Dead On My Feet - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Konrath

  Five steps away.

  Jack pulls a speed loader from her pocket. She loads six bullets at once, snaps the cylinder closed with a practiced flick of her wrist.

  The gunman fires, just over my head.

  Three steps away.

  Almost point blank.

  He won’t miss again.

  He adjusts his aim as I throw myself at him, his gun centering on my face, the barrel impossibly huge, so big I could dive right into it.

  Time comes to almost a full stop. I see my killer’s eyes, through the holes in his mask. His knuckle going white as he squeezes the trigger.

  Someone—Pasha—screaming.

  And then, for the second time that day, I watch someone’s head blow apart as Jack’s next shot ends his criminal career.

  The gunman crumples just as I hit him, and I land on my side.

  Jack is up, her expression grim, focused, and she hurries to the men she just dropped, kicking away weapons, checking pulses.

  I crawl over to McGlade. He’s prone, crumpled on the sidewalk, arms and legs akimbo.

  His eyes are closed. His chest isn’t moving.

  I press my hand to his neck, seeking a pulse, unable to find it.

  “Harry!” I grab his collar and shake him.

  He’s not moving. He’s not breathing.

  “Harry!”

  I feel, searching for blood. The bullets didn’t penetrate his vest. But that doesn’t matter. They could have broken his ribs, punctured his heart.

  Despair settles on me like a shroud. “Oh, shit. Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry…”

  “Talk,” he whispers. “It’s your dime.”

  I make a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

  “They shot me,” he moans.

  “You’re going to be okay.”

  His eyes squeeze shut in apparent agony.

  “They shot me in the junk.”

  Sirens. In the distance.

  “Help is coming. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

  “Check my dick. Make sure it’s okay.”

  “I’m not checking your dick, Harry. They can check it at the—” My nose crinkled, and I gagged. “Christ, McGlade. What’s that smell?”

  “Kevlar diaper,” he says.

  “They shot you, and you shit yourself?”

  “No. That was earlier.”

  I don’t pursue further inquiry.

  Pasha hurries over, squats next to Harry. “Is he okay?”

  “Nothing a box of baby wipes can’t fix.”

  Pasha throws her arms around me, sobbing into my neck. “They came in, with guns. Harry pushed me into my office. There are two more inside.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I feel her nod.

  Jack comes over. She’s got her badge around her neck on a cord. She nods at me, then stares down at McGlade.

  “Did you shit your pants?”

  Harry makes a sad face. “No one cares I got shot. But everyone cares about my dirty squirties.”

  “Of course we care you got shot, Harry,” Pasha says, her hand over her mouth and nose.

  “What’s the big deal?” Harry moans. “So what. I crimped a Shatner. Wasn’t the first time I spackled the crack. And it won’t be the last time I bait the trap.”

  “You should write poetry,” I say, pulling my shirt up over my face. He’s the second guy this week who shit himself in front of me. I wonder what I did to get so lucky.

  “Maybe, in hindsight, burritos and bran muffins aren’t the breakfast of champions.” He winces. “My chest hurts.”

  “Your ribs are broken,” Jack says. “And you shit your pants.”

  “I’m wearing a diaper, you insensitive jerk. Next time you download a brownload, I’ll be there with a TV crew. “

  Police arrive, hurry over.

  “Jesus! What’s that smell?!”

  “You all suck,” Harry says.

  He closes his eyes, and we take the opportunity to get away from him, fast as we can.

  The paramedics carted McGlade off to the hospital, flipping a coin to see who got stuck riding with him in the ambulance.

  Jack was so busy doing damage control with the cops that she didn’t ask how I got out of the apartment, or where I’d been.

  Pasha seemed to be in a slight state of shock, so she didn’t ask me, either.

  LaBeck was out of the picture. But Mulrooni was still a threat.

  We stopped at her apartment, packed a bag, and I drove us eighty minutes north, to a town called Redemption. It was on Lake Michigan, a few miles north of the Wisconsin border. I had two priorities. The first was to get Pasha away from Flutesburg.

  I took some of my OTC pills. Aspirin. Tylenol. Advil. Aleve. Tagamet. I was pretty wired, so I didn’t need any caffeine or Sudafed.

  The pills eventually kicked in, ratcheting down my pain levels. By the time we got off at the Redemption exit, I wasn’t feeling totally awful. Earl was shutting up. My hands were bearable. My cheek only stung a bit. The burns no more than a dull ache.

  I checked us into a two star hotel, getting adjoining rooms. Since I didn’t have a credit card, I had to put down a cash deposit. After grabbing our bags, including a change of Walmart clothes for me, I led Pasha by the hand to her room, let her in, and made sure the door separating us was unlocked and open a crack.

  “Do you need anything?”

  Pasha shook her head. She’d been quiet in the car, and I didn’t push conversation. Coping with violence was a learned behavior, and some people never got over the awfulness of seeing men die.

  “I’ll be right next door,” I told her. “My door will be open. If you need anything, just come in.”

  Another nod. I went into my room, opened the adjoining door a sliver, and then sprawled out on the bed and turned on the news.

  The clinic shootout came up, Jack doing her media sound-bite hero bit, which seemed natural for her. LaBeck’s murder also got covered. No arrests yet, but it was just a matter of time. They’d swab Peggy LaBeck’s hand for powder residue, proving she fired the bullet that killed him. She would have to come up with one hell of a story to talk her way out of first degree murder.

  I heard a creak, and automatically reached for my gun before figuring out it was Pasha.

  “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she said.

  “Watch a movie?”

  She nodded, crawling onto the bed next to me and snuggling against my chest like it was natural.

  It wasn’t natural. But it was familiar. Whores didn’t snuggle, so the last time I’d had a woman pressed against me like this was Annie.

  I flipped stations until I found some computer generated cartoon. Apparently the digital revolution extended to children’s programs. It was terrible. But, let’s be honest; pretty much everything is terrible.

  We watched it anyway, Pasha trying to forget the horrors that had just occurred, me trying to forget the warm, attractive female clinging to me.

  Eventually the computer generated singing woodchuck became too much for us to bear, so Pasha took the remote and began flipping channels. She passed one that was a nude love scene from a movie, then went back to it.

  It wasn’t a nude love scene from a movie. The nude love scene was the movie.

  “Davesh used to like adult movies.”

  I searched my memory banks for the name. “Your fiancé.”

  On the screen, naked bodies did naked things.

  “Do you like porn?” Pasha asked.

  “I don’t know if the word is like. I prefer being with a woman to watching one. But sometimes, watching is easier and quicker.”

  “Davesh liked them. All the time. He would want them on when we were in bed.”

  “Like an instructional thing?”

  “More like a look at the actress while being with me thing.”

  “That’s kinda shitty.”

  “He was kinda shitty. But we all have flaws.”

  We sure do.

  “Is that w
hy you don’t have a TV?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t have a TV because my last one broke. I haven’t gotten a new one yet.”

  I looked at her. “You told me you didn’t watch TV.”

  “I said that so you’d think I was interesting.”

  Moaning and grunting from the television. Pasha hugged me a little tighter.

  “The acting in these movies is so bad. But that girl, she’s enjoying this scene. How he’s touching her. There!” Pasha pointed. “She just came. Can you tell?”

  “Sure.”

  Pasha grinned at me. “Okay, Mr. Feminism. How can you tell? Her moaning?”

  “Everyone can moan. That actress is flushed. Can’t fake that. And her pelvic contractions.”

  “Right!” Pasha seemed geeked that I knew that. “Synchronous vaginal and anal contractions. The theory is those contractions pull semen further into the cervix. But it’s just a theory. We don’t truly know the biological reason for female orgasm. Did you know that most sperm isn’t meant to fertilize an egg? Instead, it exists to attack another man’s sperm. Why do you think you have a foreskin?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Pasha made a face. “Circumcision is barbaric. But can you guess why you were born with one?”

  “Because turtlenecks are cool?”

  “The foreskin works as a plunger. Again, to do away with a rival’s sperm. We’re not meant to be monogamous. Did you know the clitoris is the only organ designed solely for pleasure?”

  “Can we put something else on?” I asked.

  “Does watching this make you uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t know if the word is uncomfortable.”

  Pasha shut the TV off, turning her face up to look at me. “Women get aroused by pornography, too. Same as men. Did you know that?”

  “Sure.”

  “There have been studies that claim women respond more to words than pictures. But we also respond to pictures. It’s just not as obvious, and we tend to deny it.”

  “You’re really passionate about this subject,” I said, hoping she’d change the subject.

  “The human body is a marvelous machine. It’s evolved to give pleasure. There should be nothing immoral or embarrassing about that.”

  She placed a hand on my chest, made a little circle with her finger.

  “Is my hand making you uncomfortable?” Pasha whispered in my ear.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” My voice came out a little squeakier than I would have liked.

  “Would you rather I put that insipid cartoon back on?” She raised her hand to touch my cheek.

  I laid it all out for her. “Look. I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re vulnerable. That was pretty bad, back at the clinic.”

  “You’re not taking advantage. I came to your room. Climbed on your bed. Am I taking advantage? Consent goes both ways.” She licked my earlobe. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

  “You could be in shock.”

  “I’m a doctor, Phin. I’m not in shock.”

  “Okay. But you went through a traumatic event.”

  “And I want to use sex to reaffirm life. With a man I find attractive. Is that a bad thing?”

  It wasn’t a bad thing. Not at all.

  Pasha tilted her chin to be kissed. “Do you want me to leave?”

  I definitely did not want her to leave.

  I kissed her.

  Pasha’s mouth was warm. Soft. She tasted like cinnamon. When I opened my eyes, I saw her looking at me. Her pupils were impossibly wide.

  “What do you like?” she asked, breaking the kiss.

  “Like?”

  “Sexually.”

  “I’m a guy.” I gently kissed her chin. “I like anything. What do you like?”

  “Davesh liked it when I went down on him. But…”

  “But?”

  “He never went down on me. Even when I asked.”“

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  Part of me felt like I was being conned. But I was 100% okay with that. I moved my lips down her neck, at the same time taking the sides of her blouse and pulling it up over her head. Her bra opened in front, a single hook, and her breasts were about the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I moved down her body, taking one brown nipple into my mouth, stroking the other with my hand, sucking softly because I didn’t want to pop the stitches in my mouth.

  Pasha had her fingers on my head, softly stroking my scalp. Her breath quickened as her nipples became erect.

  I moved lower. Licking her ribcage. Flicking my tongue in and out of her belly button. I found the zipper on her orange skirt, and it was off her like a whisper.

  Her panties were black silk, French cut, lace along the waistline. I kissed her between the legs, on top of her underwear. Then I kept my mouth there, letting her feel my hot breath.

  She pressed against me. My hands found her breasts again, and I moved my mouth and chin over the black silk, up and down, left and right, soft, slow strokes, until the fabric became damp.

  Pasha reached down, stuck her thumbs in her waistband to lower her underwear. I caught her wrists, then intertwined my fingers with hers, and continued to tease her through the panties.

  She groaned, pressing up against my face, and I deliberately drew back, decreasing my pressure. This caused Pasha to laugh.

  “Seriously? Do you know how long it’s been?”

  “Then a little longer won’t hurt.” I smiled. “Much.”

  I licked the crease of her left thigh, using a lot of pressure, sticking the tip of my tongue under the seam of her panties, then withdrawing. Then I did the same with her right thigh. Slow, firm licks, bumping her with my nose, feeling, and watching, her get wetter and wetter.

  Pasha continued to press against me, and she ground against my chin, gasping, before I pulled away.

  She started to complain, but then I yanked her panties off in one quick movement, and her legs were over my shoulders, my face buried in her.

  Exploring her slowly, softly, with my tongue and lips, I avoided her clit. Some women found direct stimulation to be too sensitive. But all women—at least all I’d been with—appreciated the gradual build-up. The longer the orgasm was delayed, the bigger it would be.

  I lost myself in the teasing. It had been a while since I’d pleasured someone, and I made every second count. I took her labia in my mouth, sucking softly, then harder. I pushed my tongue inside, far as it could go. I released her hands and used my fingers to open her, wider, tugging back her hood, tracing tiny circles around her.

  Pasha’s breath became ragged. She had both hands on my head, pushing me into her.

  Once again I pulled away.

  “Please,” she begged.

  I stopped. Not to torment her. But because something inside me cracked.

  It had been so long since I’d felt wanted.

  I’d missed that feeling so much.

  “Phin,” she moaned. “Please.”

  I lowered my head and lost myself in her.

  Over the next ninety minutes, we used two of the three condoms I’d stolen from McGlade’s porno store. And while we weren’t as flexible or vigorous as the couple in the movie we’d been watching, we did pretty good.

  I didn’t have to ask Pasha how it was. She didn’t have to ask me, either.

  Afterward, we ordered a pizza. She liked sausage, pepperoni, and green peppers. I wasn’t a fan of green peppers, so we compromised by only getting them on half the pie.

  “Today was pretty bad,” Pasha said, staring at the ceiling.

  “I thought we did okay.”

  A small smile, which faded too fast. “You know what I mean. At the clinic.”

  “You didn’t ask for this. They did.”

  She stared off at something that wasn’t there. “If I’d taken the money and left, those four men would still be alive.”

  “Those weren’t good men, Pasha. This wasn’t their first job. T
hey’d killed people. And they would have killed more people. Jack and Harry did the world a favor.”

  “Death isn’t a favor.”

  “Sometimes it is,” I said.

  Pasha looked at me. “Have you killed before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it make you feel bad?”

  “Always.”

  “So why don’t you do something else?”

  I stretched out onto my back, laced my hands behind my head. I was sore, but for once it was in a good way.

  “I’ve thought about it. And I’ve had other jobs. But I always seem to come back to this one.”

  Pasha laid next to me, hooking a leg over mine.

  “My uncle used to say that every violent act spawns a hundred more.”

  “Insightful guy.”

  She ran her finger over my lips. “What happened to you, Phineas Troutt? Were you abused as a child?”

  I nodded.

  “Sexually?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Your father?”

  “Among others.”

  “Is this why you hurt people? To help with your pain?”

  I drew away from her hand. “That’s not it.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it.”

  I tried to find the right words. “When I was a little kid, I kept wondering why nobody ever saved me. From my father. From my brother. I had teachers. Neighbors. Cops and social services. They all knew what was going on at my house. But I was always someone else’s problem.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I heard that a lot. People who were sorry. But no one ever helped. So I made myself a promise. If someone ever came to me with a problem, I’d make it my problem. I’d help them solve it.” I stared into her deep brown eyes. “Even if I had to use violence.”

  “So, in a way, you’re still that little boy, trying to save yourself.”

  “In a way.”

  I call bullshit. Earl said. You never saved yourself. You never solved your own problems. Your psychopathic brother is still out there in the world, causing harm. And you’re hiding in a pill bottle, like Jack said.

  Pasha seemed to think about it. “So why did you stop going to chemotherapy?”

  I glanced at her. “Jack told you?”

  She rolled her eyes, which I took to mean, I’m a doctor, stupid.

  I looked away, focusing on a crack in the ceiling.

  How do you tell a women you just had amazing sex with that you were tired of life?