Thriller (7 page)

his forceful tone conveying the full weight of his office. The

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world could only admire the presidential resolve of a former general in the United States Army.

“The FBI and Justice Department have worked tirelessly and

swiftly on this investigation,” said the president. “It is our very

firm conclusion that Mr. Saint Preux acted alone. He filled a civilian aircraft with highly explosive materials to create the equivalent of a flying eight-hundred-pound napalm bomb. Through

means of deception, which included a fake medical emergency,

he gained permission to land at the U.S. Naval Air Station in

Guantanamo. In accordance with his premeditated scheme, the

plane exploded and created a rain of fire over Camp Delta, killing

six U.S. Marines and over six hundred detainees, and injuring

many others.

“Naturally, our prayers and sympathies go out to the victims

and their families. But I wish to emphasize that the speed with

which we addressed this incident demonstrates that we will pursue terrorists and terrorist groups in whatever criminal guise they

take, irrespective of whether they target American soldiers, innocent civilians or even foreign enemy combatants whom the

United States has lawfully detained and taken into custody.”

The president paused, as if giving his sound bite time to gel,

then narrowed his eyes for a final comment. “Make no mistake

about it. Although most of the victims were detained enemy

combatants, this attack at Guantanamo was an attack on democracy and the United States of America. With Mr. Saint Preux’s

death, however, justice has been done. Good night, thank you,

and may God bless America.”

Jack remained glued to the television as the president stepped

away from the podium. Reporters sprang from their seats and

started firing questions, but the president simply waved and

turned away. The network commentators jumped in with their

recap and analysis, but Jack’s mind was awhirl with his own

thoughts. Was Operation Northwoods for real? Did Jack’s client

do this as a favor to the U.S. government? Or did he do it to embarrass the Howe administration, as a way to make the world

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think that the president had put him up to this? None of those

questions had been answered.

Or maybe they had.

Theo switched off the television. “Guess that settles it,” he

said, laying on a little more than his usual sarcasm. “Just another

pissed-off Haitian crashing his airplane into a naval base to

protest U.S. immigration policy.”

Jack lifted his shot glass of tequila. “I’m ready.”

“For what?”

He glanced at the lemon and saltshaker, then stiffened his re-solve. “I’m losing the training wheels.”

J. A. Konrath is relatively new to the thriller scene. The

Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels series features a fortysomething Chicago cop who chases serial killers. Konrath’s

debut,
Whiskey Sour,
was a unique combination of creepy

chills and laugh-out-loud moments.
Bloody Mary
and
Rusty

Nail
used the same giggle-then-cringe formula—likable heroes in scary situations. Konrath believes that a lot of the fun

in writing a thriller series comes from the supporting characters. People are defined by the company they keep. Jack has

a handful of sidekicks who both help and hinder her murder

investigations.

Phineas Troutt is one of the helpful ones.

Introduced in
Whiskey Sour,
Phin operates outside the law

as a problem solver—someone who takes illegal jobs for big

paydays. Jack is never quite sure what Phin does to earn a living. Konrath himself didn’t know, but thought it would be fun

to find out.

Forsaking the cannibals, necrophiles, snuff filmers and serial killers of his Jack Daniels books,
Epitaph
revolves around

a more familiar and accessible evil—street gangs. The result

is something grittier, darker and more intimately violent than

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the series that spawned Phin. No tongue in cheek here. No

goofy one-liners. Konrath has always enjoyed exploring

where shadows hide when the sun goes down, but this time

there’s no humorous safety net. What motivates a man to

drop out of society and kill for money? Is there a tie between

morality and dignity? And most important of all, what is

Phin loading into the shells of that modified Mossberg shotgun?

Let the body count begin.

There’s an art to getting your ass kicked.

Guys on either side held my arms, stretching me out crucifixion style. The joker who worked me over swung wildly, without planting his feet or putting his body into it. He spent most

of his energy swearing and screaming when he should have been

focusing on inflicting maximum damage.

Amateur.

Not that I was complaining. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in mean.

He moved in and rabbit-punched me in the side. I flexed my

abs and tried to shift to take the blow in the center of my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.

I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.

He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense

up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck

snap back.

It still hurt like hell.

I tasted blood, wasn’t sure if it came from my nose or my

mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.

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“Hijo calvo de una perra!”

You bald son of a bitch.
Real original. His breath was ragged

now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.

Gangbangers these days aren’t in very good shape. I blame TV

and junk food.

One final punch—a halfhearted smack to my broken nose—

and then I was released.

I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The

three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they

strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high fives.

When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a

Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark,

quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot.

Rats, licking up my dripping blood.

Nice neighborhood.

I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances. I took a

deep breath, let it out slow, did some poking and prodding.

Nothing seemed seriously damaged.

I’d been lucky.

I spat. The bloody saliva clung to my swollen lower lip and

dribbled onto my T-shirt. I tried a few steps forward, managed

to keep my balance, and continued to walk out of the alley, onto

the sidewalk, and to the corner bus stop.

I sat.

The Kings took my wallet, which had no ID or credit cards,

but did have a few hundred in cash. I kept an emergency fiver

in my shoe. The bus arrived, and the portly driver raised an eyebrow at my appearance.

“Do you need a doctor, buddy?”

“I’ve got plenty of doctors.”

He shrugged and took my money.

On the ride back, my fellow passengers made heroic efforts to

avoid looking at me. I leaned forward, so the blood pooled between my feet rather than stained my clothing any further. These

were my good jeans.

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When my stop came up, I gave everyone a cheery wave goodbye and stumbled out of the bus.

The corner of State and Cermak was all lit up, twinkling in

both English and Chinese. Unlike NYC and L.A., each of which

had sprawling Chinatowns, Chicago has more of a
Chinablock
.

Blink while you’re driving west on Twenty-second and you’ll

miss it.

Though Caucasian, I found a kind of peace in Chinatown

that I didn’t find among the Anglos. Since my diagnosis, I’ve

pretty much disowned society. Living here was like living in a

foreign country—or a least a square block of a foreign country.

I kept a room at the Lucky Lucky Hotel, tucked between a

crumbling apartment building and a Chinese butcher shop, on

State and Twenty-fifth. The hotel did most of its business at an

hourly rate, though I couldn’t think of a more repulsive place to

take a woman, even if you were renting her as well as the room.

The halls stank like mildew and worse, the plaster snowed on

you when you climbed the stairs, obscene graffiti lined the halls

and the whole building leaned slightly to the right.

I got a decent rent: free—as long as I kept out the drug dealers. Which I did, except for the ones who dealt to me.

I nodded at the proprietor, Kenny-Jen-Bang-Ko, and asked for

my key. Kenny was three times my age, clean-shaven save for several black moles on his cheeks that sprouted long, white hairs.

He tugged at these hairs while contemplating me.

“How is other guy?” Kenny asked.

“Drinking a forty of malt liquor that he bought with my

money.”

He nodded, as if that was the answer he’d been expecting. “You

want pizza?”

Kenny gestured to a box on the counter. The slices were so

old and shrunken they looked like Doritos.

“I thought the Chinese hated fast food.”

“Pizza not fast. Took thirty minutes. Anchovy and red pepper.”

I declined.

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My room was one squeaky stair flight up. I unlocked the door

and lumbered over to the bathroom, looking into the cracked

mirror above the sink.

Ouch.

My left eye had completely closed, and the surrounding tissue bulged out like a peach. Purple bruising competed with

angry red swelling along my cheeks and forehead. My nose was

a glob of strawberry jelly, and blood had crusted black along my

lips and down my neck.

It looked like Jackson Pollock had kicked my ass.

I stripped off the T-shirt, peeled off my shoes and jeans, and

turned the shower up to
scald.

It hurt but got most of the crap off.

After the shower I popped five Tylenol, chased them with a

shot of tequila and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror, tears

streaming down my face, forcing my nose back into place.

I had some coke, but wouldn’t be able to sniff anything with

my sniffer all clotted up, and I was too exhausted to shoot any.

I made do with the tequila, thinking that tomorrow I’d have that

codeine prescription refilled.

Since the pain wouldn’t let me sleep, I decided to do a little work.

Using a dirty fork, I pried up the floorboards near the radiator and took out a plastic bag full of what appeared to be little

gray stones. The granules were the size and consistency of aquarium gravel.

I placed the bag on the floor, then removed the Lee Load-All,

the scale, a container of gunpowder, some wads and a box of

empty 12-gauge shells.

Everything went over to my kitchen table. I snapped on a fresh

pair of latex gloves, clamped the loader onto my countertop and

spent an hour carefully filling ten shells. When I finished, I

loaded five of them into my Mossberg 935, the barrel and stock

of which had been cut down for easier concealment.

I liked shotguns—you had more leeway when aiming, the

cops couldn’t trace them like they could trace bullets, and noth-
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ing put the fear of God into a guy like the sound of racking a

shell into the chamber.

For this job, I didn’t have a choice.

By the time I was done, my nose had taken the gold medal in

throbbing, with my eye coming close with the silver. I swallowed five more Tylenol and four shots of tequila, then lay down

on my cot and fell asleep.

With sleep came the dream.

It happened every night, so vivid I could smell Donna’s perfume. We were still together, living in the suburbs. She was smiling at me, running her fingers through my hair.

“Phin, the caterer wants to know if we’re going with the splitpea or the wedding-ball soup.”

“Explain the wedding-ball soup to me again.”

“It’s a chicken stock with tiny veal meatballs in it.”

“That sounds good to you?”

“It’s very good. I’ve had it before.”

“Then let’s go with that.”

She kissed me; playful, loving.

I woke up drenched in sweat.

If someone had told me that happy memories would one day

be a source of incredible pain, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Things change.

Sun peeked in through my dirty window, making me squint.

I stretched, wincing because my whole body hurt—my whole

body except for my left side, where a team of doctors had severed the nerves during an operation called a chordotomy. The

surgery had been purely palliative. The area felt dead, even

though the cancer still thrived inside my pancreas. And elsewhere, by now.

The chordotomy offered enough pain relief to allow me to

function, and tequila, cocaine and codeine made up for the remainder.

I dressed in some baggy sweatpants, my bloody gym shoes

(with a new five-dollar bill in the sole) and a clean white T-shirt.

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I strapped my leather shotgun sling under my armpits and placed

the Mossberg in the holster. It hung directly between my shoulder blades, barrel up, and could be freed by reaching my right

hand behind me at waist level.

A baggy black trench coat went on over the rig, concealing the

shotgun and the leather straps that held it in place.

I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a