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

  Hugo didn’t respond. But he did wink.

  “I heard you also kidnapped someone.”

  “Is that what you heard?”

  “You can guess how this will go down, Hugo. A judge, or a jury, gets a good look at all of your cute little tattoos, the prosecutor gets the Medical Examiner on the stand, who testifies that you tore off that man’s face while he was still alive, and you spend five consecutive life sentences in a six by ten. You’ll be eligible for parole when you’re a hundred and sixty-five.”

  “I like prison,” Hugo said. “It calms the nerves.”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “I didn’t offer it.”

  “You came to offer me a deal, didn’t you?”

  “I’ve been told you don’t make deals.”

  “Who told you that? Phineas? My little brother has always been a squealer. In more ways than one.” Hugo grinned again. “I bet you squeal, too.”

  The cop didn’t seem intimidated.

  “You think you’re scary. You think you’re the worst of the worst. I’ve seen the worst of the worst. You aren’t in the top ten.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew everything I’ve done.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I can tell that you want to.”

  For a moment, Hugo considered it. It had been diverting, talking to Pasha. She’d tried so hard to hide her emotions, to keep her fear and revulsion in check, and it had been a real pleasure when she broke. This cop would be harder to disgust, but it might be fun to try.

  “When I was seven years old, my father tried to show me how to be a man by giving me a bunny rabbit, and a hunting knife. You want to know why he beat the shit out of me?”

  “Because you didn’t do it.”

  “Because I cut off its ears and threw them in his face.”

  She stared, unblinking. “You’re making that up.”

  “Maybe. I like to make things up. Here’s a made-up story. Once upon a time, a man grabbed a woman, and took her to a secret place. He cut her ears off, just like that bunny. And then he did other things with his razor. Things to make her squeal.”

  “And where is this woman now?”

  “That made-up woman from the story?”

  The cop nodded.

  “That woman,” Hugo said, “is standing right in front of me.”

  He looked for fear. Didn’t see any.

  This bitch was tough.

  “You have a lot of muscles,” she said.

  “You like muscles?”

  “I’ve found that really muscly guys are usually overcompensating for something. Are you overcompensating, Hugo?”

  Hugo grinned. “You want to check?”

  “Since you asked.”

  In an impressively quick move, the cop yanked up Hugo’s hospital gown over his waist and then stepped out of his reach again.

  A moment later she was smiling. “Really? You’re gonna make me squeal with that?”

  Hugo felt his face redden. He wanted to cover up, but didn’t want to appear weak. So he forced himself not to move.

  “Were you born like that? Is that why you’re mad at the world? Can’t say that I blame you.”

  Hugo made a fist, making the handcuff chain clink. He’d never wanted to hit someone so badly before. But he didn’t want to show his cards yet. It wasn’t the right time.

  “When you take steroids, there are tradeoffs,” he said.

  “I almost want to take a picture, but my camera phone doesn’t have a zoom lens.”

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  “I’ll pass. Baby carrots don’t do it for me. Cover up, it’s making me feel bad for you.”

  Hugo’s ears felt like they’d been sunburned, but he stayed still. The woman grabbed the blanket bunched up at the foot of the bed and tossed it over his crotch.

  “You traded big biceps for a micropenis. You may not make my top ten badass list, but you’re number one on my idiot list.”

  Hugo took a deep breath, let it out slow. “And yet you’re so intimidated by me, you won’t even tell me your name.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, Homicide. Now how about you tell me something. Something about the missing woman.”

  “Okay. When she screams, it sounds like baby birds being squeezed.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. But I will tell you something. One day, we’re going to meet again. But I won’t be chained to a hospital bed. And when that happens, you’re going to be forced to revise your little top ten list.”

  “We won’t meet again,” she said.

  Then she turned around and left.

  Hugo decided he liked her. Even though she was wrong.

  They would meet again.

  He would make sure of it.

  Earlier that day, during a miserable excuse for lunch, Hugo had found a note at the bottom of his mashed potatoes. Written in marker, on one of those plastic tabs used to close bags of bread.

  GRW 510. Be ready. SC.

  A note from the Supreme Caucasian himself. Hugo was honored, awed, and a little irritated that it had taken this long for the SC to reach out to him personally. But he wasn’t surprised that the message had reached him. According to Packer, the Caucasian Nation had supporters everywhere.

  The GRW was, of course, the Great Race War. The CN had been planning it for decades.

  And 510 was May tenth. An obvious date. On May 10th, 1940, Germany invaded Western Europe. One of dozens of useless facts Hugo had been forced to memorize.

  May 10th was only a few days from now.

  Interesting.

  After all those years of training, of waiting, of following orders, The Man With Seven Tears was practically tingling with anticipation.

  He had no idea how things were going to turn out.

  But it was all finally coming together. And Hugo had a feeling it was going to be a whole lot of fun.

  PHIN

  The drive down to Argenta was pleasant enough, considering the only pain meds I took were Tylenol, which wasn’t enough to dull all of my various aches and pains. Being stuck in a car with Jack for two hours could have been awkward, but instead it was surprisingly comfortable. Neither of us had the need to fill in the silence, but when we spoke it was interesting.

  I liked her. And we had chemistry, even though neither of us were going to act on it. Maybe, if things had been different, we could have had something more than a casual friendship founded on beer, playing pool, and occasional violent favors.

  “I had a pet turtle when I was a kid. My mother worked, I was at school all day, so we couldn’t get a dog. She bought me a turtle instead. I named him Ugly, because he had this ugly bald head attached to this wrinkly neck. Whenever I picked him up, he pulled his head in his shell. Even if I had his favorite treat, a carrot, he’d hide when I came in the room.” Jack glanced at me. “You remind me of that turtle.”

  Apparently I’d misread our chemistry. No woman would ever sleep with a guy who reminded her of a pet turtle named Ugly.

  “I had a pet hamster,” I offered. “Hugo microwaved it.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Did Ugly live a long and productive life?”

  “I had him for two months. One day I noticed that the food I was giving him was piling up. Then the smell hit. He’d died, and I didn’t even know it.”

  “Sweet story.”

  She shrugged. “The moral there is don’t get close to anything, because it dies on you.”

  We arrived at Packer’s place, a standard suburban ranch with red brick walls and white window shutters and a WELCOME mat. Nothing obvious that indicated a hate-monger lived there.

  I suppose that was the worst kind of disease. The kind that stayed hidden until it was ready to cause mayhem.

  I beg to differ, Earl whispered.

  “How do you want to
play this?” I asked Jack.

  She was out of her jurisdiction, and hadn’t offered me any sort of weapon. I managed to steal a disposable scalpel from the biohazard box in a hospital bathroom, which I carefully cleaned off before putting it in my boot, but apparently I couldn’t be trusted with a gun.

  “I’m going to flash my badge, hope he doesn’t look too closely, and ask him a few questions.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “You’re going to stay in the car. If I don’t come out within fifteen minutes, come get me.”

  “What do you want me to use? My sharp tongue and good looks?”

  “Your cell phone. Call the cops. Or if you hear me screaming for help, you can burst in with whatever weapon you took from the hospital.”

  “Are you always so suspicious and cynical? Or is that a cop thing?”

  “Neither. It’s what I’d do if I were you.”

  I parked my Bronco and Jack got out, smoothing her skirt with her palms and unsnapping the .38 in her shoulder holster. When she walked to the front door, I didn’t know if she had a slight wiggle in her step for my benefit, or if I was imagining it.

  You’re imagining it. She’s out of your league.

  A woman answered. Fifties, permed hair, apron. I wondered if she was in the middle of cooking pot roast for Richie and the Fonz.

  She and Jack exchanged a few words, then Jack came back to the car. We were a block away before she spoke.

  “I don’t think she knows her husband is a white nationalist,” Jack said. “I said I wanted to know where the meeting was tomorrow, and she seemed oblivious. When I mentioned the CN, she told me, ‘You mean the boys’ club he goes to on weekends?’ How can you not know your husband is in a paramilitary group, planning to start a race war?”

  “Some people don’t look too closely. How many spouses don’t know that they’re being cheated on? The signs are probably there, but they either don’t want to see them, or are too self-absorbed to see them.”

  Jack made a face. “Or they trust when they shouldn’t.”

  “Did she say where he was?”

  “She said we could try Murray’s.”

  “Did she say what Murray’s is?”

  “A bar off of I-72.”

  So that’s where we went.

  Murray’s was your standard southern Illinois beer and whiskey joint; it looked like a large shed in the middle of a gravel parking lot, the windows lined with neon signs promoting beer that stopped being brewed back in the 80s. It probably catered to the farmers who lived in the area, and truckers who needed a break from the Interstate.

  Jack parked in between a Jeep and a semi, and she held my shoulder when I tried to exit.

  “We need a plan.”

  “We sniff out Packer, I follow him into the men’s john when he takes a piss, and then we go get Pasha.”

  “We’ve been through this, Phin. No breaking the law.”

  “He’s a kidnapper, Jack. And a Nazi.”

  “No one is above the law, Phin.”

  I wondered if she would ever truly have to test that principle, but I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument.

  “Okay. We’re married.”

  She snorted, perhaps a little too fast.

  “Really? It’s that crazy to imagine?”

  “Well, come on, look at us. I’m in Yves Saint Laurent with Ferragamo pumps, and you look like you stepped out of a 1975 Montgomery Ward’s catalog.”

  My usual ensemble consisted of clothing bought at thrift stores. Depending on the donations that day, it sometimes tended to be a wee bit out of date. I was in a wife beater tee, a red flannel shirt that had been washed more times than my lifetime allotment of showers, and a pair of Levi’s that might have been made by Mr. Strauss himself.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I told Jack. “Plus, there’s the age thing. You’re what… fifteen years older than I am?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ten years. Not that much older.”

  “I dunno. Anyone looking at us would instantly see the difference. Not that you don’t look good…”

  “Thank you.”

  “…for your age. But what would I know? I’m just Ugly the turtle.”

  “Touché.” Her mouth became a thin line and her brow crinkled in apparent thought. “Maybe this can work. What are you thinking?”

  “You’re a white collar executive, recently divorced, and you hooked up with some working stiff boy toy.”

  “Backstory?”

  “You’re on the rebound from being married to an accountant for ten years. I’m moving up from banging college chicks.”

  “Jobs?”

  “You’re an executive at Springfield Armory. They’re out of Geneseo, Illinois. I work in production there. It’s where we met. I’m in it to hook up with a wealthy older chick.”

  “And why am I in it?”

  “Obviously for the sex.”

  Jack made a face, but I could tell she was going with it.

  “Why are we in Argenta?”

  “Heard about the Caucasian Nation meeting. Want to check it out.”

  “Okay. Would I be wasting my breath if I said let me do the talking?”

  “I’m just the trophy husband. I’ll bring you drinks and speak when spoken to.”

  “Names?”

  “You’re Brandy.”

  “Cute.”

  “I’ll be… Earl.”

  Satisfied with our backstory, we exited the car as man and wife.

  “You look very fetching today, Brandy.”

  “Don’t push it, Earl.”

  We made our way to the bar’s entrance, gravel crackling under our feet like fallen leaves. The day was cool and overcast and I felt like killing somebody.

  “Do you really think I’m fetching?” Jack asked, pulling open the door.

  “I may kiss you any moment.”

  I grinned. Not from the dumb joke, but from thinking about the trouble I was going to start. I was a bar fight waiting to happen. If my wife didn’t know that, it was her fault for marrying me without knowing me better.

  The interior of Murray’s was suitably grimy. The walls were the color of second-hand smoke, and beneath the stale beer scent was the acrid stench of vomit. There were six tables set up on the floor, half of them occupied by guys in camo fatigues, pouring plastic pitchers into plastic cups. Seven guys in all. I didn’t know much about the military, but none of them had insignias on their outfits.

  The bar stretched along the far wall; an ugly, scarred, wooden thing with a pock-marked counter top and dozens of dusty booze bottles behind it. Tending bar were two burly men with matching mean faces. Brothers, or else they just spent so much time in this hole together that they began to resemble each other. The bar patrons sat on stools; three men in overalls, two guys in jeans and flannel, and a man in a suit.

  There was a wolf whistle, coming from one of the guys in camo.

  I turned to face the man, gave him a stare. He and his buddies found that hilarious. None appeared any older than twenty-five, and all seemed to be in decent physical shape. But the empty cups outnumbered them four to one, and they were just noisy enough and wobbly enough to seem drunk or damn close.

  My hand became a fist and I allowed myself a smirk. If they were with CN, I was ready to take them all on myself.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked me.

  Game on.

  I turned to Jack, smiling. Jack gave me a slight head shake.

  “Do you smell something?” I said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. I wrinkled my nose and made an exaggerated sniffing sound.

  “What happened to being the trophy husband?” Jack whispered through clenched teeth.

  “I lied. You don’t look fetching, either.”

  “Well, what is it you smell, faggot?” asked the play-soldier. He and his six buddies were all standing up now, puffing their chests in and out and not looking nearly as tipsy as they had a moment before. The bar became silent, waiting f
or my answer.

  “I smell,” Jack said, cutting off my intended insult, “Mr. Ayak.”

  The guy with the mouth squinted at us, not sure what to make of it. I was right there with him.

  “I’m Mr. Akia,” said a man at the bar. “Is that close enough?”

  I turned, looked. Older guy in a cheap suit, gray hair, buzz cut.

  Jack strolled over to him, her hand out. “That’s exactly who I meant. Nice to see some good, honest white folk in these parts.”

  They shook, and I followed her silently, wondering what just happened.

  “I’m Brandy, this is my husband Earl. We’re down from Geneseo.”

  I took the man’s hand, found it firm but too moist for my liking. “Name’s Hector. Geneseo? Isn’t there a firearm company up in those parts?”

  “Springfield Armory. We both work there. I’m Chief Operating Officer.”

  “A COO? Impressive. And you, Earl?”

  “Not as impressive. I work the line.”

  “Hard work is always impressive, Earl. Factories are the backbone of this fine nation. And at a firearm manufacturer, you’re doing God’s work. Jasper! Boilermakers for my new friends.”

  Jasper, one of the overweight, surly-looking bartenders, shoved two plastic cups of beer into our hands.

  “What kind of whiskey you want?” he asked me, his pig eyes narrowing.

  “I’m thinking Jim Beam,” I said. “Jack Daniels is a little too weak for my taste.”

  Jasper waddled off, and Jack spilled some beer onto my jeans.

  “Sorry, Earl,” she said, giving me a look that actually made me feel like we were married.

  Hector invited us to join him, and lead us to one of the tables with the assholes in fatigues. He did some quick introductions that I instantly forgot. Jasper brought over a bottle of whiskey and some plastic cops, and poured everyone a healthy shot.

  “To the 14.” Hector raised his up. “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” He looked at Jack. “Because the beauty of the White Aryan woman must not perish from the earth.”

  Everyone cheered and drank. I felt greasy, anxious, and evil all at the same time. My eyes drifted from Nazi to Nazi, measuring them up. I decided the most formidable was the eldest, Hector. He’d be the one I beat the hell out of first.

  “You guys Army?” Jack asked.