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

by J. A. Konrath

  I pulled out the Arminius, but Eddie was bearing down on me ridiculously fast. I only had a few seconds before I was hamburger.

  I aimed.

  I fired.

  I missed.

  I fired.

  I missed.

  I fired twice.

  I missed twice.

  He got so close that there was no way I could miss him, even left-handed.

  I squeezed off my last two rounds—

  —and missed both times.

  The last thing I was ever going to see was the smile on that asshole’s face as he plowed over me. I didn’t even have time to jump out of the way.

  In a nanosecond, my entire life flashed before my eyes; never knowing my parents, never getting adopted, growing up in foster homes, being bullied in grade school, getting high with the bullies in high school, joining the Force, going private, getting a hit TV show, coming to Lake Violet. In that blink of an eye, I remembered every single time I got laid, every time I’d been sick, every terrific meal I’d ever eaten, all the stupid things I’d ever done, every cool place I’d ever visited, every failure, every triumph, all the times I laughed and all the times I cried, and most of all; the big, brown, loving eyes of my dwarf miniature pony, Rover.

  And as I took all of that in, I realized, with startling clarity, that in this whole big, messed-up, insane, ridiculous world, I was fucking awesome.

  Then, right before Eddie ran me down, there was a booming THUMP! sound, the boat veered away, and he was tossed a good five meters into the air, and then skipped across the top of the water like a rag doll without any bones. Probably because he broke them. All of them.

  His boat, now without a driver, began to circle. There was always a kill switch on big boats, to prevent that very thing from happening. You were supposed to pin it to your shirt, so if you fell overboard, the motor turned off.

  Eddie, apparently, hadn’t attached it to his shirt.

  I watched, half-fascinated, half-horrified, as his monster speedboat made a complete circle, and ran directly over his floating body.

  Then it stalled. I think because Eddie got caught in the dual props.

  “And that’s why it’s a called a kill switch,” I said.

  There was no one there to laugh, or give me a high-five. It made me feel kind of awkward.

  That’s when I noticed blood in the water. Not around Eddie, though I’m sure there was plenty of blood by him. But around my own boat.

  I couldn’t make any sense of it.

  Then it all made sense, once I saw the head floating in the water.

  Bambi.

  Eddie had ran into the deer that Phin and I dumped overboard. Cline’s boat had ripped Bambi open, spreading his insides across the water like a massive red flower with a long looping intestinal stem.

  It was the perfect fairytale ending.

  A hoof broke the surface and bobbed, as if waving at me.

  I waved back.

  JACK

  It all happened so fast, I could only get off a single shot, hitting center mass.

  Then the hallway was shredded, exploding in thousands of bits of wood paneling, carpet, and drywall.

  I crab-walked backward, turning onto all fours, getting my feet under me, running toward the kitchen, then sliding, like a baseball player, as I almost bumped into that fourth guy with the glasses whose name I didn’t know, immediately making an educated guess why he’d gone into the garage.

  It was probably to get that crossbow he was holding.

  I raised my gun, fired twice, both times hitting his crossbow as he raised it to shoot me, and then there was another BRATATATATATA! eruption of spitting lead from behind me, and the crossbow guy did the shot-by-a-machinegun dance and flopped onto the kitchen table.

  I turned over, onto my belly, extending my arms in front of me, watching as Garrett McConnroy fell to his knees, dropping the MAC-10, both hands holding the gushing wound in his chest.

  I pushed up off the floor, ran to him, picking up his gun, then checked on the crossbow guy, who had more holes in him than a mini-golf course, dead as dead got.

  The front door opened, and I spun, raising my .38.

  “Whoa,” Phin said, raising both hands, one of them wrapped around a 9mm. “It’s me.”

  Then noise, from behind, and Phin and I both aimed at the guy coming in through the patio.

  “What’d I miss?” said Harry McGlade.

  I did some quick math. “There were four guys. I got two.”

  “I got mine,” Harry said. “Well, technically, Bambi did. How ’bout you, hat bro?”

  “Tucker Shears ate something that disagreed with him.”

  I holstered my Colt, grabbed a kitchen towel, and went to Garrett, easing him onto his back, pressing the towel to the bullet wound.

  “You’re the Motel Mauler,” I stated.

  He blinked at me, wide-eyed, like I’d suddenly materialized there.

  “We all are. We’re all in The Club.” He coughed, blood speckling his lips. “It’s… The Club.”

  “Well, pinhead,” Harry told him, “consider your club membership… revoked!”

  McGlade raised his palm, wanting a high-five from me. “C’mon! Give it up!”

  I didn’t give it up. Neither did Phin.

  “You guys suck,” Harry said.

  “Where’s Eddie Cline?” I asked him.

  “His boat hit a deer. He fell out, and it ran him over. Cut him to pieces. And that’s why they call it a kill switch.”

  Harry raised his palm again. “C’mon.”

  “Quit begging for high-fives,” I told him. “How about Shears?”

  “I chased Shears into the woods,” Phin said. For some reason, he and Harry had on identical hats. “Shears pulled out a grenade. It blew up right in his hands.”

  “A grenade?”

  “And you’re both sticking to these stories?”

  “Mine was true,” Harry said.

  “Phin?”

  “True enough. Anyone call the police?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t do cops. I’ll catch you guys back in Chicago.”

  Phin turned and left.

  “Why is he even here?” I asked.

  “Funny story.”

  “And why didn’t you answer your radio?”

  “Also a funny story.”

  “And the identical hats?”

  “Phin is my hat bro. Are the two ladies here?”

  “Drugged, in the bedroom.”

  “So we did it. We got the bad guys and saved the day.”

  “Apparently.”

  Harry looked at me, a stupid grin on his face, hope in his eyes. Then he raised his palm up.

  What the hell. I gave him the damn high-five.

  PHIN

  I’d driven well into the night, ending up in Shorington, to see Vincent Scadder. It was just past 1am when I pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the ornate double doors. In my pocket was Amy’s Driver’s License, taken from the pile I found in Tucker’s safe. I rang the doorbell.

  Phyllis answered. She was wearing a house dress similar to the one I’d seen her in last time. It might have been the same one. Her blue eyes again stared at me through pools of bloodshot, and the liquor smell wafted off her body.

  “Oh. It’s the tough guy.”

  “Is your husband here?”

  “He’s upstairs, dying in the bedroom.”

  I walked in past her and climbed the spiral staircase to the second level.

  “What did you find out?” She called after me.

  I walked past Amy’s room, down to the end of the hall. The door was open and Vincent Scadder was lying in bed, watching me approach.

  He looked awful. Jaundice had given his eyes and complexion a yellow cast. His cheeks were sunken. In his pajamas, he seemed half the size of the man I met a few days ago.

  “Come in,” he said. “I’m not dead yet.”

  I entered, closing the door behind me
.

  “Did you find her?” he asked.

  “She’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  I handed him her license. He lowered his head and cried, briefly. When he finished he was obviously embarrassed.

  “Tell me how.”

  “Probably right after she ran away. Have you been watching the news, seen what’s happening in Minnesota?”

  “They’re digging up all those bodies.”

  I nodded.

  “Jesus. Were you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  I told him. All of it. From interviewing the chauffeur, to being locked in Tucker’s closet, to what happened in Minnesota. I only held out the part about his wife. When I finished, it was a while before he said anything.

  “So… it was just random that she got murdered? Just dumb luck?”

  “No.”

  “What was it?”

  “Your wife paid to have her murdered. She was worried Amy would blab about your drug dealing.”

  Scadder’s face went from yellow to white.

  “That was your coke in Amy’s car, wasn’t it? When she got pulled over.”

  “Yes.” His voice was small. “It was in my wall safe. Amy took it.”

  “Why?”

  “To punish us, I suppose. Years ago, I took a few chances in real estate. The chances didn’t pay off. I tried to cheat the IRS, but they found out. Fined me a ridiculous amount of money. I would have gone to prison if I didn’t pay it.”

  “So you started dealing.”

  “Not dealing directly. Not at first. I was a middle man. After years in the real estate business, I’d run across more than a few… shady characters. With a ten thousand dollar investment I could make fifty thousand. First, just selling to friends. Then, doing some distribution. Pretty soon I had dealers coming to me.”

  “Didn’t the IRS question where you got the money to pay them?”

  “Oddly enough, no. They didn’t care how I paid the fine, as long as I paid it. And after I paid them off, the money kept coming.”

  “That’s why you donated the auditorium to Amy’s school. A tax break.”

  He nodded, then began to cry.

  “Amy. My poor little Amy. I think I knew. I think I knew all along. Phyllis wouldn’t last in prison. She couldn’t live without the alcohol. So instead… to her own daughter… hiring some psycho…”

  Scadder blew his nose in some tissues next to the bed, and then appeared to calm himself. “Thank you, for taking care of Shears. I’d like to double your fee for that. But I need you to do one more thing for me.”

  He paused dramatically. I knew what was coming.

  “I want you to kill my wife.”

  It wasn’t the first time someone had asked me to murder his wife. I was once holding a gun on an important political figure. In exchange for his life, he gave me the option of murdering his wife and collecting on her considerable insurance policy.

  I declined. I also declined this time.

  “But you killed Shears.”

  “He needed killing.”

  “Phyllis killed my Amy.”

  I walked over to him and picked up the phone on his dresser, handing him the receiver.

  “Call the police and confess. I’m sure you could put her away for a while.”

  He frowned. “But I’d go to jail, too.”

  “We all have to make hard choices,” I said. “That’s life.”

  I walked out of the bedroom. Phyllis Scadder was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.

  “So?” she slurred. “What did you tell him?”

  I didn’t punch her.

  But I slapped her pretty goddamn hard.

  So much for my rule about not hurting women.

  She fell onto her ass and stared at me, more angry than hurt. Angry that the hired help raised a hand against her.

  I squatted down to her level. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Tucker told me everything. I’ve got the whole confession on tape. I’m taking it to the police. You’re going to get arrested. And then you’re going to go to prison for a very long time. Your life is about to be destroyed. Your family, your friends, they’re all going to know you’re a lousy drug dealer who had her own daughter killed. Your husband knows. He’s already on the phone with the lawyer, cutting you out of the Will. You’re going to die behind bars. Penniless. And despised. And sober.”

  I reached down, took the AMT from my boot heel.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Do it.”

  She wanted me to. I could see it.

  “Do it yourself.”

  I tossed the gun onto the rug behind her and walked out the door.

  The shot came before I even got to my Bronco.

  HARRY

  “It’s better this way,” I said. “I’m never home. I feed you cardboard and bags of sugar. And even though it doesn’t stick to anything, you’re getting horseshit everywhere. You’ll be better with your own kind.”

  Rover wasn’t even listening to me. He was too busy nuzzling Mirna.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” the sad carriage guy said. He was crying.

  I may have been a little misty-eyed myself.

  “I’m sure. You’ll help out when they want to make sweet, sweet love?”

  He nodded, sniffling. “Of course.”

  “Then my matchmaking work here is done. But under one condition.” I jabbed a finger at him.

  “Anything. Name it.”

  “Rover is a horse of leisure. He’s not a workhorse. I don’t want to be walking down Michigan Avenue someday and see him pulling a very small cart full of little people.”

  “Never. That would never happen.”

  I gave Rover a hug goodbye, and then went home.

  On the walk back, I texted Lester and those car thief pinheads. They’d replaced the tires they slashed, but they were mismatched. I gave them until tomorrow to fix it, or else I went viral with the ass-kicking video.

  If I played my cards right, I’d never have to buy another car part again.

  The dick condo manager was waiting by my front door when I got off the elevator.

  “So,” I said, not hiding my distaste. “You pulled through.”

  “I’m a changed man, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Are you now?”

  “I almost died. And that made me reevaluate everything. My life. My job. The beauty and wonder of all god’s creatures. Your horse—I’m sorry—your dog… he saved me. I remember the bullets zipping past, and him pulling me to safety. He’s a hero, Mr. McGlade. As long as I work here, Rover will always have a place in this building.”

  “I just sold him to a guy outside for fifty bucks,” I said.

  “Oh.” His enthusiasm dimmed about a hundred watts. “I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He turned to leave, but I had a thought. “Hey, wait a sec. If I wanted to get some other kind of exotic pet, maybe a monkey, or a parrot, or a potbellied pig, could I do that?”

  The little weasel perked right back up. “Any creature you bring into your condo is welcome! More than welcome!”

  “Good to hear it. See you around… uh… buddy.”

  He walked off without me getting his name.

  “So, I’m calling for two reasons,” I said into my new phone. “First, to tell you the uplifting story about how The Weekly Advent, your Christian newspaper, saved my life. I was pinned down, desperate, and your wonderfully persistent salesperson called 911 for me. It’s an amazing, heart-pounding tale, full of miracles and Jesus and God and all that shit. And I’m willing to share this story with you, The Weekly Advent, for only ten easy payments of $69.99.”

  “Um, we don’t pay people for stories.”

  “I completely understand. I’ll call you back tomorrow to ask you again. And the day after that. And the day after that. And every day for the rest of the year. Which brings me to the second reason I’m calling.”

  I yelled into the receiver as loud as I could. “CANC
EL MY GODDAMN SUBSCRIPTION!”

  “I’m grateful that Cherry and Puma are safe,” Kahdem said into the phone. “Thank you.”

  “We could meet at the Big Stinky Onion if you’d like to give me a bonus,” I said.

  “No bonus. And no Big Stinky Onion.”

  “How about free lap dances every time I go to your club?”

  “I’d never make my employees give a free lap dance.”

  “Free booze?”

  “No. I hired you for a job, you did what you were hired to do. I should not have to provide a bonus.”

  “How about you let me dance at your club?”

  “What? On stage?”

  “I always wanted to try it.”

  Kahdem sighed. “Fine. You can dance on stage. One time. For one song.”

  Score.

  I danced for one and a half songs, and made six bucks in tips. Then I bought lap dances for everyone.

  Just like I said. I was fucking awesome.

  Does that wrap everything up? All loose ends neatly tied? All dangling storylines finished? Every mystery solved? No more questions to be—

  My phone rang, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Enjoy that breath, McGlade.” It was, quite conveniently, my secret admirer with the voice gizmo. “For you will never get—”

  “Shut up,” I interrupted. “I know who you are.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t have a clue.”

  “I do have a clue. I have several clues. First, every mystery only has so many characters. You have to be someone who was introduced during the story. Second, you left me two messages. And they reveal who you are. Not by what you said, but by what you didn’t say.

  Are you playing along at home? Do you think the person sending me death threats is:

  That homeless guy I almost hit.

  Fakir’s mother, angry that I got a bargain.

  Jack Daniels, just because the author loves dumb plot twists.

  None of the above.

  “If you said none of the above,” I said into the phone. “You are correct.”

  “Are you talking to me?” she asked.

  “Yeth I am, Gina Morrith from the Department of Motor Vehicles!”