“I built a fort,” he said, noticing my gaze. “It’s elf-proof.”
I nodded. “How very clever of you.”
“That Turbo-A-Lert is hardcore. Our country makes weed illegal, which is a billion times safer than tobacco and alcohol, but you can go into any store and buy over-the-counter pills strong enough to give a rhino a heart attack. Why ban a naturally growing plant with countless health benefits, and then sell addictive, dangerous chemicals?”
I shrugged. McGlade apparently hadn’t fully gotten the amphetamines out of his system. “Money. Big business.”
“It’s more than that. Half of all drug busts are for pot. Over ten million arrests in the last decade. The war on drugs is a war on common sense.”
“It’s not about logic,” I said. “It’s about feeling superior. Everyone needs an enemy.”
McGlade nodded, vigorously. “Exactly. You can’t attain any kind of power without an us vs. them cause. Everyone wants to believe they’re a good person, and the easiest way to do that is to point to others who are different. Minorities. Drug users. Other religions, or countries, or genders. We don’t understand them so we fear them, and when we fear them, we hate them. Hate brings people together. Bigotry is universal. Anyone who has ever gained a position of power knows this, and uses this. And don’t get me started on the corruption inherent in a bipartisan political system. We’re not even an actual democracy. The people don’t choose a President, the Electoral College does. George W. Bush lost the popular vote, and still got elected. It’s only a matter of time until that happens again.”
“You’re ranting,” I said. “No one likes being lectured.”
“Sorry. My resting pulse is a hundred and fifty beats per minute.”
“Drink some water.”
“I had a gallon already. What were we doing, again?”
“Checking the lists.”
“Right.” McGlade leaned over one of his keyboards. “Caucasian Nation membership is ten thousand six hundred and fifty. Friends of CN is six thousand, two hundred and nine. Enemies of CN…” He frowned. “Only eleven hundred and forty.”
I considered our next move. “You said you were looking up names?”
“Yeah. Lots of famous people on lists two and three.”
“Any way to check if they’ll be in the same place at the same time?”
“You mean, like a rally or something?”
“Hugo’s planning something big. Something that will kill a lot of people at once. If there’s some sort of big charity event today, or a concert, or something where a bunch of activists can gather—”
“Then that’s where Hugo is. No problem. The Google-fu is strong in me. I got this. And it’s still morning. We can find her in time to catch the matinee.”
“The matinee?”
“Remember? Suzanne Somers? Tickets were impossible to get. First preview and all.”
“I thought I was your fourth choice.”
“Fifth. But, apparently, in some case of mass-oversight, no one else called me back.”
McGlade actually looked a little hurt by that. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had serious issues connecting with people.
“So do your thing, Harry. We don’t want to miss the show.”
“Seriously? You’d go with me?”
“If you find her, I’ll not only go with you. I’ll kiss you.”
“Deal. Fair warning, I like a lot of tongue.”
Harry began to type. One-handed. Hunting and pecking. So slow that I wondered if he’d ever seen a keyboard before.
I checked the clock on the wall. It was 9:21.
“Shit. Typo. This guy has a really long last name.”
I checked the clock again.
9:23.
I hoped Pasha was okay.
Time passed with the speed of an inch worm climbing uphill.
“Nothing,” McGlade said, pushing away from the desk. “None of these activist jackasses are in the same place. Why couldn’t it be obvious? Like some big march to end racism?”
My frustration level was so high I wanted to punch something.
“Maybe we’re taking the wrong approach.”
“They’re Nazis, Phin. This is their enemies list. These are the people they want to kill. It’s not like they’d be trying to kill their friends.”
We looked at each other, and I knew we both had the same thought.
“No way,” Harry said, sitting up straighter.
“It makes sense. If you’re a fringe ideology and want to get sympathy and support for your cause…”
“You kill your own people,” Harry finished my sentence. “False Flag 101. Attack your friends, then blame your enemies for your own crimes. We’ve been searching the enemy list. We need to search the friend list, see if any of them will be in the same place.”
I stood up, hovering behind him as Harry opened up the document. “Let’s see who the most famous guy here is. Maybe this assbag. Right-wing podcast windbag with forty million followers. Let’s Google him in News and see if anything comes up.” He typed in the man’s name, laboriously slow, and then snorted.
“Heh. He’s going to the Aliens: The Musical premiere. That’s where we were supposed to be, two hours ago. Sorry you don’t get to French kiss me.”
Oh… shit.
“Aliens?” I said. “Pasha said aliens in an earlier call.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“I thought I did.”
Harry typed something. “The Roscoe Theater has… six thousand, three hundred seats.”
It was all coming together so fast my thoughts were a blur. “Milton’s dying words. He said, so many on the right… thousands of tickets.”
“I had to get balcony seats, because the main floor was sold out. Not even the scalpers had any. I bet Milton bought tickets for all of his cronies.”
“To kill them,” I said. “That’s got to be where Hugo is. How far is the Roscoe Theater from here?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s make it in ten.”
“You got it. We’ll call Jack on the way.”
PASHA
She woke up shivering.
After some brief disorientation, Pasha remembered where she was and who had her, and she became wracked by terror and despair.
She sat up and hugged her knees, unable to stop shaking.
It wasn’t too cold; Pasha guessed it to be around sixty-five degrees. But she’d slept on the floor, no blankets, and body temperature dropped at night. That, coupled with the fear, made hypothermia a possibility.
Pasha turned over, took a deep breath, smelling dust, damp, and urine. She’d dumped her bucket last night, throwing the contents into the darkness to get rid of her waste and the fast food Hugo had brought and pissed on, worried that if the situation became desperate enough, she might actually consider eating it.
The impetuous act had been short-sighted. Last night, Pasha had been kept awake by the sounds of rats, scurrying, chattering, and fighting over the soiled food.
Stiff, cold, and anxious, Pasha tried to focus on yoga. She began with an easy pose, Chaturanga Dandasana, which was sort of like doing a push-up, but with the arms tucked in closer to the body, and palms on the floor directly beneath the chest. Painful, with two broken fingers. But Pasha held it, letting her body feel the stretch and pull, tensing her muscles and paradoxically relaxing at the same time.
She transitioned from that into Down Dog, her rear in the air, feet flat on the ground, legs and back straight. Holding it. Giving in to it. Becoming it. Then she stretched into Up Dog, bringing down her body, elongating her spine, letting the energy flow through her, surround her.
Pasha imagined she heard music. Faint, tuneless, orchestra music.
And then, strangely, applause.
Warm now, with a slight sweat on her forehead, Pasha kept her palms on the floor, shifted her weight, and balanced on her hands, extending her leg sideways in an Eka Pada Koundinyasana, po
se 1. The pain in her hand seemed to dissolve, replaced by a growing awareness of her arms, her legs, her back and neck. It required so much focus that she didn’t even flinch when the lights came on in the room.
The brightness stabbed her eyes, and she saw a quick image of Hugo filling the doorway before she closed her eyelids. Once she did, her balance got wonky, and she quickly brought her legs together and tucked them under her, waiting for the monster to speak.
He didn’t.
Pasha squinted, the light still hurting, and noted that Hugo was empty-handed.
If he’d brought food and water, it was a good guess he meant to keep her alive. Since he hadn’t, he must have wanted something else.
Pasha had a hunch what it was.
“You’re here to kill me,” she stated, surprised by the calmness in her own voice.
“Does that frighten you?”
“Does it matter what I’m feeling?”
He didn’t answer.
Pasha pushed up to her feet. The yoga had helped center her, helped her get control of her fear. Whatever was coming, she wanted to stand and face it, head-on.
“Why did you bring me here just to kill me?” she asked.
“I brought you for a different reason.”
“What reason?”
“To lure Phineas here.”
“So why kill me now?”
Again, Hugo didn’t answer.
Panic flared in Pasha, and she refused to let it reach her face. “Is Phin dead?”
“Not yet.”
“So why are you killing me? Why not tell me?” She took a shot. “Are you under orders?”
“I do what I want. Orders mean nothing.”
He was talking, which was better than him hurting her. Pasha kept up with the questions. “You said before that six thousand people would die. Is that true?”
A slight nod.
“When?” she asked.
“Today.”
“And you’re doing it?”
Another nod.
“How?”
No response.
“Why?”
Hugo reached down into his boot top, and pulled out his razor.
Pasha put her hands on her hips. If she’d learned anything about the psychology of the creature standing before her, it was that Hugo had a more favorable response to strength than he did to fear. “Of all the things you could do with me, that’s the best you can come up with?”
He opened the razor. Pasha didn’t back away. She searched her mind for something to distract him.
“Remember at my office?” she asked. “I said you were as needy as I was. But I didn’t tell you why.”
Hugo’s lips curled into the slightest of grins. “I can make you tell me why.”
He thrusted his pelvis, just a little, and Pasha couldn’t help but notice the telltale, obvious bulge.
“I’m happy to tell you.” Pasha didn’t retreat. She advanced. Moving slowly. Staying centered. Lithe. Open. Receptive. Drawing out the motion, she gracefully raised her good hand and placed it on his belly.
“So tell me.”
Hugo’s abs were so hard she could fit a finger in the striations. Up close, he seemed even more unreal. So huge. So inhuman. She had to crane her neck back to stare up at him.
“You’re afraid,” Pasha said.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“I can tell. Right now. You’re afraid of what I’ll do next.”
“I could rip your head off your body.”
Pasha moved her hand lower. “So why don’t you?”
Legs trembling, she pressed her chest against his belly, flattening it against him, at the same time moving her hands to his crotch.
With her good hand, she reached for his fly.
“You think you’re the first one to try this? It won’t work.”
“Is it intimacy you’re afraid of, Hugo? Love? Or the opposite of that?” She moved her other hand down, slipping a thumb and index finger into his loose pocket, pinching the bulge. “Or is it… rejection?”
Pasha tried to shove him, but he didn’t budge and she only succeeding in pushing herself away.
“You… amuse me,” Hugo said, smiling his pumpkin smile. “I have to go. The show is almost over. I have six thousand people to kill.”
Then, miraculously, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
He even left the light on.
Pasha quickly sat down, her back to the doorway, and stared at the cell phone in her hand. Her cell phone. The telltale, obvious bulge she’d tugged out of his pocket.
She flipped it open and powered it on—
—and immediately noticed two things.
The date and time. She’d been captive for five days, and it was after one in the afternoon.
And her battery was nearly dead.
Pasha dialed 911.
“What’s your emergency?” said the female operator.
“My name is Bipasha Kapoor. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m chained up in some basement or cellar. A man named Hugo Troutt is planning to kill me.”
“Where are you, Bipasha?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what state I’m in. Can’t you track my phone?”
“You’re in Chicago, Illinois. I have your cell phone number, and I’m able to trace it to the nearest cell phone transmitter, on Wells. But we can’t currently pinpoint your location.”
“Can’t currently? When will you be able to?”
“In September,” she said. “Is there anything around you that can help you identify where you are?”
“September?!”
“Keep calm, Bipasha. Networks aren’t required to comply with Phase 2 of the Enhanced 9-1-1 System until September, and your carrier hasn’t complied yet. Can you tell me what you see?”
“You said pinpoint. How close can you get?”
The operator paused and then said, “Three hundred meters.”
Pasha almost started to laugh. In a city as dense, tall, and busy as Chicago, that would be like trying to find a specific blade of grass on a one acre lawn.
“Talk to me, Pasha. What do you see?”
“Shelves. Old stuff. Lights. Nothing that tells me anything. I’ve been here for more than a day and I don’t have any idea where I am. I think I hear something. People. Music. Hugo said something about a show.”
“What kind of show? A movie? A play?”
“I’m not sure.” She tried to concentrate on the faint sound. “It sounds live. A play.”
“That’s good, Bipasha. That’s very good. You’re doing fine.”
“How many theaters does Chicago have?”
“Over two hundred. But it’s okay. We can use the cell tower to narrow it down. Can you leave the line open for a few minutes?”
“My battery is almost dead.”
“Try to hold out as long as you can.”
Pasha had a different idea. “I’ll call you back.”
Then she dialed Phin.
HUGO
He checked the time.
1:23pm.
Only twenty-five minutes to go. Still no smoke machine.
The Tyvek suit was, predictably, snug, even though it was an XXL. Hugo wondered if it would tear if he tried to throw a punch, and found he didn’t really give a shit one way or the other.
He checked the monitor. The cast was prancing around, dressed in ridiculous green costumes, trying to look like monsters.
They had no idea what real monsters looked like.
Their plan—Packer, the CN, the imaginary Supreme Caucasian—was going perfectly. No problems. No mistakes.
No surprises.
Hugo’s plan, which was different than the Caucasian Nation’s, wasn’t going well at all.
But that’s what Hugo thrived on. The unknown. The haphazard.
Chaos.
They expected him to follow orders. They actually thought he cared about their petty little ideology.
They had misjudged him.
If they’d really known Hugo, if they’d been able to peel back his muscles and bones and view his dark, ugly heart, they would have known that he didn’t care about anything.
No past. No future. No present.
The only thing important was that nothing was important.
When Whitman brought Hugo into the Caucasian Nation, he thought he’d recruited a fascist.
But Hugo was an anarchist.
The Man with Seven Tears touched his face. Even though the plan hadn’t worked, he would still get the eighth tear.
And when he did, Hugo planned to peel off those tear tattoos and eat them.
He checked the monitors.
Still no smoke.
No Phineas, either.
Hugo slapped his pockets.
Then he stood up and went to deal with Pasha.
PHIN
McGlade blew through a stop light, narrowly missing a city bus. I had my seatbelt off, seat reclined all the way, and was searching the back seat of the Vette for his Magnum.
“How could you lose my gun?” he whined.
“I took it from you last night when you were acting insane.”
“Where’d you put it?”
“It’s gotta be in the car somewhere.”
McGlade had only remembered he was gunless after we’d gotten into the car and called Jack. She promised him she’d send the cavalry.
“Check the rucksack and the bug-out bag,” he ordered.
“I don’t think I put it in either. It’s probably under the seat.”
“Check anyway. Ease my mind.”
I unzipped the rucksack, didn’t find the .44, then opened the prepper pack and began to hunt through it.
My cell phone buzzed. I answered, putting it on speaker phone. “It’s Phin.”
“Phin… I don’t know where I am.”
Pasha. So many emotions coursed through me at once that I couldn’t process them all.
“Is Hugo there?”
“No. I got my phone from him, but the battery is almost dead. I thought maybe Harry could locate it. He’s rich and is always bragging about his technology.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 80