“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.
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 could 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.
Everybody Dies - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 3) Page 5
