The phone rang, shocking me out of my reverie.
“Phin, Jack. This is one bad son of a bitch you’ve got for a brother.”
“Run it down.”
“He’s spent nine of the last eighteen behind bars. Rape, assault, attempted murder, armed robbery… he’s a career dickhead. And worse. He’s a member of the Caucasian Nation.”
“That prison white supremacist group?”
My views on race were the same as my views on gender. All people were equal, no more to the story. People who didn’t like others because of their skin color, their chromosomes, or their ancestry, needed to go play in another gene pool.
“Not just prison. These Nazi assholes have branched out nationwide. They recruit in prison, then put their members to work when they’re released. Not minor shit. We’re talking domestic terrorism. Extortion. Murder. You remember that case a few years ago, the priest who was nailed to the floor? That was one of mine. Never caught the perp, but we had a lead the CN was involved. When we bring Hugo in, I’ll be very interested in talking to him.”
“Got an address?”
“He’s currently on parole. Got a pen?”
I took one of Kenny’s and wrote down the info on the back of a ledger. Current and former addresses, his Parole Officer contact info, and his place of employment, a garage in Aurora.
“Jesus, he’s six foot five and three hundred and forty pounds?”
That sounded bigger than I remembered. Maybe he’d gotten fat.
“And it’s all muscle,” Jack said.
Great.
“I’m looking at his mug shot. This is officially the scariest dude I’ve ever seen.” She lowered her voice. “Phin… if you need help with this. I mean, my personal help…”
“I appreciate it, but no need. You’ve done enough.”
It would have been good to have an extra gun or two on my side, but Harry and Jack were six hours away, and I had to meet Hugo in an hour. Plus, I didn’t need to drag them into my problem. They’d be great back-up, but I didn’t want their deaths on my conscience.
I already had enough on my conscience.
Outside I heard a siren, and I watched a squad car pull up.
“Cops are here,” I said. “You called?”
“I called one of my homicide detectives. Tom Mankowski. I trust him.”
“Does he know I’m not sticking around for a statement?”
“Yeah. But don’t give him shit. He’s tougher than he looks.”
Tom got out of the car. He was a lean guy, tall, with a ponytail.
“He looks like Thomas Jefferson.”
“He knows. Keep me in the loop, Phin.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
She hung up. I saw a cardboard sign in the corner of Kenny’s booth window. One I’d never seen before.
A CLOSED sign. I’d never seen it, because it was on the other side of the OPEN sign, and the motel was always open.
I turned the card, facing it the other way. Then I stepped outside to greet the cop.
HUGO
Hugo honed Göth against the wet stone, tenderly as caressing a lover, while Pasha watched in terrified silence.
Talking to the woman had been… interesting. Hugo wasn’t the sharing type. In prison, the only one he ever spoke more than a sentence to was Whitman, and that was mostly asking questions to clarify something stupid the older man had said. Hugo had never discussed his past, with anyone. He wasn’t one to reflect on the past, and no one ever cared enough to ask.
If Pasha had meant for him to develop feelings for her through conversation, the trick actually worked. Prior to the talk, Hugo felt nothing for his brother’s girlfriend.
But now, he felt anger.
Anger, at the world, for making him different than everyone else.
Anger, at Phin, for being able to fit into this world even though his childhood had been just as messed up as Hugo’s had been.
Anger, at Pasha, for believing that decency was a plus rather than a handicap.
But Hugo would show her that being decent didn’t get you anywhere.
In prison, the way to truly punish someone, to truly hurt them, was to rape them.
Hugo’s sex drive had disappeared years ago, when constant steroid use shrank his balls to the size of shelled peanuts. Though he raged with testosterone, lately Hugo’s dick was only good for urinating.
But there were other ways to terrorize and debase people. Plenty of other ways.
Hugo considered what he was going to do to Phineas, when he saw him again. The news that Phin was alive still hadn’t completely sunken in. Hugo had always assumed his brother was dead.
He’d tried to find him. While in prison, Hugo would get phone books. He started with Chicago, and then branched out in all directions, looking for Phin’s name. He’d told Whitman, and Packer, that finding his brother was a priority. The CN even hired a firm that specialized in finding people, tracking social security numbers and credit cards and past addresses, and they’d come up empty.
When Phin was finally located, it made sense why he was so hard to find.
Hugo’s brother was a thug.
The CN had found him through an accident. Some skinheads were out whooping it up in Chinatown on a Saturday night, baiting the locals and stomping heads, and they’d run into a local gang called the Clan.
The skins kicked the shit out of them, then relieved them of their weapons and wallets. Found in one of their pockets was a hit list; seven names of people that the Clan had murder contracts on.
The only Caucasian on the list, other than the mayor of Chicago, was Phineas Troutt. Since Hugo Troutt was a legend in the Order, the skins brought the list and the schlammensch to the closest headquarters and got the story out of him.
It seemed that brother Phineas had endeared himself to the Clan by beating them up on multiple occasions. Further interrogation provided the Order with Phin’s address, a rundown motel on Michigan Avenue in Chinatown
Hugo personally questioned the owner. He was a tough old bastard, but eventually coughed up the name of Phin’s girlfriend, Dr. Bipasha Kapoor.
Now brother Phineas was coming to save his little girlfriend. And Hugo had to come up with a suitable horrible way to kill him.
“What are you thinking?” Pasha asked. Her voice was dripping with fear, and she obviously hadn’t liked the way he’d been eyeing her, stroking his razor over the stone.
“While inside, I broke all of a guy’s fingers. All ten. A new one every day. By the third day, be begged the bulls to be put in PC, the protective custody unit. He was in there for a month, and when he got out, I started over. One a day. Ten days. He took it. Blubbered and begged, but didn’t try to run. You know what he said the worst part was?”
Pasha didn’t reply. She had a light brown complexion, but she’d gone a shade whiter than Hugo.
“Wiping his ass,” Hugo answered. “He couldn’t wipe his ass with ten broken figures. So he walked around, smelling like shit, until they healed.”
“And what did you feel? While you were doing this?”
“The same thing I always do,” he said. “Nothing.”
“If you feel nothing, why are you doing this? Keeping me here? Going after Phin?”
Hugo shrugged. “Everyone has to do something. You work here, killing babies. I bet you’ve killed more people than I have. Why do you do it?”
“I only terminate pregnancies if the fetus in nonviable.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the fetus wouldn’t survive outside the womb. In most of the procedures I do, the mother has carried the fetus for less than fifteen weeks. It’s only two inches long. It can’t even feel pain.”
“How do you know?”
“Science. In fetal development, the nervous system isn’t developed enough to send pain signals until the third trimester.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“That’s what the science shows.”
“How a
bout you? Personally? How do you experience pain?”
Pasha didn’t answer.
“Have you ever had a broken bone, Doctor?”
“I… I broke my arm. When I was a kid.”
“Do you remember what it felt like?”
She nodded.
“My father broke my leg, once. I started to cry, and he slapped me until I shut up.” Hugo laughed. “That took a while.”
“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
“People have such fear of pain. It’s just a sensation. Like an itch. Or feeling cold. It can be controlled.”
Hugo dried Göth off on his pants leg and gave him the sharpness test. Holding the blade flush to his thumbnail, Hugo pressed down and watched as the metal parted the nail, biting into the skin beneath it. He then peeled the nail back and cut it off at the base, revealing bloody, sticky flesh underneath.
“So, you have congenital analgesia,” Pasha said. “You can’t feel pain.”
Hugo shook his head. “I feel this. Right now the nerves in my finger are firing. I know I’m injured. Pain hurts me the same as it hurts you. But I don’t let it affect me. It’s not that difficult to do. Your brain knows it’s happening, but you push it aside. Would you like to try it?”
“No.” Pasha shook her head.
“I think you should try it,” Hugo said, standing up. “Does your phone take pictures?”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“It will only hurt,” Hugo moved toward her, “if you let it.”
PHIN
Hugo had to assume I’d come armed, so he had to have some kind of safeguard against that. Maybe I’d simply be frisked before being allowed in. Maybe he’d shoot me before I even got out of my vehicle. There were many possibilities, none of them good.
I tried not to think about Pasha, but did anyway. Was she still alive? If so, what was he doing to her? I tortured myself with every possible scenario, one worse than the next.
Funny, how everyone wants love in their life, yet love can hurt worse than anything in the world.
It’s what I deserved for trying to have a normal life.
I walked over to Detective Mankowski in the parking lot, my hands in front of me, all ten fingers up.
“Tom?”
He nodded. “You’re Phin.”
I nodded back. We spent a few seconds sizing each other up. He didn’t seem impressed. I didn’t blame him.
“Body is in there?”
“Yeah. It’s messy.”
“I’m going to have to call a crime scene team here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are we going to find any surprises?”
“There’s some carpet that pulls up in the corner of the room. I keep knives under the floorboard. I took them off of guests here. I am—I was—the security guard at the motel.”
“And none of them can be linked to this?”
“No. I didn’t kill him. My brother did.”
“Hugo,” Tom said. “I checked out his file. Must have been tough growing up for you.”
He had no idea.
“We’re going to have to cordon off this place. If there’s anything you need, grab it now.”
“I got what I need, and I won’t be back.”
Tom fished into the pocket of his jeans, took out a business card. “If you find him, call me. I’ll send in the cavalry.”
I accepted the card, and held out my hand. We shook.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Any friend of Jack’s.”
I went back to the check-in booth, and Tom went off to process a murder victim. After grabbing my suitcase, I almost left to get into my truck, but an idea stopped me.
Hugo was bigger and stronger, and he probably had a team on his side. I was outmatched, outnumbered, and outgunned. The only chance I had to rescue Pasha was by outthinking him.
Kenny Jen Bang Ko drove a 1993 Cadillac Fleetwood. Not the prettiest car when it came out fifteen years ago, and it hadn’t aged well. For a man who hardly went anywhere, he would diligently take the car out every Sunday, drive around the block, and return five minutes later. I asked him about it once, and he told me that the Cadillac symbolized the American Dream, and since he immigrated to the United States he dreamed of owning a Caddy.
I checked the keys I took from him, and saw the two gold keys, one with a square head, one with a round head, each with the Cadillac emblem.
Hugo would have people watching for my approach. And he’d know what kind of vehicle I drove. Kenny no doubt shared that information with him.
I didn’t see any reason why Kenny couldn’t share his car with me.
Suitcase in hand, I left the office and walked to the Cadillac. I knew the spot where Hugo wanted to meet. West of Humboldt park, near the train tracks, was an industrial park. Five or six factories, abandoned since the 80s, defying gentrification and crumbling in plain sight.
It was one of only a few neutral zones in the city used by Chicago street gangs for deals, pacts, and occasional rumbles. I was there in ten minutes.
I arrived almost fifty minutes before our meet time, but had no idea which of the buildings matched the address Hugo gave me. They all looked the same; made of brown, beige, and red brick, four to six stories, flat sides, flat roofs, lower windows boarded off. Higher than the third floor, one out of every three windows was broken. Anything painted was peeling, anything iron was rusty. Ugly, forgotten tributes to a Chicago that used to be an industrial hub, succumbed to neglect and urban decay.
Among the dead were an old float glass factory, a brewery, a gristmill, and a foundry. I rolled past the brewery, looking for an address, finding a faded sign that told me I was a block too far north. I swung the car around—it handled surprisingly well considering its size—and headed back down Monticello, rolling past the foundry.
Like the buildings, it was dark, no electricity. I slowed down, but didn’t stop in case I was being watched. The first two doors I rolled past hadn’t seen any use in decades They were scarred, rusty, metal things, their handles having been broken off and chains barring them shut. Even with the chains removed, nothing short of a minor explosion would get those doors open.
The third door appeared pretty much the same as the first two. I’d almost completely passed it when I noticed one minor difference. The hinges on this one were shiny steel, a stark contrast to all the rust and decay.
New hinges. This door, as immobile as it appeared, probably opened. And if it could be opened, there could be someone inside.
Turning the corner, the building met up with a chain link fence topped with razor wire. The fence and the wire both looked old and rusted, but oddly enough there weren’t any tears or missing links one would expect in an old fence.
I continued down the street, hung a left, and parked. Then I hung the shotgun over my shoulder, put my 9mm in my belt, and looked for a flashlight before remembering I kept it in the Bronco. It was probably just as well. Holding a flashlight would be like wearing a bullseye.
I stuck a knife in each back pocket, then got out of the car and walked back toward the steelworks. When I got to the fence, I knelt, pretending to tie my shoe as I examined the chain link.
It wasn’t rust. It was rust-colored paint.
The fence extended around the entire back of the building, enclosing an acre or so of parking lot and three big loading docks, all of which looked disused. I strolled by the gate in the fence, which was chained shut with a shiny new padlock.
The gate ran on a track, and the track was well-greased. Looking out of the corner of my eye as I passed, I tried to watch the windows on the third floor. Several were broken and some were boarded up, and I didn’t see any sign of human life except for a brief orange dot that disappeared almost immediately.
Someone at the window, dragging on a cigarette.
I continued around the block, found a number painted on the side, confirming this was the address.
Was Pasha already here? Was that Hugo in the window, smoking?
I did
n’t think he’d recognize me. It had been years, and I’d been younger and had hair. Also, Hugo wasn’t the type to smoke. When we were younger, he’d been seriously into lifting weights. I could picture Hugo abusing steroids, or protein powder, but not tobacco.
Back at the car, I considered my options.
Knock on the door? Bad idea. That was what they expected me to do, and there had to be a plan in place to disarm me. A gun held to Pasha’s head would be enough for me to throw down my weapons.
Pick the lock? Bad idea. I’d be seen. Plus, I couldn’t pick locks.
Blow off the locks? Breaching a door with a shotgun wasn’t as simple as it looked on TV. Plus, the door was metal, set into a brick wall, and Kenny’s gun only had a pistol grip. I’d likely break my wrist before I broke the door lock. Also, they’d be watching my approach. I’d already walked past the building once. If I did it again, they’d be on full alert.
Which left only one possibility.
I buckled up, hoping the Caddy was a new enough model to be equipped with airbags. Then I pulled out of the alley.
The trick to it was swerving at the right moment. If it was just a head-on collision, I wouldn’t even need to be in the car; a brick on the accelerator and a rope on the steering wheel would be enough. But I needed to come at it perpendicular from down the street, then jump the curb and turn into the door on an angle. Too sharp a turn and I’d lose control of the car. Too shallow a turn and I’d miss the door completely, running into the brick wall instead.
This is a stupid plan.
No shit. But I ignored Earl, pulling around the block, focusing on the task at hand. Turning the corner to where the door awaited, I took a deep breath, pictured Pasha in my mind, and floored it.
The Cadillac bounced on its shocks and sprang forward, fuel injection feeding cylinders and squealing tires. I had my right hand tight on the wheel at 12 o’clock, my armpit pinning the shotgun against my side.
I passed the first door, accelerating fast. Time seemed to slow down. I heard the engine whine high then low, switching gears.
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 65
