Everybody Dies - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “It’s okay.” A male voice. Jack’s friend, Detective Tom Mankowski. Tough to focus on because my eyes were blurry. “You’re going to the hospital.”

  “Hugo?” I tried to ask, my voice sounding like an AM radio in my paramedic’s oxygen mask.

  “They’re still trying to resuscitate.”

  I turned to see the factory, now a four-alarmer and lighting up the night with a flickering, deadly beauty.

  “Who pulled us out?”

  “After you called, I called the fire department. They got here before I did.”

  I gripped his forearm and croaked out a thanks.

  “Don’t mention it. You going to tell me what went down here?”

  I nodded. “But don’t mention this to Jack. Let me do it.”

  If things progressed like I thought they could, I didn’t want her hanging around.

  The paramedics loaded me into an ambulance. I killed time during the ride to the hospital by passing out again. Upon arrival a doctor with a bad hairpiece checked me over and proclaimed I was suffering from smoke inhalation. I coughed up something black and phlegmy to confirm his diagnosis. Then I got a shot of something and it put me out as they began stitching up my shoulder.

  Morning woke me, peeking in through the split in the curtains and bouncing off every white surface in the room.

  A nurse brought water, and it burned like acid going down my ruined throat.

  Tom came back, asking questions. I answered the best that I could, making sure I didn’t confess to any crimes. I also asked about Hugo.

  “Intensive care. They took out over a hundred pieces of birdshot and a 9mm slug pressing against his left ventricle. He’s also got some burns. He died three times on the operating table.”

  As I’d suspected. The asshole was unkillable.

  “Is he awake?”

  “Induced coma.”

  “I’d like to see him. He has something of mine that I’d like to get back.”

  “What’s that?”

  I didn’t answer. Tom shrugged. “I can arrange a meeting when he wakes up. He has guards on him. We have him for murder in the first. Prints all over the crime scene at your room. If I can get you to see him, do you intend to do him harm?”

  I didn’t lie. Instead I went another direction. “He’s my brother. I was the one giving him CPR, keeping him alive.”

  “I assume you’re also the one who shot him.”

  Tom seemed like a solid guy, but you never admitted anything to cops. “Did you tell Jack?”

  “I didn’t. And I don’t like hiding things from my boss, so you’ll need to fill her in.”

  “I will.”

  He left. But I didn’t call anyone. I passed out.

  It was night time when I woke up. I assumed an entire day had passed. Maybe I needed the rest. Maybe the hospital sedatives didn’t play well with all the codeine I’d taken.

  I checked the clock. A little after 7pm. I found my cell phone in the bedside drawer, in my pants pocket, in a plastic bag. I didn’t have a charger with me, but there was enough juice to make a call.

  I didn’t call Jack. I called someone else.

  “That you, Gina? I knew you wouldn’t stand me up.”

  “It’s Phin, Harry.”

  “Again? Dude, I’m on a date.”

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  “Yeah, that cancer thing is a real downer. Look, I gotta keep the line open in case my date calls.” He lowered his voice. “She’s into butt stuff, Phin. Really into it. This lady can actually tie a knot in a rope using nothing but her rectum. I’ve seen it. I even kept the rope. Want to see the rope?”

  I didn’t want to see the rope. “Look, Harry, I need a big favor.”

  “No problem. I’ll hook you up with her after I tap that. Bring some rope on the date. It’s something to behold.”

  Conversations with Harry were always a tightrope walk between excruciating tolerance and vowing to never talk to him again.

  “A gun, McGlade. I need a gun.”

  “I can give you a name. Guy works out of his grocery store. He’s expensive, but his stuff is good.”

  “I need it delivered. Right now.”

  “I don’t think he delivers. His mother just fell down the stairs, broke her ass. Can you imagine breaking your ass? It that actually a bone? The ass bone? I should ask Gina. I bet she’d know. She knows everything ass-related. She’s like some kind of ninja ass genius.”

  “Harry, Pasha got kidnapped.”

  He shut up for a moment. Harry knew Pasha, and liked Pasha. He’d even saved her life once.

  “Shit, Phin. What can I do to help?”

  I gave him the quickie explanation, and Harry told me he’d stop by later that night.

  “You tell Jack?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t. She’ll get all pissy, and move your brother into protective custody. If Tom hasn’t done that already. He gets pissy, too. It’s like they took an oath to uphold the law or something.”

  “Bye, Harry.”

  I hung up, feeling some tension drain out of me. McGlade was a man of few morals, little virtue, and absolutely no tact. But his word was good, and he’d get me the gun. I tried to convince him that having it delivered in some food or a floral arrangement would be the best way to go, but Harry insisted on bringing it in person.

  You win some, you lose some. I suppose even bad company was better than no company at all.

  It turns out I was wrong about the bad company thing, which was proven to me a few hours later when Harry showed up.

  “Jesus, Phin. You look like a fat guy swallowed you up and shit you out.”

  “You should put that on a greeting card.”

  “Yeah, I should. You smell nasty, too.”

  “Says the guy who wears enough body spray to be flammable.”

  “I like people to know I’m coming. My scent announces my presence. Your particular odor brings to mind filthy hobos. You sitting on the bedpan under there?” Harry lifted up my sheet and took a peek. “Ouch. I hate catheters. It’s a cool look, though.”

  “Much as your juvenile antics fill me with mirth, please just give me the gun and leave.”

  Harry dropped the sheet and pouted like a scolded puppy. He was in the standard Harry outfit; baggy pants, stained white shirt, a silk tie, and the trademark black leather trench coat. His chubby face was covered in several days growth of beard, and his brown eyes glinted like a cherub’s, or like a demon’s, depending on the day.

  “Fine. I suppose you have a right to be Mr. Crabby Pants, being so close to death and all. I don’t do funerals, by the way. I’ll send flowers.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Okay, total candor: I won’t send flowers. But you’ll be dead so you won’t know any better.”

  “The gun?”

  He reached into the shopping bag he’d brought and extracted a blue, smiling teddy bear.

  “Oh look!” he said in a falsetto. “It’s Poopsie Bear! Poopsie Bear wants a kiss! Give Poopsie Bear a big kiss, Phineas!”

  Poopsie Bear bounced against my cheek while Harry made kissy sounds with his lips. Then the kissing became humping my mouth.

  “He likes you,” Harry said.

  I pulled Poopsie bear away from Harry and weighed it in my hands, feeling the heavy lump in his rear.

  “I had to stick the gun up Poopsie Bear’s ass. He didn’t like it. Speaking of, I got no play at all on my date earlier. She shows up an hour late, I drop a twenty on one of those blooming fried onion appetizers—why the hell should a lousy onion cost that much?—and she takes off right after we start discussing safe words.” Harry waggled his eyebrows. “Mine is rutabaga.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred. You can pay me later. But sometime before you die would be good. Actually, how about sooner rather than later, based on how you look.”

  “Does it fire?”

  “I checked it. Fakir only had four rounds l
eft, so aim carefully.”

  “I won’t miss.”

  Harry noticed my intensity. “You going to kill him? Make sure you’re thorough. We’re in a hospital. They fix stuff like that.”

  “I need him to talk. To tell me where she is.”

  “And then you’ll kill him.”

  I nodded.

  “And he wants to kill you. You guys are really taking sibling rivalry to the next level.”

  “He needs to kill me to advance in his little neo-Nazi group.”

  “Nazis? They’re still a thing? Didn’t we kick the shit out of them a few wars ago?”

  I frowned. “Hate has always been a thing.”

  “Well, you’re in one of your moods, and I hate spending time in hospitals, so I’m out of here. You know, you can call me sometime when you don’t need a favor. We can grab a beer. Check out a strip club. We should go to Bathing Beauties again. I did the owner, Kahdem, a solid, and he lets me dance on stage. Yesterday I made six bucks in tips grinding to Ice Ice Baby. That’s my jam.”

  “Later, Harry.”

  He made it to the door, then turned and said, “Hey, I got Aliens: The Musical preview tickets for Friday. It’s at the Roscoe, downtown. Matinee. I’m not inviting you for sure, because I asked four other people first, but none of them have gotten back to me yet. So, if you’re free, I can call you like an hour beforehand in case they all bail on me.”

  “Your generosity is overwhelming.”

  “I know, right? You know who plays Ripley? Suzanne Somers. Chrissy from Three’s Company. The lady has a set of lungs on her, but you probably knew that. Her love ballad duet with Hicks, That’s The Grenade Launcher, was a huge hit in Europe. Got to #11 on the Belgian charts. Hicks is being played by Stallone. Not Sly, his brother, Frank. They’re previewing in Chicago before it goes off-off-Broadway. Sucker was practically sold out. So I’ll call you. Still got that cell phone?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Later, bro. And don’t worry about Pasha. We’ll get her. It’s inevitable. We’re the good guys.”

  And like the ending to a bad story, he left, the overpowering smell of Axe body spray lingering on.

  I made a tent out of the blanket with my raised knees and privately examined Poopsie Bear, pulling out the gun. A revolver, thirty-eight caliber, scarred and greasy and older than I was. I unloaded the four rounds and gave the cylinder a few spins. Then I dry fired it about thirty times.

  As long as it didn’t blow up in my hand, it would do.

  After reloading and making sure the cylinder was properly aligned, I tugged out my catheter and heaved myself out of bed, intent on going to the can. My muscles were molten lead, and the blood drained from my skull and threatened to leave me unconscious. I sat down and waited for the moment to pass.

  I was still exhausted from my ordeal, but strangely I wasn’t in too much pain. Even Earl seemed tamer than usual. Putting two and two together I looked at my chart and saw they had been giving me morphine.

  Great. Codeine withdrawal wasn’t bad enough. Now I had to try and kick the hard stuff. I’d become so used to painkillers lately that I hadn’t even noticed I was on them.

  This certainly wouldn’t do if I was going to meet with my brother. I didn’t have much in the way of reflexes left anyway, and I couldn’t let the little I had be dulled by drugs.

  Gaining my feet, I held the gun in one hand and took the IV bag with me. There weren’t too many places to hide anything in the tiny bathroom. The garbage was a bad idea, since it was constantly being removed. There was a small cabinet which held gauze and toilet paper, but I didn’t want to risk a nurse or orderly finding the weapon.

  While I was thinking, I pulled the IV from my arm and opened up the drip clip. As my drugs poured down the sink, I had an idea.

  Taking the plastic bag off the hook on the stand, I carefully ripped open the bottom and dumped the remaining liquid out. Using half a roll of toilet paper, I dried the bag, inside and out. I put the gun inside the bag, twisted the top closed, and tied the rubber tubing around it several times, as tight as I could. Hoping it was airtight, I put the package in the reservoir tank of the toilet, replacing the porcelain cover. Assuming the bag didn’t leak, and assuming the guns didn’t interfere with the toilet mechanism and cause it to jam, I had a perfect hiding place.

  Then I went back to bed and tried to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come.

  I wondered where Pasha was right now, and if she were sleeping. Or if she were even alive.

  Wherever she was, at least my maniac brother wasn’t with her.

  We’d never had one decent moment together, me and my brother. My mother once told me she kept a fire extinguisher next to my crib because as a toddler Hugo liked to throw lit matches at me. From the time he could walk, he was a monster.

  Doctors get rich writing books on child rearing, and psychologists tour talk shows extolling nature versus nurture. In the end, a bad person is a bad person, no matter how they got that way. You don’t think about how the apple got a worm in it. You simply throw the apple away.

  But that’s not what we do as a society. We keep giving the bad elements second chances. More opportunities to be violent.

  If the world had properly dealt with Hugo when he was younger, Pasha would be safe right now. And Hugo would be locked up, or dead.

  Of course, the same could be said about me.

  I’ll never get the chance to have kids, and maybe that’s a good thing, being the type of person I am. I’m probably every bit as violent as my brother is, I just direct it at those who deserve it rather than whomever is in the room. There just happened to be a lot of people who deserved it lately.

  Or maybe that was self-justification for being a sociopath.

  When I finally fell asleep, I had my usual nightmare.

  I was sitting on a beach, watching the sunset, with a big scar on my stomach where a doctor had removed Earl and proclaimed me cancer-free. Pasha was with me, holding my hand, and I knew that we were married, and that she was expecting. The tide came in, and we talked about names for the baby, and I put my hand on her belly and felt our child kick.

  I had this nightmare a lot, and I called it a nightmare because in the dream I knew that I was dreaming, and eventually I’d have to wake up.

  And face the truth.

  “Mr. Troutt.”

  I peeked through heavy lids and recognized the face of the morning shift nurse.

  “Good. You’re awake. Do you know what happened to your IV?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you take it out yourself?”

  “No,” I said, testing my voice. It was still raw from the fire and a thick layer of mucus had settled in overnight. I sounded like I was gargling.

  “Would you like some water?”

  I nodded. The nurse poured me a cup from the pitcher on her cart and went to check my stats again. I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was coming up on nine o’clock.

  The water felt good going down, and with a slightly more respectable voice I asked for a refill. She granted my request and gave me a sharp stare.

  “You really don’t know what happened to your IV?”

  “I sort of remember someone taking it, late last night when I was sleeping. A guy in a white coat.”

  “A doctor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s nothing on your chart. Same with your catheter.”

  “That I took out. I preferred going on my own.”

  “How’s your pain?”

  “Fine,” I lied. My entire body was suffused with a deep ache. Earl rose slightly above the rest with his continuing conquest of surrounding organs, but my neck, leg, mouth, face, head, and throat made for some good competition. My stomach also ached, probably yearning for more morphine. That was the last thing I wanted, if Tom had made good on his promise and gotten me a meeting with Hugo.

  “You have pancreatic cancer,” the nurse stated.

  “Yo
u can tell by looking at me?”

  “I can tell because we have your records. Same computer system as St. Joe’s. Are you experiencing any pain from that?”

  “Chordotomy,” I said, mentioning the operation that had cut the nerve endings to my carcinogenic nucleus, making my left side completely lacking in feeling. Earl had long since passed those ganglion nerve blocks and moved on to new territory, causing new pain, but she didn’t have to know that.

  “Well, that’s a good sign Mr. Troutt. No pain is a very good sign.”

  “When’s breakfast?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Nine-thirty. You’re sure you can’t remember who took your IV?”

  “He seemed like a doctor. Do they ever forget to mark the chart?”

  “Oh, never,” she winked.

  I gave her a conspiratorial smile, and she smiled back and left my room.

  I wondered where Hugo was.

  I wondered if the bag holding the gun was water-tight.

  I wondered how I’d react if my brother decided he wasn’t going to give up Pasha’s location.

  Minutes passed into hours. Breakfast came and went, a tasteless lump of egg-product that hurt my throat going down.

  I flipped through channels on the idiot box to give my fidgeting hands something to do, my attention elsewhere. Pain lived within me at many different levels, and I played a game of trying to sort out each particular hurt and where it was coming from.

  It was tough, because many overlapped.

  Lunch was brought in and I choked down some bland spaghetti to keep my strength up, which was a joke because I had no strength to begin with. More time passed. I got up and went to the bathroom, checking on the gun and finding it still there. I tried to nap but thoughts of Pasha wouldn’t let me. There were fifteen channels on my television, and nothing on at all.

  Detective Tom Mankowski came around one.

  “I set it up,” he said. No small talk. No pleasantries.

  “Thanks. When?”

  “Now. I can take you to his room. Can you walk?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you get me my coat?” I asked, pointing to the drawers next to the television.

  Tom attended to that while I got out of bed. Before handing me the jacket he felt through the pockets. When I was standing he gave me a pat down as well.