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

  It’s a shotgun. You can kill a bear with a shotgun. Shoot him!

  What if it didn’t?

  Sirens. In the distance. Getting closer.

  Hugo turned—

  —looked directly at me.

  I froze. Feeling like that eight-year-old-kid, terrified, unable to cope with what was happening.

  You’re not eight.

  You’re a grown man.

  Shoot the son of a bitch.

  I raised the barrel, knowing it wasn’t going to work.

  SHOOT!

  I aimed for the center mass. Twenty five yards away. An easy target.

  Squeezed the trigger.

  The shotgun thundered.

  Hugo staggered back.

  Blood blossomed on his shirt and pants.

  But he didn’t go down.

  I ejected the spent cartridge, aimed, and fired again.

  He raised up his arm, covering his face.

  But he didn’t go down.

  I knew it wouldn’t work.

  I knew it wouldn’t kill him.

  He was unkillable.

  I racked again.

  Aimed.

  Fired.

  He took it. Just stood there as the buckshot peppered his body.

  Wait… was this even buckshot?

  Buckshot was called buckshot because it could take down a deer. But there were twelve gauge shotgun loads that contained much smaller pellets than buckshot.

  I had the vaguest memory of Kenny Jen Bang Ko, with his shotgun, shooting rats by the garbage cans.

  Birdshot.

  Kenny had loaded his gun with birdshot.

  It could kill a rat or a squirrel or a pigeon, but from twenty meters, at someone Hugo’s size…

  All it would do is get under his skin and piss him off.

  I dropped the shotgun, pulling my nine as Hugo dove across the hood of Kenny’s car and blended into the darkness.

  He was in the factory. The monster was in the factory.

  With me.

  And my immediate reaction was soul-numbing fear and a ridiculous urge to hide under the bed.

  But I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t hide.

  I never could.

  Don’t hide. Fight.

  I took half a dozen steps in the darkness, heading for the stairs.

  Shoot him. You’ve got the Smith & Wesson.

  That made perfect sense. Hugo didn’t appear to be armed, and a 9mm round to the face would kill anyone.

  So why was I running? Why didn’t I just—

  “Phineas!”

  The growl of Hugo’s voice stopped me cold. I couldn’t see in the dark, but he was only a few meters away. I felt my bladder tighten, my sphincter clench.

  You’re going to die if you don’t stop acting like a child. Push the fear away.

  “What did you shoot me with, little brother?” He’d gotten even closer. “Was that some kind of toy?”

  Fight through the fear. Shoot him.

  I could hear my own heartbeat, and I was sure Hugo could hear it too.

  Draw the gun—

  “I can hear you breathing, Phin.”

  —and shoot him.

  “You sound scared.”

  I was scared.

  Goddammit, Phin, you’re not eight-years-old anymore!

  I didn’t consider myself a brave person. I ran from love. I ran from fights. I ran from my cancer.

  Being brave was all about confronting fear, and I was all about hiding from it.

  But you didn’t have to be brave to blow someone’s head off.

  I raised the gun and fired, seeing Hugo charge at me just as the muzzle flashed.

  The shot went over his head, and he hit like a brick to the face. My vision sparked, then blurred. The gun flew from my hands. I had a thought, fleeting, that I’d just gotten knocked out. Then my body hit the floor.

  Time became a bendable, wobbly thing, pain and consciousness blinking on and off, my thoughts all scrambly and jumbled.

  Bits and pieces came back like remembered photographs. Pasha. The factory. Hugo.

  I’d tried to kill him. Failed. And now he was going to hurt and kill me.

  “You’re early,” said a fuzzy voice. I knew whose it was, and tried to get my body to listen to my brain and turn over.

  My body shunned the request.

  A lighter flicked on, illuminating a monster. Hugo was so enormous it was almost funny. He looked amused—always a dangerous look for him—and he smiled even though his chest, legs, neck, and face were soaked with blood.

  “You’re also bald. Are you a skinhead, Phin? That would be funny.”

  My tongue was cold, and I realized my mouth was sucking the concrete floor. I pushed my head away, the effort bringing up bile. I dry heaved, then laid my palms flat and tried to stop the world from spinning.

  “Face me. Let me look at you. I’ve waited a long time for this moment.”

  My body found a way to sit up. I squinted at the giant hovering over me, trying to focus.

  “You ain’t looking so good, baby brother.”

  “Where’s Pasha?” I heard myself say.

  “Where are my men?”

  I spat, my vision beginning to clear. I looked around for my gun, but it was lost in the dark. All I could see with any degree of clarity was Hugo.

  He was massive. His body a mountain. His face a slab of meat. The Zippo he held had a six inch flame, and it bathed him in flickering orange.

  You’ve got a choice here, Phin. You can roll over for him. Or you can fight. What’s it gonna be?

  Hugo leaned closer, squinting at me. “I asked you a question. Where are my men?”

  All during my childhood, defying Hugo meant terrible consequences.

  But he’d already done the worst he could do. And I’d survived.

  Maybe I wouldn’t survive this. But I’d made my peace with death.

  It was time to make my peace with fear.

  I was done with being afraid.

  “Remember the last thing I said to you, before they took you to juvee?” I said. My voice was surprisingly calm.

  Hugo snickered. “You said you were going to kill me, the next time you saw me. So what are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  The knife came out of my back pocket like it had been greased, and the blade opened a millisecond before I jammed it into Hugo’s inner thigh.

  Hitting the femoral artery would do the job. Even as big as Hugo was, he’d bleed out. But his legs were like oak trees, the muscle so thick I only got two inches of blade in, and then he backhanded me hard enough to give me my second case of whiplash that evening.

  My upper body snapped back and slammed into the floor like I was on hinges, the world went dark, and a huge hand grasped my shirt and jerked me to my feet like I was a toddler.

  He let go of me and took a step back, leaving me on wobbly feet.

  Then he raised his fists, the size of hams, in a boxer’s stance and took a shuffle to the side.

  “You want to fight. Phineas? Let’s fight.”

  I took the hit on the side of the head, rolling to the ground. My brain was receiving forty messages at once, all of them pain. I got on all fours, watching him approach, the lighter still in his hand.

  I squinted at him, and he seemed to walk towards me in slow motion. He was huge, my brother. Hugo had six inches on me, and over a hundred and fifty pounds, all muscle. In the best shape of my life, rested and younger and healthy, I wouldn’t have been able to take him in a fair fight. In the shape I was in now I didn’t have a Big Mac’s chance in a fat farm, to quote an old acquaintance.

  But who said I had to fight fair?

  I patted down my pockets, found the things I’d taken from the gangbanger. Brass knuckles. A bottle of lighter fluid. I slipped on the knucks and held up a fist so Hugo focused on that.

  “Really? You think a toy like that will hurt me?”

  With my other hand, I popped the plastic cap
on the lighter fluid, took two quick steps toward him, and squirted the liquid at his lighter.

  There was a fireball, and he was momentarily engulfed in flames. I squeezed the rest of the fluid onto his legs, and as he began to pat out the fire I threw the hardest, fastest haymaker of my life, catching him on the jaw with the brass knuckles, knocking him to one knee.

  Hugo swatted me, backhanded, with the force of a car accident, and I went rolling to the floor, losing the bottle.

  While trying to smother the flames, Hugo only succeeded in fanning them, and he staggered back into an old desk and that caught fire as well.

  I pulled my spare knife from my other pocket, then took a quick look around the room, now that it was easier to see, searching from my 9mm.

  Hugo tore off his shirt, damp with blood, and beat out the fire on his pants. Smoking, bleeding, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of hell.

  “Since we’re related, I’ll give you a break,” Hugo said. “What should I break first?”

  He advanced, and I backed away an equal distance. Shot, stabbed, burned, and I might have broken his jaw, and he didn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered.

  “A leg or an arm?” he asked. “I once broke a guy’s arm, then pulled the bone out through the skin. I bet I could do that with your leg.”

  I swung the knuckles at him, and the punch bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. Hugo started to laugh, sounding almost like a dog barking. I remembered that laugh from my youth, every time he’d done something to hurt someone, usually me.

  I wondered if Pasha had heard that laugh.

  Through the haze of pain and exhaustion and fear, I became very pissed off.

  Pulling myself inward, drawing air into my lungs and holding it, I sighted on his meaty head and forced myself into a reverse kick. Pivoting my hips around in a quick snap and extending the leg, I focused and let my body perform what was, for me, a familiar motion.

  I connected hard with his face and drove him backwards, the doggy laughter dying in his throat.

  I followed the move by dropping to my knees and swinging my knife hand between his legs. The blade connected and stuck, pulling itself from my hands.

  He was wearing an athletic cup.

  Hugo swung at my head and I rolled to the right, getting back on my feet.

  “What are you protecting, Hugo? All those steroids, I bet you’re the size of a Tic Tac.”

  He no longer looked amused.

  “No witnesses, so I’ll need proof,” he said. “I think I’ll take your head.”

  The giant advanced.

  I stole a quick glance at the shotgun, lying on the floor in front of him. Hugo followed my gaze and walked over to the weapon, bending down to pick it up. The gun looked like a toy in his huge hands. Holding the grip and the barrel, he made like a circus strongman and bent the shotgun in half, discarding it. Then he tugged the knife out of his crotch, and the knife out of his thigh, and pointed both at me, like an ogre waiting for dinner.

  I spit out a glob of blood. My anger was still there, but it was no longer enough to keep me going. Reserves were dwindling. Focus becoming muddled. Despite the encroaching loss, I was calm. Defeat and I were old buddies.

  “Where is she?” I asked my brother.

  “I’m keeping her. She’s broken up pretty bad, but her mouth still works.”

  Hugo had put out the flames on his body, but the fire had spread from the desk, smoke rapidly filling the room now, flames licking up the walls.

  Hugo moved in, snake-quick, and slashed, barely scratching my neck as I pulled away. I punched up, knocking away the knife, and he brought the other one around and stabbed my shoulder.

  I took a few steps back, my legs rubbery, not knowing how bad my wound was, not really caring. The sirens in the distance seemed to get closer. Tom had told me to call him when I found Hugo, and I realized what good advice that had been.

  Earl had been right about the codeine. I’d taken too many. The adrenaline had worn off, and I felt heavy and slow.

  Your last stand was pathetic. He’s going to kill you.

  “He can take a number and get in line,” I mumbled to myself.

  Hugo advanced. I took another step back, my heel kicking something hard and metal.

  The 9mm.

  Clarity came like a jolt of electricity, and I dropped to a knee, picked up the gun, and raised it just as Hugo charged, falling backward as I jerked the trigger fast as I could pull.

  Three shots fired.

  One shot hit.

  Square in the chest.

  Hugo dropped to a knee, like he was going to propose marriage. He looked confused, eyes unfocused, and then a small grin split his face.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Your worthless ass finally did something right.”

  Then he reached into his pocket, threw something into the darkness, and then slumped to the floor.

  I was out of bullets, so I pried the knife from his meaty paw and brought it to the back of his neck.

  KILL HIM! Earl screeched.

  I raised the blade—

  —thought of Pasha.

  If Hugo died, I might never find her.

  Kill him, Phin. You might not get another chance.

  I ignored Earl, got to my feet, and immediately fell over. I chanced a look at my shoulder, and saw the blood was flowing fast. I fumbled with my belt, stripping it off, cinching it above the knife wound. Smoke had begun to collect on the ceiling, slowly making its way down, and I kept low and headed for Kenny’s car. I climbed over the hood, then staggered over to Hugo’s van.

  “Pasha!” I banged on the window, then tried the door.

  Locked.

  I stumbled to the rear, tugged at the tailgate. Also locked. Incredibly, I was still wearing the brass knuckles, and I punched my hand through the tinted back window and then peeked through the hole I’d made staring at—

  Nothing.

  The van was empty.

  A dozen things skipped across my mind at once, blurry from the drugs and the blood loss. Where was she? How could I make Hugo talk? What if he died? What should I do now?

  Sirens got closer, and I saw red and blue lights flashing up the street—

  —and pass us right up.

  Call the cop. Call Tom.

  I patted down my pockets, pulled his business card, squinted at the tiny numbers through a dark night flickering with fire. My thumb wasn’t working right, so I switched the cell phone to my left hand.

  I managed to dial, press send.

  “Mankowski.”

  “I found him. The foundry, in Humboldt Park. Need cops. Medics. Firemen.”

  “Phin?”

  I weaved my way back into the burning factory. The smoke had gotten to waist level, and I couldn’t find Hugo. I crouched down, swatting at the air, sucking in hot ash and coughing hard. Got on all fours, crawling, and saw that idiot gangbanger kid whose knee I’d blown out, dragging himself across the floor. I ran to him, grabbed his collar, and pulled him outside. Then I went back in, trying to remember where I’d left my brother, realizing I’d gone the wrong way, and finding him in the other direction, still slumped over.

  I felt for a pulse.

  None.

  The thought of doing CPR on this animal was disgusting.

  But the thought of losing Pasha was worse.

  I shoved him onto his back, pulled up on the back of his neck, elevating his chin, and stuck my finger in his wet, warm maw, pushing away his slimy tongue. Then I took a deep breath, filled his lungs, and began chest compressions, pushing down with all my weight, hoping I broke the bastard’s sternum as I made sure his heart circulated blood.

  The smoke got lower, and the heat had really kicked up. I thought I heard sirens, but the fire had become pretty loud, crackling and popping and hissing, and I began to think that reviving Hugo wouldn’t matter if we both burned alive. So I grabbed his wrist and began to pull him across the floor.

  It wasn’t like moving the teenager, who
slid across the concrete with moderate effort. It was more like moving a pallet of bricks. I had to get on my ass, pull with my arms and feet, then scoot back and repeat the process.

  After a few minutes, the smoke was so thick I wasn’t even sure the direction I was heading. I had my shirt up over my face, which did nothing, and with every tug on Hugo’s dead weight I was growing more and more light-headed.

  I wasn’t going to make it.

  Let him burn. Save yourself.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Either I got Hugo out of there, or I died with him.

  I suppose I was just fated to die in a horrible way.

  I pushed with my legs, straining until blood vessels threatened to pop in my head. He was too heavy, and I was too weak. The fire hadn’t reached us yet, but the heat was already excruciating. I felt like I was in an oven.

  I took a deep breath, smoke searing my lungs. The fire crackled louder than a woman’s screams.

  I closed my eyes and tried to picture Pasha’s face, hoping to take the image with me, wherever I was going.

  Life had been quite a trip. So much sadness and pain. So many disappointments and regrets.

  But there had been good times, too. Times when being alive was a gift rather than a burden. Times with Pasha, and with Annie, my former fiancée whom I dumped when I was diagnosed to spare her the pain of watching me die. Times with Jack, drinking beer and playing pool and acting almost like a normal human being. Happiness, like tragedy, stands out. What we remember most about life isn’t the day to day routine. It’s the things that happen outside of the routine. Falling in love. Laughing. Vacations. Friends. Lovers. Discoveries and triumphs, and the failures and disappointments as well.

  In a way I was kind of lucky. Because most of my life had been lousy, lousy had become my day to day existence and I didn’t remember too much of it. So the memories that stood out were mostly happy ones, and I had them with me now.

  I took another breath, gagging on its heat. A smile found its way to my lips and sat there. Earl was no doubt pissed off, his murder plans being snatched away by the approaching fire.

  I was finally cleansing my body of cancer, once and for all.

  And then the darkness overcame me.

  Someone was forcing steel wool down my throat when I came to. I tried coughing it up, and felt a hand on my shoulder, reassuring me.