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

by J. A. Konrath

“What do you mean?”

  “It’s like you try really hard to make people not like you.”

  “Not true. I test people, to see if they’re worthy to hang around with me. Can you check the glove compartment for diaper cream? I just dropped a brown pound.”

  “Can you ever be serious?”

  “What’s the point?” Harry asked. “Everyone takes everything so seriously. But does anything really matter? In the end, everybody dies. At least, before I do, I’ll have a few laughs.”

  “So you make fun of everything.”

  “Sure. It’s fun. Especially now. We’re getting close to the end of this adventure. Serious shit is about to go down. People will die. Lives will be changed forever. So this is the funny part before the heavy part. It works like that in movies and books. It’s a structure thing. But, honestly, it would be more fun if I got to have my own POV sections.”

  I stared out the window, looking at everything, seeing nothing.

  After a few minutes of blessed silence, Harry said, “I like how I am.”

  “I guess that’s all that matters.”

  “I disagree. When you die, your opinion of yourself dies with you. What matters is if you’ll be missed.”

  It was an oddly poignant thing for him to say. I wondered if I would be missed.

  “I’ll miss you,” said Harry McGlade. “I was just bullshitting about skipping your funeral. I’ll be there, and I’ll be sobbing, and maybe I’ll get drunk and throw up on the coffin.”

  The image amused me. “It’s a shame I won’t be there to see it.”

  “We can’t choose our family. We can choose our friends.”

  I considered that. “How pissed was Jack on the ride home?”

  “Pissed. But she gets it. She has to have enough morality for all three of us. That’s her strength. And her weakness.”

  “And your thing is comic relief.”

  “Mostly. I’m also the guy who everyone underestimates, then comes at the end to win the day.”

  “And me?”

  He grinned. “You, my friend, are the damaged, badass antihero who operates outside the law and saves the girl, but never—”

  Harry cut himself off. It was rare to see him self-censor.

  “But never what?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a stupid storytelling trope. Hollywood narrative structure. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Finish it. The damaged, badass antihero who operates outside the law and saves the girl but never…”

  “Never gets the girl,” Harry said. “You ride off into the sunset alone. Or, in a modern twist, you die of cancer. Kinda shitty, but audiences love that bittersweet melodramatic stuff. It hits a nerve that people respond to. You’ve seen Casablanca.”

  “Aren’t there stories where the antihero saves the girl, then lives happily ever after?”

  “If you were the hero, yeah. But you’re too damaged to be the hero.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  “On the plus side,” Harry continued, “Hugo is no doubt the Big Bad. Which means we’ll kick his ass at the end of this. That’s how storytelling works.”

  Obviously Harry comparing our circumstances to some made-up story was ridiculous, but thinking that Hugo might finally be wiped off the face of the earth made me feel a little better.

  “Unless he survives to come back in the sequel,” McGlade said.

  I think I liked it better when he was butchering old rock songs.

  As we neared Des Moines, traffic slowed to a limp. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

  Our traffic delay turned out to be a stranded motorist, blocking up the lane. McGlade expressed his concern for the guy as we passed.

  “Fifteen minutes wasted because some dork can’t change a tire,” he fumed. “Why couldn’t any of these jerks stop to help him?”

  “I notice that you didn’t help. You laid on the horn and gave him the finger.”

  “I’m a busy man. Here, take my cell, check the map, tell me how close we are to Milton’s.”

  I held Harry’s iPhone and followed the squiggly blue line to the digital push-pin destination. “Three kilometers up.”

  “Kilometers? The metric system? What are we, the rest of the world?”

  Five hours in the car with Harry was my limit. “Just take the next exit.”

  We’d been driving through Iowa for what seemed like several eternities, West on I-80 through endless Midwestern landscape, which consisted of cornfields and fields waiting for someone to plant corn. The day was overcast, the weather cool, and I’d had my fill of the beef jerky Harry had in his prepper bag, which took up most of the Corvette’s back seat. Milton’s place was east of Des Moines, close to the unfortunately named South Skunk River. After we turned off the expressway, I directed McGlade down a small road, and then a smaller road, and finally a gravel driveway. He pulled into the long grass and parked underneath a No Trespassing sign.

  “This should be the edge of his property.” Harry got out of the car, moved the seat up, and began to root through his rucksack. “I love my car, but there is no storage area. What do you think of Winnebagos?”

  “The motor home?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking about getting one. Think they’re cool?”

  “No.”

  “You’re right. They’re stupid. I won’t ever get one.” He fished out the hamster ball and frowned at it. “Wow, that little guy sure can poop. Maybe I should have put some wood shavings in there.”

  He let the animal out of the ball, and it crawled up Harry’s sleeve, leaving a stinky, brown trail.

  “What did I say his name was?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Shit. Wasn’t it like Chuck Norris Vader von Batman?”

  Out of the confines of the Corvette, I’d begun to dwell on Pasha again.

  “Godzilla Obama Yojimbo?”

  “Does it matter? It’s a hamster. It’s not like he’s going to come when you call.”

  “Phin… when you buy an animal you have to name it. It’s the humane thing to do.” He snapped the fingers on his good hand. “I got it. We’ll call him Uranus. After the planet, not your butthole. But, coincidentally, they sound identical.”

  I checked the magazine on the 1911, flicked off the safety, and strapped on the shoulder holster. Harry had suspected that the driveway was rigged to signal Milton when visitors approached. Cameras, pressure sensors, maybe possibly photoelectric beams, either infrared or ultra-violet. Avoidance was the easiest way to deal with either type of alarm, so we decided to walk in the woods, several meters parallel to the road. I got on my way.

  “Wait!” Harry called. “You’re going first?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you need to hold Uranus.”

  Harry held out the hamster. Because I knew this would become a gigantic, pointless argument if I objected, I took the rodent.

  “What am I supposed to watch for?” I asked.

  “Keep a close eye on Uranus. If Uranus starts to get agitated, let me know.”

  Harry hefted the rucksack, and we began to hike.

  After about twenty steps, Harry asked, “How’s Uranus doing?”

  “Relaxed.”

  “Uranus is relaxed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Uranus making any noise?”

  “No.”

  “Is Uranus running?”

  “No.”

  We walked ten more steps.

  “Can I hold Uranus?” McGlade asked.

  “No.”

  “Can I put a finger on Uranus?”

  “No.”

  “Can you at least show me Uranus?”

  “No.”

  “Uranus is hairy,” he stated.

  “You live for moments like these, don’t you?”

  “I demand to see Uranus!”

  I shook my head in resignation and handed McGlade the hamster.

  “Ohh. Look at Uranus. Uranus is so cute. I want to give Uranus a carrot.”

  I picked up my pac
e, trying to leave McGlade behind.

  “Oww! Uranus bit me! Has Uranus had shots?”

  I stopped and turned around, glaring at him. “One more Uranus joke and I’m putting my boot up your anus.”

  “Why? What’d the little guy do to you?”

  He must have noted I was out of patience, because he followed up with, “Since you obviously don’t love Uranus as much as I do, I’ll change his name.”

  We marched in relative silence for the next few minutes, the sun starting to set. Bradford Milton’s driveway was more along the lines of a private road. It stretched on and on, winding through the gradually thickening forest.

  After three hundred meters or so of walking, a clearing finally opened in the woods, allowing us to view the very large mansion of Bradford Milton. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence, topped in fleur-de-lis leaves that ended in sharp points. I didn’t see cameras, but we hadn’t expected any. A guy as private and secretive as Bradford Milton wouldn’t want to record the comings and goings of all his Nazi pals. He’d use other security measures than video.

  “I’ve got to piss,” said McGlade.

  “I thought you were wearing a diaper.”

  “I said that to be funny. Was it funny?”

  “No.”

  “Can you hold Little Elvis for me?”

  “Not on the drunkest day of my life.”

  “The hamster, buddy. I renamed the hamster Little Elvis. Hold Little Elvis while I water that forest.”

  Harry handed me Little Elvis, which I suppose was a better name than Uranus, but not by much.

  “Don’t squeeze Little Elvis too hard,” Harry said. “But if you want to stroke Little Elvis, he likes that.”

  “Gimme the binoculars.”

  “Why? You want to see Little Elvis up close?”

  “Gimme the binocs, and stop talking.”

  He handed them over and went to take a leak. I slowly swept the grounds with the specs and made an unpleasant, albeit expected, discovery. A large dog house.

  I searched around for the guard dogs, and found them standing guard at the front door. Two massive German Shepherds.

  “Tell me if they react,” Harry said, putting a dog whistle between his lips.

  I watched as the ears on both Shepherds perked up, and they came bounding toward the fence with a frightening speed. They stopped there, staring into the woods, in our direction.

  “They came, but no barking.”

  Harry nodded. “Could be well-trained. Or maybe Milton snipped their vocal cords. They’re male, right?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Then it’s about time to have the talk. You see, mommies and daddies look different because they have different parts…”

  “I can’t see their dicks from here, McGlade.”

  “The rabies tags on file say they’re boys. Let’s hope Milton isn’t the neutering type. But even if they’re fixed, this could work. Maybe.”

  He took the stuffed animal out of the bag.

  What McGlade’s plan lacked in elegance, it made up for in audacity. He was going to distract the German Shepherds with the whistle and the plush toy, which he’d soaked with B’estrus, the bottled scent of a female dog in heat. While well-trained guard dogs would ignore an intruder’s verbal commands or offers of food, no dog could ignore the call of the wild. So while Harry tempted the hounds with sins of the flesh, I’d be twenty meters away pressing buttons on his remote control gizmo, trying to open the gate.

  In theory, anyway. McGlade had never tried it before.

  Harry moved in, wiggling the toy in what he must have guessed was a provocative way. It involved lifting the tail up and shaking the rump.

  While he played canine erotic dancer, I pointed the remote at the gate and pressed the button he told me to.

  Nothing happened.

  “Not working,” I said.

  “They’re not fixed,” I heard Harry say. “And these are some big dogs here. Big, horny dogs.”

  For whatever reason, spending time with McGlade always devolved to sex and potty jokes. I don’t think he ever matured past the fourth grade.

  “The remote isn’t working,” I repeated.

  “What color is the light on top, green or red?”

  “It isn’t on.”

  I turned the remote around and opened the back. “It doesn’t have batteries.”

  “Shit. My bad.”

  “Do you have any in your prepper bag?”

  “Plenty. But that takes some kind of weird, mutant, mini twelve volt bullshit battery that you have to special order. Sorry. Go to Plan B. And hurry up. These guys are getting frisky.”

  I went back to the rucksack and removed the boat winch. Then I found a section of fence, and secured a thick canvas strap—used to winch boats up to their trailers—around two bars. I tied off the strap and began to ratchet the strap tighter and tighter, using an attachable bar.

  “Wow, they really want it. And I figured out who the alpha is. Personally, I wouldn’t just stand still for that, even with a good friend.”

  The strap got tight, and the bar was harder to move. I gripped it higher up, to get more leverage.

  “Who am I kidding? I’d probably stand still for that. Do dogs have prostates?”

  The wrought iron snapped on the bottom weld. I was able to bend it up, opening a space wide enough to slip through.

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Okay, step back. I’m bringing them over.”

  I jogged a safe distance away, and McGlade came over, waving the stuffed animal. On the other side of the fence, one dog was humping the other dog and they followed Harry to the opening on six legs.

  I drew the 1911.

  Harry threw the plush toy into the woods.

  Both dogs took off after it, and then Harry squeezed himself through the fence opening. I tucked the gun away and followed, then secured the strap once more and quickly winched the bar into place so the dogs couldn’t get back onto the grounds.

  “Make love, not war.” McGlade glanced back into the woods. “I would not want to be that stuffed animal. Probably.”

  The mansion was fifty meters away, and we approached it in a crouch, passing several of the perverse cherub fountains. One of the largest had the two concrete figures aiming their streams at each other.

  “Think he’s even home?” I asked, wondering why we hadn’t considered that earlier.

  “He should be. He’s a recluse. Recluses don’t go clubbing.”

  “Did you check if he’s got servants?”

  “Nope.”

  “Know the type of alarm systems he’s got?

  “Nope.”

  I gave McGlade a look. “Do you even know what to say to him if we get in there?”

  “Sure.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll ask about servants and alarm systems.”

  Smart ass.

  We approached the house from the east side. I spent a few minutes with the binoculars, looking for anti-burglary devices. I didn’t find any, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an alarm system. There was no way a house this big was protected by just a fence and two dogs. Big bucks would have been spent on security.

  I guessed the front door was wired several times over, as was the four car garage. The entry and exit points on a home with a security system normally had time delay switches, giving the owner thirty or so seconds to leave or arrive without setting them off. If we broke in through an entry point, we’d have half a minute or so to find the off switch. But these were usually hidden, and I needed more information before I figured out where to enter.

  I located a white metal box hanging on the side of the building. It was about three meters high, and I could see slits in it.

  “Check it out,” I told McGlade, passing him the binocs.

  “It’s an annunciator. Big one. Horn or a bell. I bet ten to one odds if the alarm is tripped it will autodial the cops.”

  �
��Do you know how to disarm it?” That was a little beyond my B&E expertise.

  “You don’t mess with autodials. Cut the wrong wire, and go to jail. This isn’t Mission Impossible, Phin. We just got past two guard dogs with a canvas strap and a stuffed toy.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Make sure it doesn’t go off.” Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The front door is metal, four deadbolts. Would take a tank to open it. Let’s try some windows. Can I take out Little Elvis?”

  “You’ve been waiting to say that.”

  “My whole life.” McGlade removed the hamster from his jacket pocket and held it near the door. The hamster squealed.

  “Little Elvis is getting excited,” said Harry.

  I frowned. The hamster squirmed, squeaking like a new shoe. Which meant that Milton had an ultrasonic sensor on the window.

  An ultrasonic detector was a tough thing to spot, because it could be hidden in a wall or disguised as any number of things. It emitted an elliptical pattern of high frequency sound waves, and then detected those waves when they bounced back. If anything got in the way of the sensor and detector, it would sound the alarm.

  Hamsters, like most rodents, could detect ultrasonic sound, and they hated it. Thus his unhappy behavior.

  Since Milton had dogs roaming the grounds, the detector was probably inside the room. There was no way to enter without setting it off.

  “Let’s check the others,” I whispered.

  We brought Little Elvis to each window, and in each instance he had a spaz. It looked like the entire first floor was wired for movement.

  “Shit,” I said, after we checked the garage doors and found them similarly equipped. “This is one paranoid old bastard.”

  “We’ll have to try the second floor.”

  I nodded. Unfortunately, the second floor happened to be placed inconveniently one floor above us.

  “I hope you’ve got a ladder in your bag of tricks.”

  “It just so happens…”

  Harry took out a bag of tree steps; pieces of steel bent into L-shapes, with a large screw on the end to twist into an object. Once screwed in, they served as a step that would hold a person’s weight. Hunters used them to climb trees that had no low branches.

  We found an appropriate spot under a second story window at the back of the house. Since we were dealing with brick rather than wood, we had to make a hole in the side of the building with a cordless drill and masonry bit.