Everybody Dies - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 3) Page 7

“Do you remember what it felt like?”

  She nodded.

  “My father broke my leg, once. I started to cry, and he slapped me until I shut up.” Hugo laughed. “That took a while.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “People have such fear of pain. It’s just a sensation. Like an itch. Or feeling cold. It can be controlled.”

  Hugo dried Göth off on his pants leg and gave him the sharpness test. Holding the blade flush to his thumbnail, Hugo pressed down and watched as the metal parted the nail, biting into the skin beneath it. He then peeled the nail back and cut it off at the base, revealing bloody, sticky flesh underneath.

  “So, you have congenital analgesia,” Pasha said. “You can’t feel pain.”

  Hugo shook his head. “I feel this. Right now the nerves in my finger are firing. I know I’m injured. Pain hurts me the same as it hurts you. But I don’t let it affect me. It’s not that difficult to do. Your brain knows it’s happening, but you push it aside. Would you like to try it?”

  “No.” Pasha shook her head.

  “I think you should try it,” Hugo said, standing up. “Does your phone take pictures?”

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “It will only hurt,” Hugo moved toward her, “if you let it.”

  PHIN

  Hugo had to assume I’d come armed, so he had to have some kind of safeguard against that. Maybe I’d simply be frisked before being allowed in. Maybe he’d shoot me before I even got out of my vehicle. There were many possibilities, none of them good.

  I tried not to think about Pasha, but did anyway. Was she still alive? If so, what was he doing to her? I tortured myself with every possible scenario, one worse than the next.

  Funny, how everyone wants love in their life, yet love can hurt worse than anything in the world.

  It’s what I deserved for trying to have a normal life.

  I walked over to Detective Mankowski in the parking lot, my hands in front of me, all ten fingers up.

  “Tom?”

  He nodded. “You’re Phin.”

  I nodded back. We spent a few seconds sizing each other up. He didn’t seem impressed. I didn’t blame him.

  “Body is in there?”

  “Yeah. It’s messy.”

  “I’m going to have to call a crime scene team here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are we going to find any surprises?”

  “There’s some carpet that pulls up in the corner of the room. I keep knives under the floorboard. I took them off of guests here. I am—I was—the security guard at the motel.”

  “And none of them can be linked to this?”

  “No. I didn’t kill him. My brother did.”

  “Hugo,” Tom said. “I checked out his file. Must have been tough growing up for you.”

  He had no idea.

  “We’re going to have to cordon off this place. If there’s anything you need, grab it now.”

  “I got what I need, and I won’t be back.”

  Tom fished into the pocket of his jeans, took out a business card. “If you find him, call me. I’ll send in the cavalry.”

  I accepted the card, and held out my hand. We shook.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Any friend of Jack’s.”

  I went back to the check-in booth, and Tom went off to process a murder victim. After grabbing my suitcase, I almost left to get into my truck, but an idea stopped me.

  Hugo was bigger and stronger, and he probably had a team on his side. I was outmatched, outnumbered, and outgunned. The only chance I had to rescue Pasha was by outthinking him.

  Kenny Jen Bang Ko drove a 1993 Cadillac Fleetwood. Not the prettiest car when it came out fifteen years ago, and it hadn’t aged well. For a man who hardly went anywhere, he would diligently take the car out every Sunday, drive around the block, and return five minutes later. I asked him about it once, and he told me that the Cadillac symbolized the American Dream, and since he immigrated to the United States he dreamed of owning a Caddy.

  I checked the keys I took from him, and saw the two gold keys, one with a square head, one with a round head, each with the Cadillac emblem.

  Hugo would have people watching for my approach. And he’d know what kind of vehicle I drove. Kenny no doubt shared that information with him.

  I didn’t see any reason why Kenny couldn’t share his car with me.

  Suitcase in hand, I left the office and walked to the Cadillac. I knew the spot where Hugo wanted to meet. West of Humboldt park, near the train tracks, was an industrial park. Five or six factories, abandoned since the 80s, defying gentrification and crumbling in plain sight.

  It was one of only a few neutral zones in the city used by Chicago street gangs for deals, pacts, and occasional rumbles. I was there in ten minutes.

  I arrived almost fifty minutes before our meet time, but had no idea which of the buildings matched the address Hugo gave me. They all looked the same; made of brown, beige, and red brick, four to six stories, flat sides, flat roofs, lower windows boarded off. Higher than the third floor, one out of every three windows was broken. Anything painted was peeling, anything iron was rusty. Ugly, forgotten tributes to a Chicago that used to be an industrial hub, succumbed to neglect and urban decay.

  Among the dead were an old float glass factory, a brewery, a gristmill, and a foundry. I rolled past the brewery, looking for an address, finding a faded sign that told me I was a block too far north. I swung the car around—it handled surprisingly well considering its size—and headed back down Monticello, rolling past the foundry.

  Like the buildings, it was dark, no electricity. I slowed down, but didn’t stop in case I was being watched. The first two doors I rolled past hadn’t seen any use in decades They were scarred, rusty, metal things, their handles having been broken off and chains barring them shut. Even with the chains removed, nothing short of a minor explosion would get those doors open.

  The third door appeared pretty much the same as the first two. I’d almost completely passed it when I noticed one minor difference. The hinges on this one were shiny steel, a stark contrast to all the rust and decay.

  New hinges. This door, as immobile as it appeared, probably opened. And if it could be opened, there could be someone inside.

  Turning the corner, the building met up with a chain link fence topped with razor wire. The fence and the wire both looked old and rusted, but oddly enough there weren’t any tears or missing links one would expect in an old fence.

  I continued down the street, hung a left, and parked. Then I hung the shotgun over my shoulder, put my 9mm in my belt, and looked for a flashlight before remembering I kept it in the Bronco. It was probably just as well. Holding a flashlight would be like wearing a bullseye.

  I stuck a knife in each back pocket, then got out of the car and walked back toward the steelworks. When I got to the fence, I knelt, pretending to tie my shoe as I examined the chain link.

  It wasn’t rust. It was rust-colored paint.

  The fence extended around the entire back of the building, enclosing an acre or so of parking lot and three big loading docks, all of which looked disused. I strolled by the gate in the fence, which was chained shut with a shiny new padlock.

  The gate ran on a track, and the track was well-greased. Looking out of the corner of my eye as I passed, I tried to watch the windows on the third floor. Several were broken and some were boarded up, and I didn’t see any sign of human life except for a brief orange dot that disappeared almost immediately.

  Someone at the window, dragging on a cigarette.

  I continued around the block, found a number painted on the side, confirming this was the address.

  Was Pasha already here? Was that Hugo in the window, smoking?

  I didn’t think he’d recognize me. It had been years, and I’d been younger and had hair. Also, Hugo wasn’t the type to smoke. When we were younger, he’d been seriously into lifting weights. I could picture Hugo abusing steroids, or protein
powder, but not tobacco.

  Back at the car, I considered my options.

  Knock on the door? Bad idea. That was what they expected me to do, and there had to be a plan in place to disarm me. A gun held to Pasha’s head would be enough for me to throw down my weapons.

  Pick the lock? Bad idea. I’d be seen. Plus, I couldn’t pick locks.

  Blow off the locks? Breaching a door with a shotgun wasn’t as simple as it looked on TV. Plus, the door was metal, set into a brick wall, and Kenny’s gun only had a pistol grip. I’d likely break my wrist before I broke the door lock. Also, they’d be watching my approach. I’d already walked past the building once. If I did it again, they’d be on full alert.

  Which left only one possibility.

  I buckled up, hoping the Caddy was a new enough model to be equipped with airbags. Then I pulled out of the alley.

  The trick to it was swerving at the right moment. If it was just a head-on collision, I wouldn’t even need to be in the car; a brick on the accelerator and a rope on the steering wheel would be enough. But I needed to come at it perpendicular from down the street, then jump the curb and turn into the door on an angle. Too sharp a turn and I’d lose control of the car. Too shallow a turn and I’d miss the door completely, running into the brick wall instead.

  This is a stupid plan.

  No shit. But I ignored Earl, pulling around the block, focusing on the task at hand. Turning the corner to where the door awaited, I took a deep breath, pictured Pasha in my mind, and floored it.

  The Cadillac bounced on its shocks and sprang forward, fuel injection feeding cylinders and squealing tires. I had my right hand tight on the wheel at 12 o’clock, my armpit pinning the shotgun against my side.

  I passed the first door, accelerating fast. Time seemed to slow down. I heard the engine whine high then low, switching gears.

  Past the second door. Going at least thirty now, though I didn’t glance at the instrument panel to check. The third door was my destination, coming up fast on my right, too fast.

  Door only ten meters away. Reflex almost made me hit the brakes, but I resisted, going up on the curb, over the sidewalk, making a last second steering adjustment before—

  IMPACT!

  I was crushed in the fist of an angry god and shaken back and forth, a sound not unlike screaming ripped through my head as the car hit the door and an instantaneous BANG! as the airbag deployed, suddenly appearing out of nothingness, smacking me in the face, pushing me back as momentum took me forward, my internal organs bouncing around in a brutal tug of war.

  A millisecond later, glass showered me, biting into scalp like hungry bugs.

  I smelled smoke, my ears singing soprano. Motes danced on the surface of my eyeballs.

  I’m alive.

  On fire? No, the smoke was chemicals from the airbag deploying.

  I flexed my hands and they worked. So did my feet. My side door had been shorn off, and there was blackness to my left.

  I looked to the other side and saw the street through the hole I made in the side of the building where the door used to be. Then I patted around underneath me, finding a knife, flicking it open and cutting the airbag away.

  My neck felt like I’d been jabbed with an icepick, and I almost yelped at the pain. Whiplash from hell. I spit something onto the deflated bag. Broken tooth or a shard of glass, hard to tell because it was bloody.

  I fumbled for the seatbelt, clicked it free, then pulled myself out of the Caddy, the movement sending electric waves of agony up my spinal cord to my neck.

  I pocketed the knife, trying to hear something above the ringing, my head feeling like I’d used it to pound nails into a board.

  Footsteps. Coming from ahead. Two men or more, moving at a jog.

  It was a CSS situation; Couldn’t See Shit. There was no electricity inside the factory, and I’d trashed Kenny’s headlights.

  I dropped to a knee, brought up the shotgun, quickly deciding to keep the pistol grip away from my face so I didn’t break my own nose. Instead, I extended it forward, stretching out my left arm until it was straight, keeping the weapon away from my body. Awkward, but manageable. Without seeing anyone, I fired into the darkness, absorbing the recoil like I was lifting barbells. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Then I yelled, “Gǔn dàn!”

  It was a Chinese saying, one that wasn’t very polite, and I hoped it confused them enough to think they were being attacked by a rival gang.

  I counted to three in my head, then ejected the round and racked another. If there’s a more persuasive sound than a pump shotgun, I’ve never heard it. The footsteps began to retreat, picking up speed, and a door opened on the other side of the building. They were probably running out into the parking lot with the razor wire fence.

  I wondered how I was going to navigate in the dark, remembered my cell phone, and turned it on, navigating by the screen light. I couldn’t see more than a meter in any direction, but the place was a mess. Not just the dust and debris of a factory long abandoned, but also food wrappers and beer cans and cigarette butts. There were swastikas and SS lightning bolts painted on walls, along with a runic-styled CN that was the symbol of the Caucasian Nation. I walked around until I saw a doorway labeled STAIRS. During my original drive-by I’d seen a man smoking a cigarette on the third floor. So up the stairs I went, my various aches and pains all conspiring to knock me off my feet. On the third flight I came to another door. I stopped, listened, heard nothing, and then went in low and fast.

  After ten steps I held my breath and craned an ear, hearing a faint noise far to my left. Moving slowly, hugging the walls, I crept up on a closed door and paused, listening intently.

  Talking. Only one man. He was on the phone.

  I burst in, seeing his cell phone light, rushing at him with the shotgun and swinging it like a tennis racket just as I cried out “Gǔn dàn!”once again. There was a satisfying thud of metal hitting skull, and then his cell dropped it to the floor. I quickly followed up, shoving the business end of the shotgun into his side as he doubled over, then reaching for his phone and hitting the end key.

  “Don’t kill me. Please.”

  The voice was almost feminine, cracking with fear.

  “How many?” I whispered.

  “Me and two other guys. Where are they? Did you…”

  I reached down in the shadows, found his neck, gave his collar a firm tug and dropped him to the floor. Putting a knee on the small of his back, I patted him down, finding a wallet, a knife, brass knuckles, cigarettes and a lighter and a bottle of lighter fluid, and a penlight. I switched it on and took a quick look around the room. An old office, empty except for a chair, some binoculars on the seat. Floor littered with cigarette butts.

  “Did you call for help?”

  He began to sob. “I just called in.”

  “Who’d you call? What did you say?”

  “That we were being attacked.”

  “By who?”

  He didn’t answer fast enough for me, so I pressed the shotgun to the back of his head.

  “I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “The Clan. I said it was the Clan.”

  A rival gang from Chinatown.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Not here yet. Coming later.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. You… you’re not the Clan. You’re Truppenführer Troutt’s brother.”

  “Is that who you were talking to? Hugo?”

  “Don’t kill me. Please. I’ve got a baby.”

  I tapped his head with the shotgun to keep him focused. “Who did you call?”

  “The Truppenführer. Hugo. It was Hugo.”

  I mulled it over, then handed him his phone. “Call him back. Say you got the guys who attacked you. Tell him the front door is busted, but you’re on top of things.”

  I made him practice a few times, then call back on speakerphone.

  Hugo’s reply was, “I’ll be there in forty min
utes.”

  A few seconds later, my cell phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?” Hugo asked.

  I nudged the shotgun barrel into the gangbanger’s open mouth. Hugo probably assumed I called Pasha as soon as I saw Kenny in my motel room, but recalling that phone call, neither of us mentioned Kenny, or where I was. And I hadn’t told Pasha where I was going. As far as Hugo knew, I could be anywhere. Which meant he might really believe the Clan had attacked, not me.

  “I just left Naperville. I’m about forty minutes away.”

  “Naperville? You didn’t tell me you were out of town.”

  “You didn’t ask. I’ll make the meeting on time. Can I speak to Pasha?”

  “You want to hear her voice?”

  I knew what was coming, and I tried not to cringe when I heard Pasha scream in pain.

  “Don’t be late,” Hugo ordered, then hung up.

  A moment later, my phone buzzed. I’d gotten a text.

  It was a picture. Pasha, mouth wide, eye-bulging agony etched all over her beautiful face.

  PASHA

  Dr. Pasha Kapoor clenched her teeth and fought to keep the tears in, fearing that tears would excite Hugo. The pain in her hand was agonizing, made even worse by the fact that it was tied behind her back and she couldn’t see what the animal had done to her. Her finger seemed broken in several places, but she wasn’t sure if the slickness she felt on her hand was sweat or blood.

  Was it wrong to hope it was blood? That maybe she was bleeding to death, and this would all be over?

  Death was a frightening concept. But what scared her more was the maniac who held her captive. Pasha knew there was no chance of being released. She knew Phin wouldn’t be able save her. She knew that all she had to look forward to was agony until the madman finally allowed her to die.

  Unless she could cheat him of that joy by dying first.

  You’re not thinking clearly, she told herself. You’re just scared.

  Cowardice was a new feeling for Pasha. The realization of it appalled her.

  She’d only been the captive of this maniac for a few hours, and during that time she’d lost all hope.