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

by J. A. Konrath

  Hugo wanted to call bullshit. He wondered if the entire Caucasian Nation was just a bunch of loosely affiliated cracker assholes run by some rich teenager in his mom’s basement. The CN supposedly had members in the military, in big business, in local, state, and national government, in the unions, in the churches. But the only examples of White Nationalism that Hugo ever saw were the infrequent drunken rallies where skinheads moshed on each other to Nazi songs played by some shitty death metal band.

  Still, he kept quiet. Why rock the boat? The CN paid Hugo, stayed out of his way, and every so often gave him something interesting to do.

  Like the latest mission.

  A St. Louis journalist. Wrote a political opinion column, some commie liberal nonsense. Politics bored Hugo as much as religion did; it was just a bunch of self-important assholes telling others how they should live. While many seemed to find comfort in rules, and sought the company of those who shared those same values, Hugo found it all to be ridiculous. Insecure people bonding over silly shared beliefs.

  Which, in essence, was the same snake oil the CN offered.

  Hugo wasn’t educated, having dropped out of school his fifth year, but that didn’t make him stupid.

  He was told to make the death messy, and to make it look like it was done by Jews.

  How the hell was he supposed to do that? Leave a Star of David on the body? And wasn’t this guy supposedly a member of the Zionist Occupational Media, which meant he worked for Jews?

  It was stupid.

  He called Packer for advice, and General Gym Teacher told Hugo to spray-paint Holocaust Denier on the man’s door.

  “They get uppity when you deny the Holocaust,” Packer told him.

  Hugo bought spray paint, work gloves, a rain poncho, and a sledgehammer, stole a car from some idiot who was loading groceries into his car and not paying attention to his surroundings, and then tailed the journalist leaving work. When the writer stopped at an empty intersection—seriously, what kind of fool obeys stop signs when there isn’t anyone else around—Hugo gunned it and rear-ended him.

  Then the man got out of his car to check the damage. Hugo got out, wielding a sledgehammer. A chased ensued. Hugo chased after him with the sledgehammer. It only took twenty meters for the guy who worked out for two hours every day to catch the guy who sat behind a desk. Hugo hit him so many times that the corpse was only recognizable as human by its shoes. He ditched the blood-soaked rain poncho and gloves, fetched the spray paint, and spent about a minute trying to figure out how to spell the word Holocaust.

  It didn’t matter, because the paint can top could only be removed with a screwdriver, which Hugo didn’t have. He tried squeezing it, and did smash the plastic, but that also ruined the nozzle so it wouldn’t spray right. Hugo gave up, threw the can as far as he could, and jogged back to the trailer.

  Packer said the higher-ups weren’t impressed by the Jewish evidence Hugo hadn’t left behind. Hugo didn’t give a shit, and explained that if he wasn’t approved for his fifth tear, he was quitting the organization.

  He didn’t mention that if he quit, he’d hunt down every CN member and kill them all. But Packer apparently noticed that he wasn’t fooling around.

  Hugo had a tear the next day.

  He also got a package in the mail. Rather than useless money and books, this one contained something interesting.

  A straight razor.

  It was old, a patina on the black handle. Etched onto the blade were the SS lightning bolts, and A. Göth.

  Hugo was curious enough to look the name up at the library. Amon Leopold Göth was the commander of the Kraków-Plaszów concentration camp. Though he ran the place, with the ability to order around subordinates, he still would personally beat, torture, and kill many of the prisoners.

  Hugo liked that personal touch. He also liked the razor, and Göth became his constant companion.

  Tear #6

  ZOG is for Zionist Occupational Government

  Three years passed before his next mission.

  Hugo continued to play his phone book game, adding scars to his shin. The rat problem in his trailer escalated until one of them bit Hugo on the toe, and then he burned down his trailer and waited outside with a shovel. He managed to smash twelve of them as they fled the flames.

  He moved into another trailer, this one rat-free, and the acne on his back—a side-effect of steroid abuse—became so bad that Hugo began using a bike chain to scrape it off.

  Packer called after months of zero contact, saying there was a rally, and attendance was mandatory.

  Hugo drove to Illinois in a rental car, and when he arrived Packer took him under the stadium to meet an unassuming white guy who wore what looked like a postal worker uniform. He held a beat-up metal case, the kind that had combination locks on the latches. They went into the tunnels, to a room sealed off with plastic fumigation tarps hanging from the ceiling via duct tape.

  “In there is your sixth assignment, Hugo.”

  Hugo took a step toward the tarp, but Packer grabbed his arm. “We need it done a specific way.”

  “What way?”

  The mailman guy set the metal case on an old chair, dialed in the combinations, and opened the lid. He took out three gas masks, handing one to Hugo and one to Packer. Then he put on some nytril gloves.

  “Hugo, meet the Chemist. We’ve hired him to cook something up for us.”

  The Chemist gave Hugo some gloves, then reached into the foam-lined case and took out—

  —a bottle of eye drops.

  “What do you know about sarin?” the Chemist asked.

  “That’s what those Jap terrorists used, in the subway,” Packer said. “It’s a chemical weapon.”

  “On March 20, 1995, the cult Aum Shinrikyo released sarin nerve agent on two separate occasions, killing twenty-one people and injuring thousands more. One drop can kill twenty people. It can kill by being absorbed by the skin, the eyes, or being inhaled.”

  “One drop?” Hugo snorted. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Make a fist,” the Chemist said.

  Hugo raised up his hand, his fist the size of a ham.

  “When your brain told your muscles to flex, it used a chemical neurotransmitter, which was released via a signal through your nerves. After a neurotransmitter completes its task, your body releases an enzyme to destroy the chemical. If it didn’t, you’d keep flexing your fist, over and over, unable to stop. Nerve agents block the enzymes that destroy the neurotransmitter. In the case of sarin, it blocks acetylcholinesterase, which breaks down acetylcholine. Acetylcholine controls the parasympathetic nervous system; bodily functions like crying, sweating, drooling, pissing, shitting, digesting. When acetylcholine goes unchecked in your body, your parasympathetic nervous system kills you because it can’t shut off.”

  “How long does it take?” Packer asked.

  “There are several factors involved, but point zero one milliliters should kill a healthy adult within a few minutes.”

  “How much is that?” Packer asked.

  “A drop the size of a pinhead.”

  “I want to try it,” Hugo said.

  “Put on your mask and gloves.”

  Hugo did. The gloves were too tight, and he couldn’t get his fingers all the way in. The Chemist put on his own mask first, then helped Hugo adjust the straps on his for a snug fit.

  “One drop,” the Chemist said, holding up the eyedrop bottle. “Anywhere on the skin. Then put the cap on immediately. If you get any on you, I have some reactive skin decontamination lotion wipes. The drop should be absorbed into his skin, but sarin is incredibly volatile. It evaporates fast, going from liquid to vapor. The vapor can still get on you.”

  “It’s only a drop,” Hugo said.

  The Chemist stared at him, reminding Hugo of all the know-it-all teachers he hated during his grammar school years. Hugo felt like punching him right in his mask, but there was something disturbing about the gaze.

  It took a moment
for Hugo to figure out what it was.

  Fearlessness. Hugo intimidated everyone around him, and was used to seeing awe and fright in men’s eyes. But the Chemist seemed completely at ease.

  Which was kind of creepy.

  They walked under the tarp and approached a man duct-taped to a chair. Chubby, forties, his cheap suit damp with armpit sweat that had soaked through.

  “This is the mayor of Springhurst,” Packer said. “Mr. Mayor, are your accommodations to your liking?”

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” pleaded the mayor. “Anything at all.”

  Packer patted him on the shoulder. “Now, Marvin, there was a time and a place for that, and you didn’t want to play ball. You called our organization, and I’m quoting you here, a bunch of Nazi assholes.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “It’s too late for that. We’ve made other arrangements. But you can still be helpful to us. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be helpful?”

  “Yes. Please. I want to help in any way I can.”

  Packer nodded at Hugo, who raised the eyedrop bottle.

  “What is that? Get that away from me!”

  The mayor leaned so far back that his honor’s chair almost tilted over. Hugo uncapped the bottle—

  —and let a tiny drop fall on the man’s scalp.

  The Chemist was holding a stopwatch, and he clicked the button to start it.

  At first, nothing happened, and Hugo wondered if this whole thing was bullshit, some kind of test or prank.

  Then, after about thirty seconds, the Mayor began to shake. Hand tremors at first, then full-on convulsions. Hugo noticed the man’s pupils shrank to the size of dots.

  He began to pant.

  Then came drooling.

  Then crying. Not the sobbing kind of tears, but streams coming down his cheeks like water faucets.

  The mayor moaned, started to say something, began to cough, and then threw up.

  Hugo stared, transfixed, even as Packer and the Chemist stepped away.

  His Honor pissed himself.

  Shit himself.

  Snot began to flow as quickly as the tears, and the man’s back and arms went rigid. There was a cracking sound and Hugo realized the mayor had broken his own wrists, the bones no match for the duct tape.

  It was horrifying. And beautiful.

  Eventually, the mayor’s panting slowed to gasps for breath, and then his eyes rolled up and he was still.

  “Six minutes, forty-eight seconds,” The Chemist said.

  Then the mayor went completely rigid and screamed, the chair legs breaking as he extended his legs, and he fell to the floor and began to thrash around. More vomit, spewing like a volcano out of his mouth. He reached out to Hugo who had to actually back up to avoid being touched.

  The Chemist began timing him again, and when the mayor’s chest finally stopped heaving, he said, “Seven minutes, sixteen seconds.”

  Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Packer asked, “How much of this stuff can you make?”

  “As much as you need.”

  “So, what are you talking? A few ounces? A pint?”

  “Gallons,” the Chemist said. “Hundreds of gallons. You foot the bill, I can make a tanker truck full of the stuff.”

  The Chemist left, which was fine with Hugo because, honestly, that guy had something wrong with him. Hugo followed Packer to his shitty office, but the General’s mind seemed to be wandering.

  “He was a mayor,” Hugo stated. “A ZOG. So I get my sixth tear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So do I wait for orders for the seventh tear? Does the CN have any enemies that are babies?”

  “Huh?”

  “The seventh tear. Ri-La-Po-Ho-Zom-Zog-New-Blood. It has to be a newborn.”

  “What? Oh. No assignment for that. You’re on your own. As long as its schlammensch, and you can verify it.”

  “How. Should I take pictures?”

  General Packer’s eyes seemed to focus, and he stared at Hugo. “Pictures? You want to take pictures of killing a baby?”

  Packer seemed disgusted, which made no sense to Hugo. He didn’t make up the stupid rules for getting tears. If the CN had problems with killing newborns, they shouldn’t have made it a requirement.

  Unless, as Hugo guessed, it was meant to never be completed.

  Or maybe Packer was just freaked out about the sarin. That shit was brutal. Hugo couldn’t imagine what hundreds of gallons of that stuff could do.

  “So what sort of evidence does the CN need?” Hugo asked.

  “If you kill a newborn, it’ll make the news. Just let us know.”

  Hugo nodded. “Why does the Caucasian Nation need sarin?”

  “The Great Race War. You remember the teachings?”

  Hugo did. Among all the nonsense he had to memorize, there was a bit about cleansing America of schlammensch, which would kick off a race war where the white majority would no longer tolerate any of the mongrel races, who would be deported, segregated, or wiped out.

  Hugo didn’t know how sarin would be much help. It would kill white guys the same as ‘Spanics and blacks and Orientals. And if it was released in an ethnic neighborhood, that could have the unexpected effect of uniting people.

  But, honestly, the CN could do whatever the hell they wanted. Hugo didn’t care.

  He only cared about one goal.

  Only a few minutes ago, Hugo had earned his sixth tear. But he was already obsessing about the seventh.

  Tear #7

  NEW is for Newborn

  The maternity wards at hospitals had tight security. So Hugo went to the mall and people-watched until he found a woman who was extremely pregnant.

  He followed her into the bathroom and killed her with a single punch to the neck.

  As instructed, he told Packer about it, told him to check out the morning paper. The next day, the Caucasian Nation objected, saying it technically wasn’t a newborn. Hugo got the impression that they really hadn’t expected him to do it. No one, other than the Supreme Caucasian, had ever gotten the seventh tear, and Hugo still wasn’t convinced the Supreme Caucasian existed, or was just a story taught to new recruits.

  So rather than fight the objection, Hugo travelled to another mall, out of state. It took him two days before he found a suitable woman.

  This time Hugo made sure he wasn’t shortchanged on a technicality. Before she died, he ripped the baby out of her.

  A month later, Hugo got pinched for armed robbery and assault in Chicago, while he searched for his brother. He hadn’t needed the money. It had been out of boredom.

  He went back to prison. Stateville. With seven tears, he had a higher rank than Whitman.

  Everyone, even the bulls, treated him like a king.

  For five years, he reigned.

  Then they kicked him back to the street. And it was just in time, because they had news.

  Ri-La-Po-Ho-Zom-Zog-New-Blood.

  The CN had finally found Blood.

  PASHA

  Dr. Bipasha Kapoor was speechless. She’d listened to Hugo’s story with disbelief, fascination, horror, and an overwhelming feeling of despair.

  Her captor was truly a monster.

  She wanted Hugo to talk to her in the hopes that it might build some sort of connection. Everyone had at least a bit of empathy, right?

  Wrong. The man sitting across from her had zero humanity, and might as well have been from a different planet. He was evil. Not the vague, philosophical definition that got discussed at college toke parties, musing about a malevolent force that corrupts morality.

  No, Hugo was evil in the very real sense, because he had no core values, no traits at all that help human beings co-exist. The Sanskrit word for it was Adharma. It meant all that is wrong and bad.

  After talking for hours, Hugo had finally finished his story, and he was staring at Pasha in a way that reminded her of the lions at Brookfield Zoo, just before feeding time.

  She took a big
Pranayama breath and found the courage to speak. “What happened to the sarin?”

  “You’ll hear about it,” Hugo said. “If you live that long.”

  “And why are you looking for Phin?”

  Hugo grinned. “Ri-La-Po-Ho-Zom-Zog-New-Blood. Blood is a blood relative. Once I kill my little brother, I’ll get my eighth tear.”

  Pasha cringed, dread crawling over her like spiders, knowing with absolute certainty that if Phin met with this maniac, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell.

  PHIN

  On the drive I popped another codeine pill and chased it with some gas station tequila. There was a big red warning label on the bottle that cautioned against the mixing of alcohol and drugs, but I never paid too much attention to warning labels. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Slipping into a coma?

  That would be a nice break from all the terminal pain.

  Dying?

  Overdosing on pills and booze would be a nicer way to die than the track I was currently on.

  The electric agony radiating from my side dulled to a hum as the codeine worked its magic. I knew that I was addicted, but I’d be dead before the addiction posed a serious health threat.

  Pancreatic cancer. That’s what the doctors call my killer.

  I call it Earl.

  Each day Earl eats a little more of me, and I dope myself up so I don’t feel it as much. I’d completed two rounds of chemo and radiation, but I had a hunch Earl was eating that as well.

  I considered stopping by Pasha’s place, but it was late. As much as I wanted to see her, she’d have questions that I had no energy to answer. I’d turned off my cell phone earlier for that very reason.

  My girlfriend, Bipasha Kapoor, was a doctor with a women’s health clinic in the suburbs. Her job, and her life, was centered around helping people by making them healthy.

  I also helped people. I called myself a problem solver. If someone was having problems with an abusive spouse, or a stalker, or a street gang, I could help. But unlike Pasha, I didn’t heal people.

  I did the opposite.