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

by J. A. Konrath

I was just returning from a problem solving trip in Minnesota. People had been hurt. And worse. It had been rough. I normally didn’t burden Pasha with my dark deeds, but I was so tired my internal censor wasn’t at peak performance, and I could wind up divulging more details than she could handle. A smarter move would be to go home, get some needed rest.

  Home was the Michigan Motel, located in the heart of Chicago’s Chinatown. It was one of those seedy places that rented rooms by the hour, with décor that hadn’t changed since the 70s. I got a free room there because I helped out with security, which was mostly about chasing vagrants from the parking lot and evicting assholes who were getting out of line with the ladies they’d hired for the evening.

  I parked my Bronco in the motel’s parking lot, which always seemed seeded with broken bottles, got out, stretched, and then knocked on the bulletproof glass window of the check-in booth.

  Kenny Jen Bang Ko, the ancient manager and owner of the establishment, usually answered within a minute. But he didn’t come out. An odd break in our routine.

  When I got to my room, I immediately knew something was wrong when I caught the odor.

  Death. There was something dead in there.

  I pulled out my 9mm, eased the door open, and flipped on the light.

  Someone was on the bed. Someone covered in congealing blood.

  Kenny.

  There was a note next to him. Handwritten, in what looked like a child’s scrawl.

  Hey little bro—

  He talked. Now I’ve got your bitch.

  Looking forward to spending some quality family time together.

  -H

  It was Hugo. My psychopathic white nationalist older brother.

  I immediately turned on my cell phone. Six missed calls, all Pasha. I dialed her, my hands shaking with raw panic.

  “That you, little bro?” The voice was deep. Sinister. And horribly familiar.

  My jaw locked. I tried to swallow but couldn’t summon up the spit. Memories invaded my skull, all of them unpleasant. One that immediately jumped out was the time my brother sat on my chest and stuck safety pins into my head one at a time, a full box of fifty.

  “I thought you were in jail, Hugo.”

  “They paroled me.”

  “That was a mistake,” I said.

  “No shit. The first person I killed when I got out was my parole officer.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Why the hostility Phineas? I thought you’d be happy to hear from me. How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough. Can I speak to Pasha?”

  “She’s pretty good-looking, for a dot head. If I didn’t want to taint my ethnic purity, I might show her what a real man is like.”

  I clenched the phone so hard I thought I’d break it. “Just let me know she’s alive.”

  Her voice came on. “Phin… they broke in a few hours ago. They were waiting for you. No matter what, don’t come—”

  There was a slapping sound, skin on skin, and a muffled yelp from the woman I loved with my whole body and soul.

  “Mouthy, isn’t she?” Hugo said.

  “What do you want?” It took all of my effort to keep my voice even.

  “I want what we all want. America for Americans. But I’ll settle for meeting you later tonight. Ninety minutes.”

  He named a location. I agreed.

  “Come alone, no cops, all that crap. Or I’ll cut your girlfriend from her snatch to her throat and mail you her insides. Say goodbye, bitch.”

  “Phin! Don’t come! He wants to—”

  And the line went dead.

  When my hands stopped trembling I set my phone down.

  “Don’t worry, babe,” I promised to her, even though she couldn’t hear me. “I’m coming to get you.”

  Then the rage overwhelmed me and I made a quick fist and pivoted my hips, throwing a roundhouse punch into the kitchen wall. My hand sank into the drywall up to my wrist. I pulled out a bloody mess and wondered if I’d broken any bones.

  Smart, Phin, Earl said. You’ll be a lot of good with a useless hand.

  I stared at the red seeping through the splits in my knuckles. There was a spark of pain, but I was used to living with pain that was a lot worse. I wiggled my fingers, and they all seemed to work okay.

  But Earl was right. That was a stupid move. I didn’t need to handicap myself any more than I already was. I’d lost ten pounds, all muscle, in the last year, thanks to Earl. I was so used to functioning on pills and booze that being sober felt like an altered state. I got winded doing more than twenty sit-ups, and the past week had exhausted me.

  My brother Hugo was bigger, stronger, and a helluva lot meaner than I ever was.

  I didn’t know what to do. What my plan was. I had less than an hour and a half to come up with some idea that would save the woman I loved, and also give me at least a slight chance of escaping with my life.

  Maybe Hugo has changed. He just wants to hang out. Look at old family photos.

  Sarcasm was yet another unwanted service that Earl provided.

  I walked to the bathroom and dug some gauze and tape out of the medicine chest. I wrapped my hand, tight like a boxer, watching the blood ooze up through the cotton.

  “You’re dying,” I told my bald, rheumy-eyed, sunken reflection. I looked fifteen years older than I actually was because of my disease. Since my diagnosis, I’d become a pained, wrinkled, stooped caricature of myself. Pale, beaten, worn-out, used-up, near death.

  But not dead yet.

  And at the moment death wasn’t an option. Not while Pasha needed me.

  I went to the corner of my room, to my hidden stash under the floorboards, to see what weapons I had left.

  PASHA

  Pasha touched her tongue to her back molar. It was loose, and the blood oozing from her gums made her whole mouth taste bitter.

  Phin was coming. Rather than feeling relief, Pasha was overwhelmed with fear.

  The man she loved was going to die.

  They both were going to die.

  I’m going to die.

  She felt ready to freak out, to lose her mind, to start screaming uncontrollably.

  Keep it together. Just keep it together.

  If you get hysterical, things will just get worse.

  Kill the emotion. Stay rational.

  For some crazy reason, Pasha thought about a girl who had come to the clinic, over a year ago. She’d had all the classic symptoms of meth addiction; missing teeth, sunken eyes, emaciation, sores all over. Pasha had asked her, genuinely interested, how she could continue to take something that was going to kill her.

  “That’s the meaning of addiction, isn’t it?” the girl had replied.

  Knowing something was bad for you, but doing it anyway.

  Like a slap, Pasha realized why her subconscious dredged up that memory.

  It’s my relationship with Phin.

  When Pasha was in school, she seriously considered becoming a psychiatrist. She knew why women were attracted to bad boys. The so-called dark triad—psychopathy, narcissism, and Machiavellianism—was irresistible to many because those types spent more time on grooming, dressing, and overall appearance, had an immediate, superficial charm centered around getting what they wanted, and were expert manipulators. Pasha had mistaken Phin as a bad boy, and was initially drawn to him for that chemical reason, but in reality he was something much worse. He was a man with a high risk job that courted violence, who also had cancer. So even though he wasn’t psychotic, duplicitous, or vain, he was bound to hurt her, either by dying, or through his associations.

  Now one of his associations was holding Pasha captive, and he was going to murder them both.

  Why am I putting myself through that? Attraction?

  Love?

  It was no different than taking meth. She was getting high on something that was hurting her.

  And yet…

  Pasha had thought Phin could be the one. He could beat the cancer. He c
ould get a different job. He could change.

  Which, of course, was nonsense. You don’t date someone expecting them to change. It’s foolish, and never works out.

  When Phin had come into her life, he’d been her knight. Maybe his armor wasn’t shiny. Maybe there was no happily ever after. But he’d saved her, and the attraction was strong, and he had enough good traits that he was worthy of love and able to show love.

  So why, at the moment she needed him most, did Pasha feel overwhelming regret for having ever met the guy?

  Maybe getting logical was the wrong path to take.

  Emotionally, I love the man. Love him so much it hurts.

  But logically…

  The realization felt every bit as painful as the slap Hugo had given her.

  Oh, god. I need to dump him.

  I’m never going to be happy—I’m never going to be safe—until I get as far away from Phineas Troutt as possible.

  PHIN

  My arsenal was pathetic.

  In my capacity as security guard for the Michigan Motel, I’d confiscated enough knives from drunk, high, or disgruntled guests that I could stab a whole football team without using the same blade twice. But I was criminally low on firearms.

  I had ten rounds for my S&W 9mm M&P, a .380 with a missing magazine and no bullets, and four .38 cartridges with no gun that could fire it.

  Earl made his presence known by thumping against my side, and habit made me reach for my bottle of pills. I’d gone so far as to dump two onto my hand before stopping myself. More codeine wouldn’t help my reactions any.

  You’re a mess, Phin. Give it up. Let’s go score some coke and booze, pick up a few hookers, and forget about Pasha. It’s not like she is meant to be with you.

  Earl had a point. I wasn’t any good for anyone. Having Pasha in my life would only end badly for her.

  I had to leave her.

  But I had to save her first.

  I glanced at the bed; something I’d been trying to ignore. Kenny Jen Bang Ko’s jaw hung open, his lips and cheeks missing. His open eyes stared at nothing. Or maybe they stared at eternity.

  Or maybe they were looking for me, the guy he hired to protect him.

  Hey… didn’t Kenny have a gun?

  Kenny kept a shotgun at the check-in booth.

  I patted down his corpse, finding keys in his front pocket, took another quick look at his dead, vacant eyes.

  “Sorry, Kenny.”

  I packed quickly, because I didn’t own much. I had an old suitcase from a former guest who’d left it there, and threw in the few pieces of clothing I owned; some t-shirts, underwear, socks, running shoes, a leather jacket. I also took the best five knives out of my collection, the guns and ammo, some toiletries.

  No personal items. No sentimental items. Nothing I couldn’t live without.

  You’re such a big loser, Earl said.

  No kidding.

  I put on a thrift shop trench coat, left my room, walked outside, and headed to Kenny’s office, situated at the end of the building. I let myself in through the side security door, finding the right key on the third try, and then checked inside the drawer beneath the cash register, which is where I’d put a gun, and which is where I found a Norinco Hawk 12 gauge. It was a clone of a pump action Remington 870, about a quarter of the price, made in China. This one had a pistol grip.

  Pistol grips on shotguns were good for one thing; smacking yourself in the face with the recoil. I suppose Kenny bought it to intimidate, rather than shoot. Or because it was short enough to fit in his drawer.

  I quickly ejected all six shells—one in the chamber and five in the tube magazine—and then loaded them again. I searched around, unable to find any extra cartridges. The shotgun had no sling, but there was a lanyard hole. I used one of my eight knives to cut off the extension cord from the desk lamp, knot it through the hole, and tie the shotgun around my shoulder so it hung at my side. The trench coat covered it up fine. I untied it and stuck it in the suitcase.

  Then I picked up Kenny’s phone, trying to remember her cell phone number, failing, and calling a number I that did know.

  “Harry McGlade, world famous private eye. Is this Mariah Carey?”

  I didn’t have time for this. “Can we skip the routine?”

  “You’re not Mariah Carey. Unless you’ve been taking hormones. That’s cool with me. I’d love you even if you had a mustache, Mariah. Maybe even more.”

  Apparently we couldn’t skip the routine. Harry was a friend, of sorts, who used to be a cop, and now worked freelance. He also had a bit of fame because some moron producer decided to make a TV series based on his life. That said, as far as celebrities go, McGlade was D-list. At best.

  “You don’t know Mariah Carey.”

  “True. But somewhere, in the infinite multiverse, she called me. Unhappily, in this one, you did, which is pretty damn disappointing. What’s the deal, Phin? Miss me so much you needed to hear my melodious voice?”

  “You and Jack still in Minnesota?”

  “We got stuck here dealing with the Feebies and the locals and the army of media asking me for quotes. Is it egotistical to describe myself as the stalwart hero of the decade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stalwart means well-hung, right?”

  Harry McGlade considered himself funny. Sometimes he was. Mostly, he was an asshole. Not an asshole as in he couldn’t be trusted, or that he was always in a bad mood. He was mostly reliable, and likeable in small doses, but his constant good spirits and bad jokes could wear you out faster than babysitting twins with ADHD.

  I’d been humoring McGlade because I needed information, and because it was impossible to get a word in while he was doing his schtick. But I was out of time.

  “Is Jack with you? I need to talk to her.”

  “I knew you had a thing for older women. Does this mean your doctor girlfriend finally dumped your cancerous ass? Is she available for dating? Or handies? Answer the second question first.”

  “Jack, Harry. It’s important.”

  “I got sick of talking to feds and snuck out on her an hour ago.”

  “What’s her number?”

  “I’d give her body maybe a seven, her face a six. But I have unrealistically high standards. Did I tell you about the time I dated the Playmate of the Year? She was so hot she gave my boner a boner.”

  “Goddammit, McGlade, what’s her goddam number?”

  There was a silent moment, unusual when talking with Harry. If I’d pushed it too far, he might get curious. I’d already doomed myself, and probably Pasha. I didn’t want to drag him into this as well.

  But instead of probing, Harry recited ten digits. Then he said, “Is there a reason you’re so—”

  I hung up and dialed Jacqueline Daniels, Chicago Homicide Lieutenant. Jack was a friend, of sorts.

  “Daniels.”

  “Jack, Phin. I need a big favor. Two actually.”

  “You ditch me and Harry in Minnesota and then call needing a favor? Really?”

  “There’s a dead guy in my room. He’s the owner of the motel I live at, Kenny Jen Bang Ko. He was left on my bed. My older brother, Hugo, killed him.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “I need you to send someone here. Someone you trust. Kenny has been dead for a while. Rigor has already set in. So, technically, you’re my alibi.”

  “Even though, technically, you left Minnesota and asked me to cover for you.”

  “I know. It’s a big favor. Also, I need everything the CPD has on Hugo Troutt. Criminal records, associates, addresses, vehicles.”

  “You’re going after him?”

  I didn’t answer. You don’t tell a cop you intend to commit a crime.

  “This is a murder case, Phin. Leave it for the police.”

  “I need to know where he is, Jack. He took…” I couldn’t say he kidnapped Pasha, because she would insist the cops get even more involved. “He took something of mine. Something i
mportant.”

  I didn’t like lying to Jack, but technically that wasn’t a lie.

  “What did he take?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Why? Something illegal? Drugs?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not right now.”

  “You’re asking a lot, here.”

  I knew I was. I had no real choice. “Do we trust each other?”

  Now it was Jack’s turn not to answer. I had to lay it on thicker. Cops were loyal. Women were sentimental. I targeted both.

  “Look, I know we’ve got this weird relationship. We’ve been through some crazy stuff together, and we’ve always had each other’s backs. Jack… I consider you one of my closest friends. I’d trust you with my life. I’m not asking you to help me find him. I’m only asking for information.”

  “You really left a mess up here.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m not going to be an accessory to premediated murder.”

  “You know Minnesota wasn’t premediated. That was a rescue mission.”

  Just like this.

  I waited, feeling every second before Jack replied. “If you find Hugo, you’ll call the cops?”

  “Yes. You have my word.”

  And I’d keep my word. I’d call the cops, after I blew my brother’s diseased head off his body.

  “Give me five minutes. You’ll be at this number?”

  “Yeah.”

  She hung up.

  I paced around the office, nervous, idle, crazy, trying not to think about what Hugo might be doing to Pasha. Memories kept rushing back, none of them good.

  Even as a toddler, Hugo liked to hurt things. He was two years older than I, always big for his age, always meaner than hell. When he was six he would microwave frogs. At eight years old he’d already broken four of my bones. Puberty hit around eleven, and he began his journey into manhood by raping a nine-year-old girl at the playground.

  “She won’t tell,” he bragged to me later, “or else I’ll send her friends and family the pictures.”

  He was referring to the pictures he took of her while doing the deed, compliments of a Polaroid he’d stolen. Thinking about it, I can still remember several of the photos he had in his collection. The one that stands out was the face of a neighborhood kid, eyes wide with terror and shame, his mouth full of the dog shit that Hugo had forced him to eat.