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

by J. A. Konrath

  “You can read it when it comes out,” I said. “But you should probably check the want ads for heating and cooling jobs, because you’re the worst security guard ever.”

  Walking back to my condo, I passed a horse and carriage. The driver sat on a wooden carriage that looked like the pumpkin from Cinderella. He wore a sleeveless tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and top hat, and looked like he’d just won the lottery. Seriously, his smile was so wide I wondered how he did it without breaking his face.

  His horse was white, wore blinders and a harness, and didn’t seem nearly as enthused. In fact, it seemed downright depressed.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Not good,” he said, beaming.

  “Then why are you so happy?”

  “I’m smiling through the pain, brother. Just lost a horse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He was Mirna’s best friend. They grew up together. She’s really sad right now, so I’m trying to be happy for the both of us.”

  I gave Mirna a pat on the rump. “What do you charge?”

  “Thirty-five for half an hour.”

  For some reason, Mirna turned her head and tried to lick me.

  “I’ll give you fifty to go around the block once,” I said.

  He agreed. I climbed into the carriage, sans Cinderella, and he actually said, “Giddy up.”

  Mirna sprang into action, which was about the speed that I could walk if I was fall-down drunk and had a broken leg.

  “So why don’t you get Mirna a new friend?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to bring you down, brother. You paid for your time.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “Horses aren’t cheap. And there’s a waiting list at Chicago’s only stable. When Champ died, I lost his stall. Would take years to get another in town.”

  “Sorry.”

  He smiled wide, even though his eyes were glassy. “That’s life, brother. You want to know the secret to happiness?”

  “Does that cost extra?”

  “Free to all paid riders.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Always eat like it’s your last meal ever. Make love like it’s for a tandem gold medal. Exercise like there’s a gun to your head. Love like it’s your super power. And keep smiling.”

  He had something there. Except for the exercise part.

  We got to my place, I had him pull over, and then I tipped him twenty bucks. He smiled, even with tears on his cheeks.

  I almost took the twenty back. Way to put a damper on my mood.

  Back at my place, I spent the day cleaning up, ordering pizza (Rover got the box), dealing with the new cleaning service and the window installers, and building a cyanoacrylate fuming chamber.

  Cyanoacrylate was a fancy name for superglue. I put a brand new coffee machine in a plastic storage bin, squirted a tube of superglue on the heating element, placed all the bullet casings in the bin on a wire rack, put in a small bowl full of water, then sealed it up and plugged in the coffee machine.

  Half an hour later, I unplugged the machine, opened up the lid (avoiding the fumes, and then began to dust the cartridges with a make-up brush and some black powder.

  When heated, the glue vaporized and stuck to the fingerprints on the bullets. The black dust made them stand out. I found eight prints, and lifted them off the casings using some clear packing tape.

  After mounting the tape on white paper, I scanned the images on my computer printer, then accessed Chicago’s online fingerprint database using my old password. I ran all eight prints, then waited to see if there was a match.

  Twenty minutes into a mediocre episode of Seinfeld (Kramer was far too outrageous to be realistic), I got a hit on the fingerprints.

  And it completely blew my mind.

  PHIN

  Freezing.

  Burning up.

  Fever dreams.

  You wanted to live, Earl said. Life is pain. Deal with it.

  I dealt with it.

  How many days?

  Fever. Hot.

  Pick up knife.

  Scrape. Scrape.

  Drop knife.

  Shivering.

  Find knife.

  Scrape.

  Four bullets left.

  So this is it? You’re finally gonna end it?

  “Yes,” I mumble.

  Aim the barrel.

  Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

  Three shots into the wood.

  Drop gun.

  Bullets made hole bigger.

  Arm through.

  Feel around the outside of the door.

  A board, barring the door closed.

  Rests in two slats on each side.

  Board is big.

  Too heavy to lift.

  Can’t grip it with my hand. Slippery from blood.

  Try pushing it. Too tight.

  Push hard, until my head is bursting and my tongue is bleeding.

  The board moves.

  A third of the way…

  Half way…

  Two thirds…

  Try the door.

  Still won’t open.

  Stick my hand through the hole and push at the board with my fingertips.

  Can’t push any further. Out of reach.

  What now, Phin?

  I noticed you saved the last bullet.

  “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Earl,” I rasped. “You notice the little things.”

  Why’d you do that? Have you finally given up? Gonna have your last meal, a .380 in the mouth?

  Ignore him.

  Be honest, Phineas. Is it checkout time?

  It’s checkout time, all right.

  Time to check out of that goddamn wooden box.

  Find the gun.

  Use it to reach another few inches.

  Stick arm through hole.

  Drop the gun.

  Can’t find where it dropped.

  Sob.

  I worked off my boot, and shoved it into the hole.

  Too big to fit through.

  Rage sucked up the last of my strength, screaming and swearing, using all I had left to push and punch and kick that goddamn leather boot through that goddamn hole.

  I got part of the heel through—

  Look at you go!

  —then the rest.

  I grabbed the heel and used the boot toe to prod the remaining length of board away. The boot wasn’t stiff enough for a steady push, so I had to jab at it.

  Little baby kicks.

  Tap tap tap…

  Little by little, the board moved.

  I’m scraping my face, pressed up against the inside wall of the closet. My neck and back muscles were screaming.

  Tap tap…

  Like hammering a nail.

  Just a little more…

  Tap tap…

  Just a little…

  Tap.

  The board dropped away.

  I pushed the door open.

  I was free.

  JACK

  My experience with home invasion was, unfortunately, extensive. There were two kinds.

  The ones that wanted to rob you, and would run away if they knew you were home.

  And the ones who wanted to do you harm, who had come armed and ready to do so.

  Since this invader didn’t reply when I called out, I could only assume the latter. The rules when dealing with someone who wanted to harm you were simple.

  Call for help.

  If possible, get away.

  If you can’t get away, fight like your life depended on it. Because it does.

  Latham had phones in the kitchen and bedroom. The kitchen was closer.

  The kitchen was also in sight of the front door. Any call I made would be noticed.

  I didn’t know how many there were, or the weapons they had. I could make a run for the bedroom, and get to my gun and a phone, or make a run for the door and try to get away wearing nothing but a Kenny Rogers t-shirt.

  I dec
ided to go for the gun.

  This all ran through my head systematically, like I was reciting my shopping list while entering the grocery store. My fear was off the charts, adrenalin spiking, and I had all the fight or flight symptoms; fast heartbeat, sweaty palms, shaking legs, shortness of breath. But focusing on my next action, rather than focusing on the fact that someone was in the apartment, allowed me to act despite my terror.

  Being able to act in an emergency situation wasn’t because you were beyond fear. It was because you could still function, despite fear. That came from training, practice, and experience. So when I ran into the living room, I was mortified. I was just able to get past it and still function.

  Two steps into my sprint, I noticed a man with his back turned to me. As I lifted the shower curtain rod, aiming for his neck, my eyes sent my brain half a dozen instant signals.

  He was mid-size.

  He wore a suit.

  He had a suitcase next to him.

  He had red hair.

  Latham.

  I narrowly avoided breaking his spine, my blow glancing off his shoulder instead. He spun around, eyes wide with surprise, and I saw he was wearing earbuds.

  He pulled one out. Kenny Rogers.

  “Jesus, Jack, you scared the crap out of me.”

  That was mutual. I let out a deep breath and lowered the rod. Latham glanced at it, a smile growing on his face.

  “Is this some sort of kinky sex thing?” he asked. “Because I’m all in.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow,” I said. Not the best welcome home greeting in the world, but I needed a minute to calm down.

  “Good to see you, too. After our last conversation, I thought I’d come back early and surprise you.”

  “Consider me surprised. I called your name, you didn’t answer. You know I get a bit jumpy.”

  “I do. But I didn’t expect you to be here. If I did, I would have brought flowers.”

  Tough to stay irritated at a guy that sweet. Plus, he was correct. This was his home, not mine.

  I went to Latham and gave him a warm kiss, his hands encircling my waist like they were custom made to fit me.

  I was happy I didn’t snap his spine. He was husband material.

  I kissed him a little harder, and he pulled away. “Need to shower, wash the travel off,” he said.

  How conscientious of him, wanting to be clean for me.

  Kinda spoiled the spontaneity of the moment, though.

  He pulled away, walking toward the bathroom, and then stopped. “I’ll probably need that,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I gave him the curtain rod.

  Twenty minutes later, I was in bed with my fiancé, kissing him, and seized by the irresistible urge to tell him how much I hated his apartment.

  It was the self-saboteur in me, forever vigilant that I might get too happy.

  “The floorplan is stupid, the parking sucks, the managers are jerks, and your appliances are ten years out of date and ugly,” I said.

  “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “We haven’t talked about where we’re going to live when we get married.”

  “Didn’t you just buy a house in Bensenville?” Latham asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that where you want to live?”

  “With my mother?”

  Latham laid back, lacing his fingers behind his head, sporting that happy-go-lucky look that attracted me to him in the first place. “I won’t lie. I like it here. And I’m not anxious to move to the suburbs, much as I love your mother.”

  J’accuse. “See! I knew it! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “But,” he added, “I’ll be fine living wherever, as long as I’m with you.”

  “So you’re okay with Bensenville?”

  “As long as you’re with me, I’d be okay living in the ninth circle of hell.”

  Which, coincidentally, was how I felt about Bensenville.

  I realized I’d been hoping that Latham would refuse to live in the burbs. Because then I could blame moving out on him.

  “Sometimes I think you don’t have a spine,” I said, knowing in this case that I was the one who didn’t have a spine, which made me feel worse about myself, which made me want to pick a fight with him so I could confirm my own inadequacies.

  Note to all shrinks: knowing how and why you screw your own life up doesn’t mean you’re able to stop doing it. I believed I had a handle on all of my many flaws, and I couldn’t change any of them.

  “What’s really bothering you?” he asked, looking concerned.

  His concern bugged me. He should have been calling me out on my bullshit, rather than wanting to listen.

  “If you think I’m wrong, tell me I’m wrong,” I told him.

  “These are your feelings, Jack. How can they be wrong?”

  I changed tactics. “When we were kissing in the living room, why did you stop to take a shower?”

  “Because I was late for my plane and didn’t shower this morning, and then spent six hours on a cramped flight, smelling myself.”

  “You killed all spontaneity.”

  “I apologize. Would you like me to take spontaneity lessons?”

  Now he was being cute. Which was even more irritating.

  “You know what? I haven’t been home in three days.” I put extra emphasis on the word home. “I think I need to check on my mother.”

  I sat up in bed.

  I wanted him to argue with me.

  I wanted him to fight for me.

  Hell, I would have settled for him being righteously irritated, and giving me a dismissive, “Whatever.”

  Instead, the bastard said, “Whatever makes you happy, Jack. Want to go out tomorrow night?”

  And he meant it. I was being a Queen Mother of All Bitches, and he was asking me out. And being sincere about it.

  What the hell was I doing with this guy? I didn’t deserve him. And he deserved better than me.

  You’d think that I would apologize, go back to bed, and have a fun time with the man I loved. Especially since it would mean I avoided going home and dealing with Mom and her ball-dragging friend, Mr. Long.

  But not me. I was directly asking for some space, Latham was giving me that space, and I resented him for that. My reward for an evening that I screwed up was to make it even worse by picking a fight with my mother.

  No wonder I was a homicide cop. Chasing scumbags was what I deserved.

  I dressed angrily, if such a thing is even possible, and when I went to leave, Latham walked with me to the door.

  “See you tomorrow?” he said, gently holding my shoulders.

  Tomorrow? That’s ridiculous. We need to go back to bed, right now.

  “I’ll call you,” I said.

  He moved to kiss me, I tensed, and instead his lips met my forehead.

  “Drive safe. Love you. Give Mom my best.”

  Drive safe. Love you. Give Mom my best.

  What a jerk.

  I cried in the car, furious with myself and my bad behavior.

  Why was I trying to drive away the best guy in the world?

  Did I fear marriage? I was married, once. It didn’t work out. I spent too much time at work, and he resented it and started to show me how much he resented it.

  On the surface, that was a decent enough argument. Freud would eat it right up.

  But I knew there was more.

  Earlier, I thought someone had broken in to kill me. Broken in to my fiancé’s apartment.

  And I knew what to do. How to act. Hell, I was practically expecting it to happen to me.

  It would happen again. Maybe to Latham. And maybe I wouldn’t be there when it did.

  I hated living in the suburbs. And living with my mother was hard. But I did it, because Mom was attacked by a monster who had gone after me. She’d almost died.

  I lied to myself, and said the best way to keep my mother safe was to live with her.


  The truth was much simpler. The best way to keep her, and everyone I loved, safe and sound was to quit my job.

  Latham and I had discussed having kids. Which, to me, was the same thing as giving up my career.

  I chose to accept a long drive to boring, suburban Bensenville, over the many advantages to living in Chicago, because I chose the Job over my mother. And I seemed to be choosing the Job over Latham as well.

  What was missing in me to make me want to put murderers away? Why did I have to be the one to peer into the back of stolen rental trucks and memorize the horror?

  My mother was a cop. She did it to support me, when my father left. But she could have taken countless other jobs.

  I asked her about that, years ago, and she said something that stuck with me.

  “Since the beginning, people have preyed upon each other. The will to attack is in our genetic code. But so is the will to defend. All mothers know this. They are the protectors, who guard the innocent. I have that in me. You do, too. Without the ones who protect, who defend, the whole world would fall to the predators.”

  I believed that then, and I believe it now.

  But Mom never mentioned what a soul-destroying, thankless job it was.

  One more thing to fight with her about when I got home.

  I flipped on the radio. Of course it was in the middle of a Kenny Rogers song.

  Just what I deserved.

  HARRY

  The face staring back at me on my computer, the one that gave me such a surprise, was Harrison Harold McGlade.

  Me.

  My mind rifled through possible explanations. Time travel? Perhaps a past or future version of me travelled through time to kill me. Parallel dimensions? Somehow an alternate universe overlapped with ours, and a doppelganger crossed over to this dimension.

  No, those explanations were more suited to silly science fiction books.

  Had someone broken into my condo and pressed the bullets to my fingers while I slept? If so, why not kill me then?

  Maybe fake fingerprints. Like in spy movies.

  Or some super-hacker hacked into the Chicago Police Department files to frame me for my own murder.

  “Or maybe you left the print when you put the bullet into your fuming chamber,” said Rover’s voice in my head.

  “Maybe,” I said aloud. But I also liked the super-hacker explanation.