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

  “Where can I hide anything in this hospital gown?” I asked, trying to be playful.

  “I’ll take your word for it and assume I won’t need to do a rectal search.”

  “You’d better. I’ve got a grenade up there. One more hospital meal and the whole ward blows.”

  Tom put his hand on my shoulder, staring deep into my eyes.

  “You have to play it cool, Phin.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Ready?”

  “I’ve got to lose a little liquid first. Hold on.”

  I headed for the bathroom, but Tom went in first and did a quick search. Not finding anything, he allowed me entrance.

  I locked the door, urinating to cover the sound of removing the reservoir tank lid. I quickly unwrapped the gun and stuck it in my jacket pocket. It seemed wet, but I wasn’t sure if that was due to a leaky bag or my already wet hands. I’d find out soon enough.

  I flushed the IV bag down the toilet and replaced the lid. Washing my hands, I gave my reflection a quick once over.

  Physically terrible. Emotionally a wreck. Mentally unhinged. I figured that standing there in the bathroom, dying of cancer, beaten and burned, the love of my life kidnapped and possibly dead, and getting ready to betray a cop’s trust and attack my brother, had to be one of the lowest points of my life.

  “All set,” I told him, coming out of the bathroom. My hands were in my pockets and Tom looked at me for a second longer than necessary.

  I think he knew I had a weapon. He was going to frisk me again. Should I let him take it, or put up a fight and find Hugo myself? I tensed, waiting for him to make a move.

  “Let’s go,” he finally said.

  If Tom knew he was deciding to play dumb. Even more points that I owed him.

  “Lead on, my friend.”

  The words were sour in my mouth. We left the room.

  Walking was like taking a pain exam. The only thing that kept me from whimpering constantly was the fact that I was too out of breath to do so. We stopped to rest twice, once in a hallway and once by the nurse’s station. We didn’t talk. I was grateful for the jacket, which hid most of my shivering.

  I drew strength from the gun.

  Hugo’s room was an elevator ride away, on the eighth floor. There was a cop sitting outside his door, looking appropriately bored with babysitting detail as he worked on some newspaper puzzle.

  “Phin, my partner, Roy Lewis.”

  We nodded at each other, and once again I braced myself for a frisk. But Roy was more interested in an eight letter word for treachery, starting with a b.

  “Betrayal,” Tom said, glancing at me.

  Yeah, dude, we’re about to show you a whole new meaning of the word.

  We went in.

  Hugo was on the bed, white bandages swaddled around his head like an old mummy movie. One eye peeked out through the wrapping, dull with meds. The arm with the IV was held to the bed by a pair of handcuffs.

  “Hello, Phineas,” cooed Hugo.

  Fright enveloped me, and I may have started to shake. I stood my ground. “Where’s Pasha?”

  My brother didn’t answer for a moment. He seemed to regard me.

  “You aren’t looking so good, brother. I always thought it was a recessive gene. You were puny as a child.”

  I moved closer to the bed, hand on the butt of my gun.

  “Tell me where she is, Hugo.”

  “It’s cancer, isn’t it? You have cancer.”

  “Stomach,” I lied, just to be lying to him.

  “I bet it hurts,” Hugo said, his voice giggly. “How much time do you have left, Phineas? Two months? Two weeks?”

  “You look pretty beat-up yourself. Heard you died a few times. What’s hell like? All fire and brimstone, like in the movies?”

  “Tell me how long you have.”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  Hugo growled low in his throat. “You dying will really fuck up my plans.”

  “Tell me where Pasha is. If you do, I’ll let you kill me.”

  Hugo laughed, a sound like a dog barking. “I’ll kill you anyway.”

  “Who’s Pasha?” Tom asked.

  “His sweet little schlammensch girlfriend.”

  “He kidnapped her,” I said.

  Tom didn’t appear pleased with this development. “Jesus, Phin. You should have told us.”

  “I couldn’t.” I met Tom’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I have to find out where he took her, Tom.”

  I grabbed Hugo on the skull. Then I clenched bandages, burnt hair, and dead skin in my fist and yanked up, trying to rip his scalp off.

  My brother, whom nothing hurt, screamed like a baby.

  Music to my ears.

  Movement—Tom—behind me, but I pulled the gun and shoved it in Hugo’s face.

  “Tom, stay where you’re at. Don’t bring Roy in here.”

  “This isn’t the way, Phin.”

  “It’s the only way. He won’t talk otherwise.”

  I pulled down Hugo’s bandage and clutched his scalp, which bled and oozed clear liquid. His head looked like a glazed donut, leaking jelly.

  He yelped.

  “I thought you didn’t feel pain,” I said, a sick grin riding across my face. “Now where is she?”

  His eyes bulged. “She’s dead. I’ll kill her slow. I’ll cut her tits off.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Rearing the gun back, I brought it down hard across his mouth. Teeth cracked and blood leaked down his chin.

  “Try again.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I repeated the maneuver, angling lower to get the bottom teeth. He spat several pieces out, his free hand now protecting his face. I had an uncontrollable urge to keep hitting him until he was pulp, to make up for all the hurt he’d caused me in my life. I raised the gun again.

  “Phin!”

  It was Tom, and I didn’t need to look to know he had his gun on me.

  “You saw what he did to Kenny, Tom.”

  “Drop the gun, Phin.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll shoot a leg, Phin. Wound you.”

  “We both have to do what we have to do.”

  Hugo reached out to grab my gun hand and I batted away his effort, bringing the weapon down onto his face again, breaking his nose.

  “No more playing around,” I warned. I pressed the gun up to his nose. “You have three seconds. One…”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Two…”

  “You don’t have the guts.”

  His eyes challenged me, but there was no fear there.

  It frightened me.

  It infuriated me.

  “Three.”

  I pulled the trigger—

  —and the hammer rose and fell on an empty chamber in the cylinder.

  Then Tom tackled me, calling for Roy as he pinned me to the floor.

  I didn’t struggle. My plan had been to kill Hugo after he talked, but I couldn’t get him to talk. He’d called my bluff. I’d lost.

  I let Tom take my gun, and Roy cuffed me, and I caught Hugo’s eye as I was dragged out of the room.

  His teeth were shattered, and he was bleeding everywhere, but my brother was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Lt. Jack Daniels came to visit me a few hours later. I was handcuffed to the bed, though Tom and Roy hadn’t read me my rights, and I hadn’t been arrested.

  “What the hell, Phin?” she said.

  Jack was in a pantsuit and shiny black pumps, looking like she was ready to pose for the cop edition of Vogue. Ten years my senior, she looked younger than I did. Except around the eyes. She had cold, hard eyes, and they were currently focused on me.

  “Tom get into trouble? It wasn’t his fault.”

  “He let you in there with a gun.”

  “He frisked me. I was devious.”

  “Where’d you even get a weapon?” Jack rolled her eyes. “Lemme guess. McGlade.”

  I ind
ulged in my right to remain silent.

  “How’d you hide it from Tom?”

  “Bathroom. Toilet basin. Wrapped it in my IV bag.”

  “You’ve put me in a real shitty position here.”

  “Tom must have told you. Hugo has Pasha.”

  “I know. Why didn’t you tell me, Phin?”

  “It isn’t your fight. I put enough on you in Minnesota.”

  “But you called up shit-head.”

  That was her pet name for Harry.

  “Jack, I know I ask a lot of favors—”

  “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “—but you can’t arrest me. I have to find her.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Hugo won’t press charges,” I said. “Is the CPD?”

  She stared, not answering.

  “Jack, what if it was Latham?” That was her fiancé.

  Jack folded her arms. Not a good sign. “We’ve got him for the motel murder. He’s also the prime suspect in another slaying. Three days ago, Hugo’s parole officer was found in an alley, his throat slit so deep his head was almost off.”

  “Hugo told me he killed him.”

  “Think he’d talk to me? Try to cut a deal?”

  “He won’t deal. He’ll let her die just to prove a point. Even if he’s locked up forever, he’ll never tell us where she is.”

  “So you put a gun to his head and pulled half his scalp off. How’d that work out for you?”

  “I had to do something. If he won’t talk, I have to attack it from the other end. Find his friends, find out where they took her. But you gotta let me go.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You know?”

  “I’ve got some vacation time coming,” Jack said. “I’ve also got the semblance of a plan.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You aren’t asking. I’m volunteering. Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

  I was pretty floored by her generosity, but I kept it hidden. Jack didn’t like to be thanked. I got the impression it embarrassed her. Instead I gave her a nod.

  “The Caucasian Nation is one of the bigger hate groups operating in America today. According to FBI files, their US membership is somewhere around five thousand. Double this figure for satellite organizations in other countries, mostly European. There also seems to be a lot of overlap with KKK members. Go figure.”

  “You want to join?” I asked.

  “Not that easy. From what I understand, any loser with a Hitler fetish can join, but only hardcore members get to attend the training camps. There are seven known camps throughout the United States, and the Feds are keeping an eye on them all. The camps are your standard paramilitary prepping-for-Armageddon-training-ground bullshit. But they’re sly about it. Instead of anti-government, the CN has taken a pro-government standing. They give large political donations, help finance campaigns, and even have a few lobbyists in Washington. Though their stance is unpopular, they grease enough political wheels to keep the Feebies off their backs. And the Feds aren’t pushing it. No one wants another Waco.”

  “Pasha’s being kept at one of these camps?”

  “Maybe. It would be next to impossible to check out each camp, either by forcing our way in or infiltrating undercover. Too many camps, and they could be moving her.”

  The kid whose leg I’d broken, he mentioned one of the camps in southern Illinois. But I kept that to myself until I heard Jack’s plan.

  “Who’s financing the CN?” I asked. “An organization that big can’t survive off of donations and volunteers.”

  “Exactly. And the root of this particular weed happens to be none other than Bradford Milton.”

  I had no idea who that was.

  “Founder of Milton Electronics,” Jack explained.

  “No shit.”

  Milton Electronics manufactured everything from toasters to disc drives. They made good products that were inexpensive enough to compete against the Japanese.

  “So Milton is a Hitler freak.”

  “A big one, apparently. It took the Feebies two years of picking through paperwork to finally figure out the CN was a Milton front. And once they found out, there wasn’t much they could do. After all, the CN isn’t breaking any laws, at least on the surface. Most of their hardcore members are cons or ex-cons, but the actual organization hasn’t been implicated in any crimes.”

  “Why don’t they just expose it? Leak it to the press?”

  “Because Milton Electronics has over twenty thousand workers nationwide. A scandal could hurt the company, an American company, selling American stock, that’s giving Americans jobs.”

  I wondered how many black people he employed at his plants. Or Jews. Or homosexuals. And I wondered if they knew they were working for a Nazi.

  “So Milton finances the CN,” I said, thinking out loud, the words hurting my raw throat. “But who does he have running it while he’s running his company?”

  “Bradford Milton gave himself the title SC.” Jack frowned. “The Supreme Caucasian.”

  “That’s stupid as hell.”

  “And then some. Members know the title, but they don’t know it’s him.”

  “So we make a play for Milton?”

  Jack shook her head. “He’s too insulated, too protected. But each of the seven camps is run by a figurehead called a Gruppenführer—a Lt. General—and the nearest one to us is named John Packer. He currently works as a middle school gym teacher.”

  “Nice to know our public educational system doesn’t discriminate during the hiring process.”

  “Packer may know where Pasha is.”

  “Where’s Packer?”

  “Springfield. He spends a lot of time at the training camp in Argenta, Illinois. It’s a tiny town just north of Decatur. Word is, they’re having a rally tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t know you were an expert on white nationalists, Jack.”

  “After you called about Hugo, I called in a few favors, did some research.”

  “And what about Hugo?”

  “The doctor told me he’s being taken to an orthodontist for surgery. Apparently you did a number on him. Then they’re taking him to County.”

  She meant Cook County Jail. “When?”

  “Soon. When I hear from Tom, I’ll take your bracelet off.”

  I nodded, but couldn’t help regretting the lost opportunity. I should have killed him when I had the chance. Jack seemed to sense my concern, and her face softened.

  “We’ll find Pasha, Phin. And your brother is going away for life. I know he deserves more than that, but the only way to run a civilized society is to have rules. There has to be due process. Or else we’re just as bad as the Nazis.”

  That was the thing, though. To anyone objectively tracing the history of America, from slavery to the Patriot Act, our country was as bad as any. We violated civil rights, tortured, and murdered, on both a national and a global scale. And as private citizens, we were no better. Gun violence, abuse, rape, bigotry; we didn’t have to point fingers at Nazis to find examples of awful human behavior. We only had to look in the mirror.

  Everyone believes there are horrible people doing horrible things; things we would never, ever do. But we do those same horrible things. There is no us and them. Only we.

  Innocent people are hurt, and die, all the time. And here was a guy, my brother, who was guilty as guilty got, and he would be getting three square meals a day, courtesy of the taxpayers, for life.

  It wasn’t even about punishment. Or revenge. It was simple common sense. Hugo was as dangerous as a wild, rabid animal. He didn’t need due process. He needed to be put down.

  But try explaining that to a cop.

  So instead I asked, “What’s our move?”

  “We check out the camp, see if we can locate Pasha. If not, we get some one-on-one time with Packer, and persuade him to help us find her.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you’re okay with this? He may not be
willing to help, and we may have to use some more extreme methods of persuasion.”

  “We’re not going to break the law, Phin. I want to help. But I want to be able to live with myself afterward.”

  I nodded. While I had a more laissez faire approach to morality than Jack did, it was wise to agree with the one holding your handcuff key.

  “I know you don’t like to be thanked, but thanks.”

  Jack shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when your lady is safe. I’ve got this feeling it won’t be as easy as I’m hoping.”

  Is it ever?

  No. It was never easy.

  Which was why, as soon as Jack left, I made a phone call.

  HUGO

  The bitch cop who came to see him was older, well-dressed, and looked like she’d be fun to go a few rounds with. Unfortunately, she stayed just out of reach.

  Hugo grinned, knowing his appearance was hideous. Besides shooting him and stabbing him and burning him and breaking his nose, little brother Phineas had knocked out nine of the giant’s front teeth. With only one upper tooth and two lower ones showing in his smile, and a triangular metal brace on his nose, Hugo resembled a demented Halloween pumpkin.

  “Like my smile?” he asked. “They want to take me to an oral surgeon, but I’m starting to appreciate the look.”

  “Three years ago, someone killed a priest,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “Let me guess… you want to know who to thank.”

  “Should I be thanking you?”

  “You mean, am I stupid enough to confess to murder?”

  “We already have you for murder, Hugo. The manager of the Michigan Motel. You left so much evidence, the trial will just be a formality. But I have a feeling that wasn’t the first.”

  “You can squat on that feeling and spin, cop.”

  She stared at Hugo, not blinking.

  This woman isn’t afraid of me.

  How odd.

  How exciting.

  “Have you checked in with your P.O. lately?” she asked.

  His parole officer. Hugo hadn’t seen the man since slitting his throat. “I haven’t. How is good old Jerry? He helped me get a swell job bagging groceries. I can’t remember if I thanked him.”

  “I think you know how Jerry is.”