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

by J. A. Konrath

  I thanked him, and my nice guy act dropped away like a discarded cigarette butt.

  Then I set my jaw, got in my truck, and set a straight course for revenge.

  JACK

  When the van doors opened, I knew it wasn’t Harry’s sniper.

  It was Lester and his merry band of car thieves.

  “This is me, not you,” I said to Harry. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Nine and a half. You really think that’s important right now?”

  “Trade me shoes.”

  “Your flats don’t go with my outfit.”

  “Trade me, then go around back and cover me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “They’re car thieves, not killers. I’m going to talk to them.”

  “Whatever you say, Butch.”

  Sometimes Harry called me Butch. Like Butch Cassidy, not like I had masculine attributes.

  I think.

  Harry tugged off his gym shoes—Air Jordans—and I gave him my Marc Fisher flats.

  “Don’t get blood all over them,” he said as he threw some twenties on the table. “They’re 11s.”

  “I thought you said they were nine and a half.”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot, took my flats, and headed for the back door. I quickly slipped the gym shoes on, cinched the laces tight, and walked outside just as the ski mask crew was punching an icepick into McGlade’s tires.

  Harry wasn’t going to be happy about that.

  “Hey, Lester.”

  The short guy who denied being Lester turned to look at me.

  “You’re pissed off that I helped shut down your towing operation, and that I insulted you in front of your friends. I get it.”

  “You can’t arrest me in Minnesota, bitch. Suck it. Your badge ain’t no good here.”

  “Maybe not. But this is.” I unsheathed my .38.

  Lester laughed, more bravado than mirth. “You gonna shoot us for slashing some tires?” He dropped his ice pick. “I’m not even armed.”

  “I am,” said Harry, coming up behind them.

  “Nice shoes,” said Lester.

  His crew laughed.

  “You and your boys have any guns on you?” I asked.

  No one said anything. I holstered mine, then gave each a quick pat down. No one was packing.

  I went up to Lester and tugged off his ski mask. “So what was the plan, exactly?”

  “We wanted to scare you.”

  “Do I look scared?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You knew my friend had a gun,” I told him.

  “I knew we were friends!” Harry was beaming.

  I shot him a look, then turned back to Lester. “You knew he had a gun. Didn’t you know I had a gun?”

  Lester looked frustrated when he said, “We didn’t really think that far ahead.”

  I walked over to McGlade.

  “So now what?” Lester asked. “You can’t arrest us.”

  “I’m not going to arrest you,” I told him.

  I handed Harry my gun, and my blazer. “Can you shoot video on your phone?” I asked him.

  “It’s an iPhone. It can do everything but blow me, and there’s probably an app for that.”

  “Record all of this.”

  “You got it, Butch.” He tucked my gun into his pocket, and held up his phone with his fake hand, his Magnum in the other.

  Lester started to laugh. This time it was genuine. “What, you think you can take me, bitch?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I can take all of you.”

  Lester charged at me, and I whipped a leg around and delivered a roundhouse kick to his head. While he kissed asphalt, the big guy to his left lunged. I popped him in the face, danced away from a slow jab, and then dropped down and swept his heels. He landed on his ass, and I kicked him in the side of the head, not hard enough to concuss him, but hard enough to make him think twice about continuing the fight. Then I tugged off his mask.

  “Smile pretty for the camera,” I told him.

  Two more men came up to me, on either side, and I assumed an oguryo sogi—a crouched stance—legs wide, knees bent, a fist in each hand.

  When the first guy moved in, I pivoted and unleashed a snap kick, connecting with his chin. He dropped.

  The other guy hit me from the side, connecting a haymaker with my ribs. I whipped an elbow into his cheek, then grabbed his ski mask and dropped to one knee, taking him to the pavement. I brought a hammerfist down on his face, and pulled his mask free, showing the world his bleeding teeth.

  I looked at the two still up, and they exchanged a quick glance and raised their hands.

  “We’re cool,” one of them said.

  I turned, pulled the ski mask off the guy I snap-kicked, and then walked up to Lester.

  “You got lucky,” he said, getting to his feet. “This time, I’m gonna make you squeal.”

  “Be tough to do with that bloody nose,” I said.

  “What bloody nose?”

  I leapt at him, bringing up my knee, and he raised his arms to block, leaving his head unguarded.

  I headbutted him in the face, hard enough to make my ears ring, and his nose bust like a squeezed tomato.

  Lester went down, and made no move to get back up.

  “Suck that,” I said.

  The two guys who’d stayed out of it were still holding up their hands. Everyone else was on their asses, making no move to get up.

  Four men in about thirty seconds. Not too bad.

  “Here’s how this is going to work,” I announced. “You guys leave me alone, or Harry puts this video up on YouTube. Got it?”

  Nods all around.

  And not a single shot fired.

  “I also want new tires,” Harry said.

  “Where are we supposed to get Vette tires out here?” Lester moaned.

  “You’re car thieves,” I told him. “Figure it out. Who’s got the keys to the van?”

  The man in the ski mask who said, “We’re cool” waved his hand at me.

  “We need to borrow it. We’ll bring it back here, same time tomorrow.”

  “Keep it as long as you like, chief. Technically, it’s not ours.”

  I walked over, and he handed me the keys.

  “Nice shoes,” he said, glancing down. “Air Jordans?”

  “No,” McGlade said. “They’re mine.”

  I smiled. A play of words on the possessive. Not bad, Harry.

  “C’mon, Sundance,” I said, feeling pretty damn good for the first time in a long time. “Let’s ride.”

  PHIN

  I accidentally passed Cline’s private road twice and finally had to slow down to five miles an hour to find it. The No Trespassing sign was rusted and obscured by trees, and the only evidence of a road were two faint trails that an optimist might call tire tracks. The chain across the entrance that Hal told me to look for was nowhere to be found. But, high up in a tree, was a security camera.

  I took the truck a hundred yards further down and parked, deciding to hike it to the trail and do some surveillance on foot.

  With my duffle bag in hand, I walked cautiously through the brush, careful not to trip in my cowboy boots. The forest was thick enough to blot out most of the light, making it almost perpetual dusk, except for eerie sunbeams that broke through the trees and trickled to the ground like lasers. I stayed away from the road, keeping both eyes peeled for cameras, crunching my way through twigs and leaves, staying in the shadows. After fifteen minutes of walking, I finally saw the house.

  It sort of appeared through a clearing like a mirage; first it wasn’t there, then it was. A brown ranch, with a separate brown garage, the woods seeming to swallow it up. It looked completely natural, except for one weird anomaly; a copse of a few dozen pine trees, all bunched together in a small clearing.

  They didn’t look like they’d grown there naturally, and I was immediately proven correct when I looked closer and saw two of the pines hadn’t been p
lanted yet, sitting on their burlap-wrapped root balls.

  Between the house and the garage, four vehicles.

  One of them was Tucker’s Land Rover.

  I fought the adrenaline surge.

  Run down there, blow his head off, and let’s get back to Chicago. This is getting me riled up.

  Earl made his point by throbbing even harder. I pressed my hand against my side while visions of narcotics danced in my head. I wasn’t eager to get back on codeine, and I wasn’t about to go back to cocaine, but the idea of starting up chemo and radiation therapy again, trying to rid myself of Earl for good, pleased me.

  However, running down there to blow Tucker’s head off was a ridiculously bad idea.

  I had no idea how many people were there, or if they were armed. The best thing to do was just situate myself nearby to watch and wait.

  I found a natural furrow in the ground that was kind of damp but perfect for concealment. I partially burrowed in and covered myself with surrounding dirt and leaves. Climbing a tree would make me harder to spot, but the woods there were too thick to allow me to see much. I’d have to make do with a makeshift trench.

  I was hungry, and I pulled some beef jerky from my pack to munch on as I studied the house. I had a view of the garage, part of the back porch, part of the dock, the front door, three windows, and the vehicles; a Jeep, Tucker’s Land Rover, a Nissan SUV, and a box truck.

  The front door of the house had a steel security door in front of it, metal bars in an ornate pattern. There was a camera above it. The shades were drawn on all three windows, and each had bars over them, along with cameras. The windows had a greyish tint, which probably meant the glass was interlaced with chicken wire.

  Breaking in, at least from this vantage point, wasn’t the way to go. I’d have to lure them outside.

  I could always set fire to the place. Or blow up one of their cars. The element of surprise was a substantial ally.

  But if they did have women in the house, as Eddie said in that recorded phone call, burning the place down was a no go. I could live with myself if I gave Tucker and his buddies each a big shot of lead, but I wasn’t going to hurt any women. I didn’t have many rules, but that was the one I always stuck to.

  The front door opened and a man came out. Tucker Shears. I hadn’t yet assembled my takedown rifle, the Henry AR-7, or I might have taken a shot at him. He was too far away to hit with my 9mm.

  I reached into my bag, began to screw the rifle parts together, and watched as Shears went to his Jeep and opened the passenger door, reaching inside.

  He was less than forty meters away.

  I weighed my options.

  Keep assembling the rifle?

  Watch and wait?

  Rush him with my shotgun?

  Tucker came out of the Jeep with sunglasses in his hand. He put them on and looked toward the lake.

  Rush him, Earl said.

  But I didn’t really trust Earl’s advice. After all, he was trying to kill me.

  The front door opened again. Another guy. He had a gun that looked like an Ingram submachine pistol, commonly known as a MAC-10.

  “Tucker!”

  Tucker turned toward the voice, and the guy let loose with a spray of bullets that ripped up the ground several meters in front of Tucker’s feet. Tucker jumped backwards, looking angry rather than afraid.

  The guy with the Ingram laughed.

  “You asshole!” Tucker yelled then took off after the guy, who ran back into the house. “I’m gonna shove that gun up your ass!” Tucker banged on the door, which was now locked. Then he stormed around to the front of the house, out of my line of sight.

  Boys will be boys, I guess. And idiots will be idiots.

  But that little bit of horseplay gave me an idea of their firepower. That Ingram was scary as hell. And the guy holding it had enough skill to joke around with it.

  Blowing up one of the cars might still work, if the grenade I bought wasn’t a dud. But I’d have to have an escape route planned if I didn’t nail them all. A single MAC-10 could cut the forest down, with me in it. You can’t outrun a bullet.

  I could probably wait around until they went home, follow Tucker, and kill him somewhere on the highway. That seemed the sanest and the safest of my choices so far.

  However, if there were women inside the house, I had to act. Sooner, not later.

  So what could I do?

  I could pull up to the house in my Bronco, honk the horn, shoot Tucker when he came outside, then take off. But a car chase through the woods when they had a machinegun didn’t sound like a smooth plan.

  Wait until the cover of night?

  They could follow my muzzle flash. And for all I knew, the cameras had night vision.

  I rolled options around in my noggin and kept up the watch. During the next two hours I saw two more guys; one who went to the garage to get lawn chairs, and another who began digging a hole in the copse of pine trees. Both were around Tucker’s age, and both had enough muscle tone to make me think twice before I signed up to be their sparring partners.

  At noon, Tucker and the guy who brought out the chairs dragged a large Weber grill from the garage and began to make the preparations for a barbecue. Knowing they’d stick around for a while, I carefully extracted myself from the ditch, stretched to work blood into all of my cramped muscles, and eased out of my hiding spot and through the forest, back to my Bronco.

  I knew what to do.

  There were cameras everywhere. The trail. The house. The garage.

  But not the pier.

  The pier was the answer. I believed this was a puzzle I could solve.

  I just needed one more piece.

  HARRY

  “Now what?” I asked.

  After the diner parking lot show when Jack had gone Van Damme on Marky Mark and the Hugga Bunch (how’s that for random pop culture references?), I grabbed some gear from the Vette and we drove the van to Edward Cline’s house in Minneapolis—

  —finding it empty, with a For Sale sign in front, no sign of any Jeep.

  “If he moved, he left a forwarding address,” Jack said. “We can track it.”

  “You mean the Feebies can track it. Post Office won’t give out that info without a warrant, which we’re not going to get because we’re not Minneapolis PD.”

  “Let’s try his neighbors. You want your shoes back first?”

  I wiggled my toes in Jack’s flats. “Naw. I’m good.”

  We knocked on a few doors, asking if they knew where Cline moved. Out of the five houses we tried only one person was home, and she had no idea where he went.

  “Newspapers,” Jack said. “Or cable TV. Or the electric company. If he moved, he forwarded his services.”

  “You’re thinking like a PI,” I told her. “Maybe you’ve got a future in my biz. I was considering taking on a partner.”

  “No way. Never.”

  “Never say never. You don’t know what the future holds, Jackie. We might have all sorts of fun adventures together over the next decade or two.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Harry.”

  I wouldn’t hold my breath, but I had a feeling I was right.

  As I called up the local papers, Jack tried local cable providers. Good ideas, but we came up empty. When Jack tried Xcel Energy, which provided electricity to the area, the operator asked for a password.

  “This would take me one phone call in Chicago,” she said, clearly irritated.

  “We could try Garrett’s place,” I said. “You have his address?”

  Garrett McConnroy lived an hour south.

  No one was home. No Jeep parked there.

  “Call Fatso,” I said. “I’m out of ideas.”

  Jack called Herb, who didn’t seem happy to be asked to find Cline’s new address.

  “Offer him buffalo wings,” I suggested. “I bet he’d do anything for buffalo wings. Or the whole buffalo. Promise him the whole beast, with a pool full of cool ranch dressing.”
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  She didn’t offer him that.

  While waiting for Herb to call back, we got coffee at a nationwide chain. Jack got hers black. I got a caramel mochaccino latte with vanilla and extra whipped cream, because I’m fun.

  It tasted like Stage II diabetes. I threw it away.

  Herb eventually called Jack back, and we found out Edward Cline had moved to a house on the same block as his old house. So back to Minneapolis we went.

  “Van is getting low on gas,” I said. “Should we fill it up for the car thieves?”

  Jack didn’t respond. She didn’t have a sense of fun like I did.

  An hour later, we were at Cline’s new house.

  No Cline. No Jeep.

  “I’m out of ideas,” Jack said. “Where could Cline have taken the women?”

  I called Jasper, the doorman. The Jeep hadn’t returned.

  “I could try the secretary at Plantasy Zone again,” I suggested. “She said she didn’t know where Cline went on vacation, but maybe with the proper application of flattery, bribery, and threats…”

  “Vacation,” Jack said, snapping her fingers. “That picture you took, of Cline, McConnroy, and Shears.” We knew it was Shears because Herb had emailed the guy’s mugshot. “Maybe they went to that place on the lake.”

  “Minnesota is the Land of 10,000 Lakes,” I said, repeating their state motto. “You want to search the upper five thousand, I’ll take the lower?”

  Jack frowned. “If this was Illinois, maybe we could trace it. Search for property owned by Cline. Or Shears. Or McConnroy. Local tax accessor, or a deed search.”

  “It would still be tough. If you searched by theirs surnames, assuming they’re staying someplace that they own, you’d have to go county by county, and I’m sure there is more than one person named Cline who owns a house on a lake. And what if they’re renting? Or the fourth guy owns it?”

  “Fourth guy?” Jack asked.

  “There are three of them in the picture. Someone must have taken it.”

  Jack’s face, so jubilant since the diner fight, sank like a box of rocks. “We failed.”

  “We didn’t fail. It’s just a setback.”

  “We don’t know where Cline or McConnroy are.”