finger.

  I got up. I had a thing about bullies.

  He lost his smile as I approached. I took my badge case from out of my blazer pocket, hanging it around my neck on a cord. By the time I was standing next to his table, I could see the fear in his eyes.

  “Hi, Lester. You guys out celebrating something?”