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

by J. A. Konrath

  “That’s… awful.”

  Yeah. But I was used to it. “Why do you hate change so much?”

  She slumped down in her seat. “The more things change, the less control you have.”

  “So why do you need to be in control?”

  Jack mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “Say that again, Jackie. Why do you need to be in control?”

  “Because someone has to be,” she said.

  “Do you believe in evil?” Jack asked, somewhere near the Wisconsin border.

  A tricky question. There were certainly bad people, but there was no malevolent force known as evil that corrupted the minds of men. “I believe in human nature. We do things. Some are selfish. Some harm others. One man’s fun is another man’s revulsion.”

  “How can people do that? Think the pain of someone else is fun?”

  I checked the rearview. “I don’t think that the majority do. Even violent criminals. Most of them do it to survive, or because they don’t know any other way. Look at our mutual friend, Phin. Violent guy. But he doesn’t get his kicks being violent. It’s a job. He’s good at it. So are you. You were ready to beat up six guys. And you probably could have done it. Why didn’t you just pull your weapon?”

  “Crowded area.”

  “Crowded my ass. I scared them off without firing a single shot.”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “Do you believe in evil?” I asked her.

  “I think there are monsters,” she said. “And someone’s gotta hunt them.”

  Jack fell asleep before we passed Madison. I drank an energy drink, tweaked my radar/laser detector, checked the rearview mirror, and drove really fast.

  Just east of the Twin Cities, I found a roadside motel. The kind where all the rooms were lined up, and you entered them from brightly colored doors facing the parking lot. The guy at check-in was old. Real old. So old that he remembered what the Sphinx’s nose looked like. He peered at my car through the lobby window, saw Jack asleep in the front seat, and winked at me.

  “Single bed?”

  I shook my head. “Two beds. Two rooms.”

  He looked disappointed.

  Back at the Vette, I gave Jack a tap on the shoulder, and her eyes flipped wide open as she automatically reached for her holster. That was the effect I had on women.

  “We’re at a motel,” I said, holding her wrist so she didn’t shoot me.

  Jack blinked a few times. “Oh, shit. We came to Minnesota.”

  “Welcome to sobriety.”

  Jack looked at the motel behind me. “This is embarrassing, but I’m broke.”

  “It’s okay. I’m charging my client crazy money for expenses.” I handed her the key, a bottle of water, some snack cakes, and some ibuprofen.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I mean it.”

  I don’t know why that hit me in the feels, but it did. “See you in the morning. And don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure it’s me.”

  Jack trudged off to her room. I went to mine and made a call.

  “Hey, Rover. It’s Harry. Sorry I won’t be home tonight. I might be gone for a few days. You should have more than enough food until then. I know that’s not fair to you, being alone, but I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” I imagined him staring at the phone, listening. He looked lonely. “Maybe we’ll go see Mirna again. Sleep tight.”

  When I hung up, I checked the parking lot. No one had pulled in after us.

  That was reassuring. A few times during our car trip, we were being followed by a white van. I’d seen it at least four times in the last six hours.

  Maybe someone was just taking the same route as us. Maybe it was more than one van, and all vans look alike at night.

  But I had a nagging feeling that someone had tailed us from Chicago.

  Maybe I should have mentioned it to Jack, but I was pretty sure I lost them during the last fifty miles. Besides, if it was my sniper buddy, he’d have no interest in shooting her. She’d be fine. It was me he was after.

  Little did I know how wrong I was.

  And there’s that foreshadowing thing again.

  PHIN

  It took five tolls to get me out of Illinois and into Wisconsin. I did the speed limit plus three miles an hour, reluctant to push it any faster. If some state trooper pulled me over and saw my bag of guns, I’d be faced with a moral dilemma of whether or not to send money to his widow. The little time I had left wasn’t going to be spent in jail, whether the cop was in the right or not.

  But cops avoided me, and I entered Wisconsin without incident. By the time I had passed through the Wisconsin Dells, I’d been in the car for about three hours, and my various aches and pains had all combined into one huge, dull throb. Earl and my wrists and my cramped hands and my bruises all seemed to swell with every heartbeat, and clench with every deep breath. Add the fact that the cab of my truck at night was a little too much like being trapped in that wooden box, and I was starting to feel slightly panicked. Opening the windows didn’t help. Neither did listening to music. When the shakes started I pulled into a gas station.

  I still had half a tank, which I topped off, but the main reason I stopped was because the trapped feeling was making it hard to breathe.

  I guess I could officially add claustrophobia to my list of problems.

  I paid for the gas and bought some aspirin, the one thing I’d forgotten to bring along. The aspirin cost me six bucks, and the gas thirty, and I dry-swallowed seven pills, got behind the wheel, and got on my way.

  At the rate I was going, I wouldn’t reach Lake Violet until past midnight. Since I had no idea how many people lived on the lake, it might take a while to find Shears. I wouldn’t be able to start until the morning, so I’d have to find a place to crash.

  Flashing lights, behind me.

  Police car.

  Now what? Earl asked. Go to jail, die in a prison hospital?

  I checked my speed. Sixty-seven, only two miles an hour over the posted limit. Maybe he was just coming up fast to pass.

  Nope. He hung to my bumper, tailing and urging me to pull over.

  I considered my options. What did he have on me? Priors? I didn’t have any violations connected with this truck. Unless…

  The last time I drove back from Milwaukee I was pretty stoned on coke. Cocaine, among its many virtues, gave a person a feeling of invincibility, so I happened to be going about a hundred miles per hour. A cop tried to stop me then, and to get away from him I pulled off the expressway and cut through a field. Not one of my shining moments, though I did manage to avoid getting caught.

  But if he’d gotten my plate number…

  Decision time. I either had to stop and try and deal with this, or try and get away from it. If I ran, my plates would be all over Wisconsin, every trooper keeping an eye out. If I stopped, I might have to kill someone, and every trooper would be keeping an eye out.

  The terrain made my decision for me. The highway ran through heavily wooded forest. I had nowhere to run to.

  I pulled over to the side of the road and opened the window.

  What are you gonna do, Phin? Kill him?

  I put on my ball cap, and put my 9mm between my legs. The cop strutted over to my window, making a show of unbuttoning the top of his side holster.

  “License and registration,” he said.

  I thought it over. Then I said, “No.”

  I could tell my answer took him by surprise, because he hesitated. Whoever said he who hesitates is lost was right; during his pause I’d pointed my gun at him.

  “Don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t even think, and maybe you’ll live through this. Step away from the truck. Slowly.”

  I kept the S&W aimed at his chest, using my left hand to open my door. As I got out of the truck, I pressed the barrel into his belly.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Jackson. Paul Jackson.”

  His voice was softer that it was when he’d asked m
e for my license, and pitched two octaves higher. His brown eyes were scared to slits, and his raised hands were trembling. He was in his twenties, shorter than I was, and obviously in no mood to die.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Paul. But I’ve been driving a long time, and my system is just loaded with caffeine. It’s making me real jumpy. If you try to be stupid and don’t listen to me, the gun may go off by itself. Now put your hands down.”

  He obeyed and I stood close to him, keeping my arm at my side and the gun at his gut. A car passed by, but didn’t slow down. We were just a cop and a motorist, having a chat.

  “Got your dash cam on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it just record? Or is it a live feed back to the station?”

  “Records. Just records.”

  “I hope you’re telling the truth, Paul. Because if another police car comes up the road, the first thing I’ll do is shoot you.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Button up your holster, Paul. Slowly, so I don’t get nervous.”

  He moved so slowly I could hardly tell he was moving.

  “Faster than that, Paul.”

  He picked up the pace slightly and snapped the leather strap over his gun.

  “Good, Paul. Now we’re going to walk back to your car. Nice and easy.” We did just that, sticking close together. “You pulled me over because of my plates, right Paul?”

  I kept repeating his name to keep him calm. People liked hearing their own name.

  Paul nodded.

  “What charge?”

  “Speeding. Reckless driving. Resisting arrest.”

  “No murder? How could they have forgotten murder?”

  “Please. I’ve got a wife.”

  “And I’m sure you love her a lot. That’s why you have to listen carefully, Paul. Radio your dispatch and tell them you mixed up on my license plate. You pulled over the wrong truck. And keep in mind that I was a cop for three years, and if you try anything funny on the radio then your poor wife will get your pension early.”

  He reached over for the handset and spoke into it. “Dispatch, this is car seven-niner, over.”

  “Go ahead, car seven-niner.”

  “Negative on the one-three-four. Wrong vehicle.”

  “Roger that, seven-niner. You drinking tonight, Paul?”

  “Not yet,” he looked at me. “But I’m gonna have a few when my shift ends.”

  There was a chuckle. “I hear you, over.”

  “Seven-niner out.”

  I pressed the 9mm firmly into Paul’s back and unbuttoned his holster, relieving him of his gun. I also took his cuffs from the leather case on his belt.

  “Turn off you flashers,” I told him.

  He reached on the dashboard and did just that.

  “Handcuff keys.”

  “Back pocket.”

  I found them, and tossed them into the ditch next to the road. His gun followed, and so did the radio handset, which I yanked free. On a whim, I took the silver shield from his chest and put it in my pocket.

  Never knew when a badge might come in handy.

  “Hands behind your back, Paul. Maybe you’ll live to have those drinks.”

  I made him lock his wrists behind him, and then maneuvered him to the rear car doors. I opened the door and shoved him in the back seat, face-first. Since the back seat of police cars had no door handles, he was effectively trapped until another police car came by.

  I shut the door, hopped into the front seat, and drove off the road, into some bushes. Then I parked and killed the engine.

  “How long before they know you’re gone?”

  “Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

  “And how long until they come looking?”

  “Twenty. Maybe thirty.”

  I turned off all the lights, left the vehicle, and threw the car keys into the darkness.

  As I walked back to my truck, I wondered if I shouldn’t have done it differently. It bought me some time, but how much?

  Maybe I needed to change tactics.

  I pulled out the map of Wisconsin and studied it. The closest town of any considerable size was Eau Claire, with a population of seventy thousand. It was forty or so miles ahead.

  I pulled away from the cop car and kept one eye on the rearview mirror.

  I got to Eau Claire in twenty minutes.

  The town’s main drag was the expressway, and everything slowed down to forty miles an hour as supermarkets, fast food joints, and gas stations competed for the traffic’s attention. I pulled into the busiest shopping center I could find and parked.

  My tool box was in the back, and I liberated two screwdrivers, a Phillips and a flat head. Then I got out of the truck and removed my license plates using the Phillips.

  I went back into my cab and took out the brown paper bag that I used for garbage. It was half-filled with pop cans and candy wrappers. I added my plates to the mix and went shopping, the bag in my hand.

  A Ford Bronco is a popular truck and I found my first one after twenty minutes of walking through the parking lot. After discreetly looking to see if any owner was coming, I removed the front plate and replaced it with mine. Then I did the same with the rear plate. My new plates went into the bag. I searched for another fifteen minutes before I found another Bronco, and again I did a plate exchange.

  My license plates were now twice removed from my vehicle.

  If either of those trucks were pulled over, it would take a lot of sorting out before the law figured out which plates I was using. I made my way back to my truck, put the new plates on, and got back on the road, feeling a little better about my situation.

  The smarter move would have been to ditch the Bronco altogether, but I had limited funds on me to buy a new one, and stealing a car was asking for trouble. Hopefully this would be enough to get me where I was going.

  The map told me that once past Eau Claire I had to head West toward the Minnesota border. That took about eighty minutes, driving through darkness so thick it had weight.

  I used to love the dark. I wondered if I ever would again.

  I still like the dark. It’s dark inside you. It lets me eat in peace.

  I ignored Earl, rolled through the tangled on ramps and off ramps of the Twin Cities, and then started looking for a place to spend the night. I followed some signs to the Woodland Motel, waking up the fat proprietor and giving him cash and a false name. My room was small and smelled musty from lack of use. The tourist business wasn’t what it used to be, I guess.

  Six more aspirin found their way into my mouth, along with two glasses of water. The night was cool, and I pulled the stiff blankets up to my chin, staring through my window at a traffic light a block away.

  Green.

  Yellow.

  Red.

  Green.

  Yellow.

  Red.

  I closed my eyes and thought about how I was going to kill Tucker Shears.

  JACK

  Motels for me were torture. A strange, hard bed. Different smells. Strange sounds. I didn’t expect to sleep a wink.

  My headache didn’t help things.

  I remembered too many beers at that Irish pub, Lester and his ski mask buddies, too many whiskeys with McGlade, talking to Dalt at the Amaco, and talking to the Feebies, but the later stuff was just fragments, not clear memories.

  And now I was in Minnesota, out of my jurisdiction, following up on a murder case that was no longer mine.

  Why? To save lives? To catch bad guys? To salve a bruised ego? To avoid dealing with my fiancé and mother?

  I decided to focus on the first two. Saving those women, and putting away the Motel Mauler. Those goals were altruistic, not selfish, and I was tired of dwelling on how selfish I’d been.

  Enough of the moping, Jack. Be the woman you want to be, not the one you wished you weren’t.

  I took some ibuprofen, drank the water, ate one of the dessert cakes, and closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep.


  My will wasn’t strong enough.

  Sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I turned on the TV. Since I’m human, and there was nothing else on, I flipped on one of the dirty channels and found a badly dubbed foreign softcore comedy. From the ugly hair and ugly clothes, it must have been made in the seventies. The plot involved a guy with very large sideburns who had two dicks. For some reason unknown to me, this drove the women wild, and every time he dropped his pants the girls around him would disrobe.

  The movie was so mind-numbing, so perfectly awful, that less than ten minutes into it I did the unexpected.

  I fell asleep.

  I woke up at a little after 6am. The television was still on, the dirty channel having some sort of big boob contest on some beach. I flipped it off and wondered if softcore porn could be the cure for my insomnia. I’d have to look into it when I got back.

  My headache was tolerable. I did my exercises. A hundred sit-ups. Fifty push-ups. Two hundred squats. Then I showered, toweled off, dressed, and went in search of a toothbrush.

  The day was bright, crisp, and glorious. It smelled different than Illinois, woodsy and clean.

  I hadn’t been lucid enough last night to pay attention which room McGlade was in, and I wasn’t going to start knocking on random doors to find him, so I made my way to the lobby. The clerk was a sweet-looking older woman who wore rouge like clowns wore greasepaint.

  “I’m in 112,” I said. “I checked in last night with a friend, and forgot his room number.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much of a friend, then.”

  “He’s alright. Annoying, but he has his moments. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”

  “Name?”

  “McGlade. Harry McGlade.”

  “He’s in 114.”

  “Thanks. And do you know where I can get a toothbrush, and something to eat?”

  “Toothbrush is right behind you, and there’s a diner just up the road. Follow the signs.”

  I nodded, turned, and saw a vending machine. It contained various sundries, including a wide variety of condoms. I managed to find four quarters in my purse, and got a disposable toothbrush with the toothpaste already added to the bristles.