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

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Hugo asked, genuinely curious.

  “I am a gay black man. If I wasn’t fearless I would have been dead back when I was in grammar school.”

  Hugo considered his ammunition, not knowing how many bullets he’d need to safely get out of Chicago.

  “Leave,” he said.

  “Thank you for shopping at Urban Outfitters,” the clerk called as he ran like hell out of the storeroom.

  Hugo set down his guns on a shelf, uncuffed the chain around his waist and the bracelets still on his wrists, and quickly dressed. On his way out he grabbed a black parka windbreaker that looked like it would fit, tucked the guns and leg restraints into the pockets, and quickly left the store and blended into foot traffic on the sidewalk. There were sirens in the distance, approaching fast, and he cut through an alley, came out the other end, and ducked into a convenience store. It didn’t have any sort of cosmetics section, but in the toiletry aisle, Hugo found an acne stick cover-up, and some disposable razors. He walked out swiftly, without paying, knowing that even if he was seen, no one would run after him. Size had its advantages.

  More cop cars came screaming by, and he went into a bar, weaved through the tables and patrons, and found the bathroom.

  Using hand soap, he quickly shaved his mohawk, and the facial hair he’d grown during the last few days. Then he used the flesh-colored blemish stick on his face and hand tattoos.

  A guy came into the bathroom just as he was finishing up, and Hugo pulled out a Glock.

  “Wallet,” he said.

  The dude was happy to give Hugo all of his money. Shooting him would be too loud, so Hugo ordered him into the stall and told him to count to a hundred.

  Then he got out of there.

  It took a minute to flag down a cab. Hugo gave the address, and within fifteen minutes he was back at the abandoned foundry where little brother Phineas had shot him.

  “Wait here,” he told the cabbie.

  The factory was roped off with police tape. They’d towed the car that had driven through the entrance, but hadn’t sealed off the hole. Hugo slipped inside, and followed the back wall until he found what he was looking for.

  “Göth.”

  He opened his razor, making sure it wasn’t damaged. Still solid. Still sharp.

  After Phin had shot him in the chest, Hugo knew that if he managed to live through it, the authorities would take Göth. So his last conscious act was to throw the razor into the darkness, hoping to retrieve it later.

  And the spur-of-the-moment plan worked.

  Hugo grinned, feeling invincible. He should have been killed, but he was too strong and bullets, knives, and fire couldn’t stop him. He should have been in jail, but he was too prepared from years of training himself how to break handcuffs. He should have lost Göth, but he was too smart quick-thinking and now he had the razor back.

  For his next feat; fulfill his destiny.

  Hugo needed to contact Packer. If the Great Race War was going to begin in just two days, and Hugo was meant to play a large role in it, he had to let the CN know where he was. He’d need a cell phone, and transportation.

  Both were only a few meters away.

  He approached the cab and knocked on the window.

  “I’m staying,” Hugo said. “How much I owe you?”

  The driver cranked down the window, and Hugo grabbed him by the hair and introduced his face to the steering wheel five, six, seven times. When the man stopped struggling, he yanked him out of the car, brought a size 14 boot down on his neck, and relived him of his wallet and cell phone.

  In the cab, he familiarized himself with the interior. He dialed the CB radio to the Chicago Police Department frequency. He made sure his fare light was off. He found the controls for the headlights and windshield wipers. Then he considered his next move.

  Drop by the hospital and finish off Phineas?

  Tempting, but once the authorities figured out Hugo had escaped, Phin would be guarded. It wouldn’t be impossible to get to him—after all, Hugo had proved time and again that he could do anything—but maybe that was best taken care of after the GRW had begun.

  Look up that tasty little bitch cop, Jacqueline Daniels?

  Also tempting. But that would require some research to find out where she worked and lived, and it was probably best for Hugo to get out of Chicago ASAP.

  Call General Packer?

  That was the right move.

  Hugo dialed. Someone picked up but didn’t answer.

  “Packer?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Hugo.”

  “Jesus, Hugo, you’re in custody! They know you’re calling me!”

  “I’m no longer in custody,” Hugo said, smiling to himself. “I decided to leave.”

  “You’re out?”

  “I’m a free man.”

  “Then get your ass over to the camp. Your goddamn brother and some goddamn woman just trashed Murray’s. They’re after me.”

  Interesting. “Describe the woman.”

  “Brunette. Average build. Late thirties. Knew how to throw a punch.”

  “A cop?”

  “Coulda been.”

  Hugo had a good idea who it was. That bitch Lieutenant. “I’m still in Chicago. Can be there in maybe three hours.”

  “Better hurry, because if I see your son-of-a-bitch brother again, I’m killing him myself.”

  Hugo’s mood darkened. “That wouldn’t be a smart move.”

  “Just get here. And listen closely. This is important.”

  Packer gave him some final instructions, then hung up.

  Hugo fingered Göth in his front pocket. “It’s all coming together. And it’s going to be spectacular.”

  Hugo put the car into gear and headed for the expressway.

  PHIN

  The stadium where the CN held their rallies, and where they were supposedly holding Pasha, was about an hour away, outside of Decatur.

  Jack was quiet for the first part of the drive. It wasn’t as comfortable between us as it was on the trip down, so after about twenty minutes I broke the silence.

  “You’re upset over what went down,” I said.

  “We assaulted ten people, Phin.”

  “Nine. One of them ran off. And, technically, it was self-defense. That could have ended in a massacre, Jack. A few bloody noses is no big deal.”

  “We could have played it differently.”

  “Packer caught on. And the bartender had a shotgun. If you didn’t act, we’d both be tied up in a truck right now, and our bodies would never be found.”

  “They’re just a bunch of weekend warriors, dressing up as soldiers.”

  “You remember my brother, don’t you? These are his people. They’re killers.”

  “We should call the Feebies.”

  “And tell them what? That I beat a confession out of some kid, and we have a hunch Pasha is being held at some abandoned football stadium?”

  Jack went silent again.

  “Are you worried there will be consequences?” I asked. “That they can trace this back to you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “They’re Nazis. They aren’t going to talk to the cops. You didn’t use your name. We’re in my truck. I highly doubt that Murray’s had a closed circuit camera. No one will ever know. And if it ever comes out, I’ll say I forced you into it.”

  She snorted. “Right.”

  “I’m serious. I forced you, at gunpoint, to go into the bar.”

  “Like anyone would believe that.”

  I puffed out my chest. “I’m a formidable, dangerous man.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I took out seven guys in there. How many did you take? Two?”

  “Mine were armed.”

  “You actually think I’m a pushover?”

  “You’re not a pushover, Phin. But it’s unlikely you could force me to do anything.”

  This certainly wasn’t a conversation I’d eve
r had with a woman before, and it seemed to improve Jack’s mood, so I pressed it.

  “You think, if we fought, you’d kick my ass?” I asked.

  “What kind of fight? A gunfight?”

  Jack was an expert markswoman.

  “There’s no way I’d win in a gunfight. But if we went toe to toe…”

  “I have a second degree taekwondo black belt.”

  “I’m a guy.”

  “Really? You’re pulling the sexism card?”

  “It’s not sexist. It’s chromosomes. I’m bigger and stronger.” I glanced at her. “Well… maybe I give up a few pounds to you.”

  She laughed, and punched my shoulder. I hid my wince.

  “Maybe, when this is over, I can take you to my dojang. We can put on the gloves, go a few rounds.”

  “If you think your ego can handle a crushing defeat.”

  “For real, though, if we were actually fighting, I’d kick your ass.”

  “Happily, I’m sure that will never happen.”

  “Of course it won’t. There’s a higher chance of us getting married than ever getting into a fistfight.”

  I grinned at her. “So maybe the odds aren’t that crazy.”

  She looked at me funny, and I wondered if she was taking the playful banter wrong. Not that I was any sort of expert at reading women, but Jack was staring at me like Pasha sometimes stared at me. Not with pity. With possibility.

  I was going to make another joke, and then Jack’s lips made a circle. “Your shoulder!”

  I checked, saw the blood had soaked through where she hit me.

  “Stitches popped.”

  “When I punched you?”

  “Earlier, in the bar. You just made my shirt stick to it.”

  “Jesus, Phin, we need to take care of that.”

  “There’s a gas station coming up. We can get a sewing kit.”

  “Eww. I’m not sewing you up.”

  “Maybe they sell staplers.”

  “Phin, I’m serious. You’re really bleeding.”

  “Okay. I got a plan.”

  At the gas station, Jack filled the truck, minding the security cameras, and I went into the shop and bought what I needed.

  “Super glue?” She appeared dubious when she took it out of the bag.

  “Just squirt it in the wound and press the edges together. Doctors use it all the time.”

  I took off my shirt, and pulled off the bandage. Jack wiped away the blood with some moist towelettes I had in the glove compartment, and then squirted on the glue.

  Maybe I flexed my muscles a little. To make sure the glue was holding, not to show off or anything.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “When I hit your shoulder, you didn’t even flinch.”

  “Pain and me, we go way back.”

  “How…” her voice trailed off.

  We were dangerously close to pity, but I knew what she was asking.

  “How long do I have?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’m starting another round of chemo and radiation. If it works, I could outlive you.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we should exchange our Christmas cards early.”

  I meant it as a joke. Jack and I didn’t exchange Christmas cards. Neither of us were the type. But instead of getting a smile, I saw her eyes get glassy.

  “How about some antibiotic?” I said, quickly changing the subject.

  Jack smeared on some antibiotic ointment, and slapped on a new bandage. Maybe she sniffled. Maybe I pretended not to hear it.

  “Good as new,” I said.

  Jack’s phone rang, and she picked it up while I put my shirt back on. After only speaking a few words, she hung up, her face no longer sad. It was more like stunned.

  “On his way to the oral surgeon, your brother killed two police officers and two paramedics, and escaped.”

  He’s unstoppable, Earl said.

  “Did you know them?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Good men. They had families.”

  He’s coming for you. He’s coming for you, Phin. There’s nothing you can do.

  I ignored Earl. Jack appeared to be wrestling with something, and I guessed where this was going. “Did they call you back to Chicago?”

  “Yes. With Kenny Jen Bang Ko just a few days ago, the press is calling Hugo a serial killer.”

  “And that’s your thing.”

  Another nod.

  A moment earlier, I was feeling strong. I credited Jack for that. Something about her company made me feel more than the sum of our parts.

  Now, once again, I was scared. A little boy, scrambling to hide under the bed, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

  “I need to stay,” I told her, “find Pasha.”

  “Of course. And I’ll help.”

  “How long before you have to leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If we don’t find her by then…”

  “I know. You’re staying. I’ll find another way back to Chicago. Phin… I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t ask what she was sorry for because her apology covered a whole range of topics.

  “Let’s just focus on getting my girlfriend back.”

  After ten more minutes of awkward silence, I asked, “What was with that Mr. Ayak business back at Murray’s?”

  “Ayak is an acronym of Are You A Klansman?. Hector answered back mentioning Mr. Akia, A Klansman I Am. A simple, silly way for KKK members to identify each other. Learned it as a rookie, but never knew if it was for shit or not. I guess it wasn’t.”

  The Ku Klux Klan. An American institution that predated Nazis by over sixty years. I could understand hating your fellow man. I did my share of hating. But I earned that hatred, from personally being hurt. To hate a group of people, impersonally hate them because of their skin color or religion or gender or language, was disgusting.

  I wondered, for the millionth time, what the hell was wrong with people. Must be a genetic defect of humanity, the will to do others harm. I know I had the gene as well, because I wanted to bust open the heads of every last one of these Nazi morons.

  And here I was, dragging poor Jack onto the warpath with me. A year ago I never would have asked this of her, and if I had, she probably wouldn’t have agreed. I guess we both recognized the last act of a desperate man when we saw it.

  It was a good a time as any to clear the air.

  “I know,” I said, turning to face her, “that I’ve been acting like an ass.”

  “It’s understandable. You’re worried about Pasha.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I know this isn’t how you do things, and that it’s taking a lot for you to be here, and I owe you for that, a debt I probably won’t ever be able to return.”

  “You’re not forcing me to do this. We already had that conversation. You couldn’t force me if you tried.”

  “I…” How could I put this? “I don’t have friends.”

  “You don’t consider me a friend?”

  “We play pool. Occasionally we do each other favors. But we don’t call each other up. We don’t see movies. We don’t grab a bite.” I glanced at her. “We don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

  “That’s the second time you mentioned that. I didn’t think you were the Christmas card type.”

  I shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Never got one.”

  Jack stared out her window. It had gotten dark, and in the middle of the Great Plains there wasn’t anything to see. No lights. No buildings. No trees. Just acres and acres of nothing.

  “When I was a little girl, I was lonely. Latch key kid, my mother was a cop and working all the time. I tried to make friends at school, but girls are pretty cruel to one another, and there was a lot of name calling and gossiping. Mom told me they weren’t my friends. Sure, we saw movies together, and went to the mall, and had sleepovers. But it was always about being accepted. Not about supporting one another.”
/>   Jack looked at me, her face as determined as I’d ever seen it. “Friendship doesn’t make you feel weak. It makes you feel strong. Find the person you want by your side when the shit goes down, my mother said. If they want to be there as much as you want them there, that’s a true friend.”

  Somewhere in the night a coyote howled. The howl was brief.

  Like everything else.

  “Thanks for being my friend, Jack.”

  “Right back at you, Phin.”

  Then I slammed on the brakes.

  Accident, on the road right in front of us, and I’d been focusing on the conversation rather than my driving. We skidded to a stop less than a meter away from the van taking up half the lane.

  “There!” Jack pointed along the side of the road, and tires tracks led to a Dodge Ram, facing the wrong direction. There was a large man, with a gun, pointing it at someone who was obscured by the vehicle.

  Jack apparently had no more concerns about jurisdiction because she had her Colt in hand and was out of the truck before I could even get my seatbelt off.

  “Drop the weapon!” Jack yelled.

  The guy turned and looked at us. My headlights made him appear washed-out, so I couldn’t see his features, but he was a big guy. Bodybuilder big.

  Hugo?

  “Ease up there, Clit Eastwood. He’s with me.”

  Jack lowered her .38, then stared at Harry McGlade, who was standing next to the van.

  “Did you just call me Clit Eastwood?”

  “If you want to, you can call me Cock Hudson.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Jack told him. Then she glared at me. “You called him.”

  “Don’t get pissed. We needed back-up. And he caught the guy.”

  I put on my hazard lights and walked to the side of the road. The bodybuilder was a guy I knew, a Persian-American named Parviz who worked for another Persian-American named Kahdem, whom I did a job for a while back. Parviz had a stainless steel 1911 pointed at none other than Gruppenführer Hector Packer, who was on his knees with his hands over his head.

  “How about we take this party off road?” I suggested, seeing headlights in the distance.

  Parviz holstered his cannon and hauled Packer to his feet, dragging him to the van. Harry got in the driver’s seat, and pulled off the road, into a cornfield. Jack got into the Bronco with me and we followed.