“So…a cop?” Pilate squinted at the sunset behind Ryder.
“Not exactly,” he answered, knocking the cowboy hat back on his head. “In this county, the sheriff is the number-one law enforcement officer, followed by the undersheriff and deputies.”
“We don’t have a sheriff,” Pilate said. The last sheriff was shot in the throat and would never again eat solid food, let alone manage county law enforcement.
“As you well know, we also don’t have an undersheriff,” Ryder retorted. “Welliver didn’t hire anyone for that job. He was so new after Scovill got put away. Scovill never hired an undersheriff, despite my strong suggestion to do so. He had Lenny for a deputy, but poor ol’ Lenny’s gone pretty much off the deep end into a bottle of hooch.”
“What about the reserve deputies?”
“We’ve got a couple, and maybe one of ‘em will run for sheriff.” Ryder spat again. “That’s another story. But for now, that’s just two fellas handlin’ law for the entire county. Hell, if it weren’t for the state police and the local PDs, we’d be in some palpable discomfort.”
“So…” Pilate said, the milk jug sweating in his hands. “What defines a constable’s duties?”
“Jurisdiction. Sheriff’s office protects a whole county, and the sheriff’s deputies have the jurisdiction to prosecute crime in the county. Constables, under state law, are limited to townships too small for a police force.” Ryder’s eyes tracked two Cross College coeds who were crossing the parking lot with a pizza; he tipped his hat as they sashayed by.
“How come I’ve never heard of a constable in Cross?”
“Because the late, great Mayor Ollie Olafson, who you knew in most unfortunate circumstances,” he said, wiggling his gray eyebrows up and down twice for emphasis, “named himself mayor and constable so he could pocket the enviable salary of $1,013 a month.”
“Wow.”
“Plus mileage.” His eyes twinkled as he looked briefly at Pilate, then surveyed the pasture to the north, just across the road. Pilate knew the pasture well, having once walked it in a blizzard.
“That legal?”
Ryder shrugged. “Nope, but the county looked the other way. Was before my election to the commission. They had bigger fish to fry. Double O kept the peace, and that was that.”
The gas pump continued clicking, doling out gallons for dollars.
“John, people around here are pretty evenly split about you,” Ryder said, still eyeing the pasture. “They either love ya or hate your guts. I guess I’m a little more on the love-ya side of things, if you get my meaning.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Maybe love isn’t the right word.” He cleared his throat and turned back to Pilate. “What I mean is, people respect you, one way or another, and you’d be a good choice to keep things orderly till we get a proper sheriff installed. Election’s in a few weeks. All you gotta do is fly the flag, ya know?” He crossed his arms. “Make sure folks in Cross Township know somebody’s paying attention.”
“I’m not trained. I-I don’t know anything about the law.”
“You can read, can’t you? You can shoot, and—”
“I’m not carrying a gun, Commissioner,” Pilate said.
Ryder shrugged again, and his narrow shoulders danced under his Western-style shirt. “That’s your business. You really don’t need one anyway. You just carry a badge, serve the occasional subpoena, break up disturbances if necessary. As constable, you’ll be tasked with keeping the peace, not pursuing hardened criminals or playing CSI. Traffic tickets, misdemeanors, minor felonies, college kids partying too hardy—that sorta thing.”
The gas pump thumped to a stop, and the handle clicked back with a thunk as the Ram finished drinking.
Ryder removed the nozzle and jammed it back on the pump. “Things get hairy, you call the State Highway Patrol or the reserve deputies…or me.”
“This county is 512 square miles,” Pilate said, a fact he’d learned while writing his book, “and Cross is far from the county seat. Hell, the only reason the last two sheriffs were even around was because they both lived nearby. The reserve deputies live in the far side of the county, out in the sticks.”
“And this isn’t the sticks?” Simon snickered.
“State Patrol cruises Highway 75 twice a day,” Ryder said, smiling. “Jesus, John, what are you worried about? You practically cleaned up the town singlehandedly already. There ain’t any serious criminals to worry about. State folks will deal with drugs and heavy stuff.”
“Like Hilmer Thurman?”
“Exactly. As constable, Thurman ain’t your problem. Just let him be, and report any suspicious goings-on to Trooper Hulsey or that lieutenant what’s-his-name at the state police…and me.” Ryder replaced the gas cap with three clicks, then opened the door to his truck. “John, you don’t gotta do anything but show yourself around Cross with a badge pinned on your shirt. Your call on weapons. The job’s temporary, goes away at the discretion of the new sheriff, far as I’m concerned—assuming we can get somebody to run.”
“Really? Nobody wants it?”
“With one former sheriff in the federal pen and the other eating his Big Macs through a tube? Ain’t exactly a popular career choice ‘round here.”
“Gee, that just makes me want the job even more,” Pilate said, shifting the gallon of milk to his left hand, wiping the condensation on his jeans.
“That’s not the job you’re up for,” Ryder said, climbing in and closing the door. He rolled down the window. “You’d be Constable Pilate, issuer of parking tickets, enforcer of leash laws and scold to folks screwing in the park.”
“Can I take some time to think about it?”
“Sure, John,” Ryder said, firing up the Ram engine. “Meet me downtown tomorrow, at one.”
“Where?”
“Constable’s office, ‘course,” he said.
“I’ve lived here for a while now, and I didn’t know there was constable, let alone an office,” Pilate said.
“Ollie used it as his mayoral seat of power.” Ryder’s eyes shot up to his hat. “It’s right next to the bank, funny enough.”
“Might as well, John,” Simon said. “You could use $1,013 a month right now. Hell, who couldn’t?”
Plus mileage.
“See you there and then, Commissioner.”
Ryder winked, smirked for an entire half-second, and slipped on mirrored aviator sunglasses. He made a clicking sound with his tongue and put the Ram in gear. He sped off with a wave of his index fingers on the steering wheel.
Pilate poked rather violently at the keyboard of his iMac. In two hours, he had managed to type:
BOOK PROPOSAL
Fighting Ghosts
The True Story of the End of the Cross College Conspiracy
by John Pilate
“That’s it?” Simon mocked. “And that title stinks.”
I got nothing else.
He planned to write about the events that took place after his first book, to cover what happened in Key West—of course leaving out the parts he swore to the Feds he wouldn’t reveal on penalty of prison time. He would cover what happened when the former Cross College president snapped, his sociopathic nature blooming into full-blown psychopathy.
Pilate would detail nearly losing his wife, his unborn son, and stepdaughter. He was going to exorcise the demons, tell the tale of fighting off the ghosts from his past, and perhaps finally admit the truth about the ghost in his head.
“Are you an idiot?” Simon asked. “You’re gonna write a book telling the world that you have ghosts in your head? Do you want people’s opinions of you to switch from a snarky, heroic everyman to a guy who needs to be admitted for observation and Thorazine cocktails?”
Pilate didn’t answer. He stared at the screen, the blinking cursor, the never-ending pulse of his writer’s block. He leaned back in a small attic study he shared with numerous boxes of dusty crap. It was mostly stuff he moved in when he married Kate, but
there were a few boxes of stuff that belonged to Kate’s first husband, Richard. The man Pilate killed, Ollie Olafson, murdered him.
“Are you as tired as I am of all this incestuous small-town murder shit?”
Yes, Simon. Of course I am.
“Then maybe you should write a children’s book. The Adventures of a Deranged Boy and His Imaginary Friend.”
“Hmm…” Pilate deleted the words and typed:
BOOK PROPOSAL
Fighting Ghosts: A Novel
by John Pilate
“See, Simon?”
“Oh, I see. So now you just write it up like a novel, a little…creative nonfiction nicely disguised, eh?” he said. “You leave the readers wondering how much of this is based on the truth and how much is fantasy?”
“Exactly.”
“I like it. You can even work in some exciting bits from your work as the town dog catcher. Get to work now, penman. Simon needs new pair of shoes.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Kate Nathaniel Pilate munched contentedly on her salad, her eyes shining with just a hint of fatigue lingering at the corners.
“Dorothy Lynch?” Pilate asked, looking at her salad then around the Cross College cafeteria as it started to empty.
She nodded, chewing greens doused in the sweet and spicy, thick and creamy salad dressing.
“I tried. Still like ranch better.”
“Meh, it’s a Nebraska thing.” She speared more salad with her fork.
“Gee. Are you starving or what?”
“Yeah…and I don’t know why,” she said, her blonde hair falling around her eyes. She brushed it back. “Just been ravenous lately.”
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“Oh, stop.”
“You’re right, he smiled. “Except for one historically exceptional case, pregnancy requires sexual activity.”
Kate gave him the facial version of the finger and continued to eat.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sipping iced tea. “Having kids isn’t much of an aphrodisiac, is it?”
“No, not at all,” Simon said. “Master Peter Pilate’s crying shrinks me member like a spider on a hot stove.”
“It’s okay, babe,” Pilate said. “It’s probably more about me being a miserable bastard because of Frechette.” Pilate nodded at a student who walked by, staring at him and Kate. He was still a celebrity to some on campus, especially the kids.
“They’ll catch ‘im,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “They’ll get your money back too. Besides, even if they don’t, I know your next book will kick ass.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, we’re fine. My salary plus the money from the sale of the funeral home—”
“That’s Kara’s inheritance, not a mortgage payment.”
“Well, even our well-educated Kara will be on the street right there with us if we don’t pay the mortgage, and we need that money to pay it.” Kate bit into her sandwich.
“How much is the mortgage?”
Kate swallowed, then bit her lower lip. “Nine eighty-five a month.”
“Well, what if I could come up with some cash to help pay for that?”
“That’d be great,” she said. “Bummer there’s no teaching sections for you till next semester. Maybe if Monique gets you a magazine story—”
“Or…I could be the town constable.”
She stopped chewing. “What?”
“Commissioner Ryder asked me yesterday.”
“Jeremy Ryder? Whoa. The man, the myth, the legend? When did you see him?”
“Last night, when I went to get milk. He was filling up his Ram.”
“And you’re just telling me now?”
“Sorry. Peter’s colicky, and you were—”
“Ryder’s a real piece of work. Been around for ages. Hmm.” She paused a moment, looking off into space, as if recalling something from long ago.
“What? You know him?”
“Not exactly. He’s got quite a history. I think he was a big hero, an Army Ranger or something, and then he was sheriff a couple counties over.” Her face changed back to normal in an instant. “Constable? Really? We haven’t had one of those in this town since…well, ever,” she said, swallowing, then chuckling. “I mean, Ollie used to pin that badge on for every Founders’ Day or OakFest, but Scovill was the law, such as it was.”
“I know, and it’s not really a big deal—just parking tickets and stuff. Still, it’d cover the mortgage.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I’m meeting him downtown in twenty minutes.”
“John, you need to spend your time writing and—”
“It’s a safe gig, hon’,” he said. “It pays about a grand a month, plus mileage…and it’d get me outta the house.”
“Or,” she said, picking up her sandwich, “it could be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than getting shot by the former mayor or fighting off the pirates of the Caribbean? C’mon! It’s nothing, really. I won’t even need to carry a gun.”
“No weapon?” Her forehead wrinkled. “John, you know I have almost zero love for guns, but they’ve saved our lives several times over the past two years. If you’re gonna do this, maybe you should carry one.”
“I’ll think about it,” he leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Maybe I’ll just carry a bullet in my pocket.”
She smirked and looked at her watch. “I have to get to class. Let’s talk about this at dinner, okay?” She scooted back her chair and stood.
These days, she wasn’t wearing the painted-on Levi’s she wore the first time he saw her; pregnancy seemed to decrease that possibility. Still, she looked radiant. Most of the baby weight was gone, though her face was a bit softer. His stomach fluttered a bit when she looked him in the eyes.
“Only growling because you didn’t touch your lunch,” Simon teased.
Pilate rose from his chair, leaned over the table, and kissed Kate’s cheek. “Okay babe. Over dinner.”
“As of the last census, there are 7,576 people, 3,047 households, and 1,980 families residing in our fair county,” Ryder said, his pointy ostrich boots resting on the former mayor’s (and constable’s) huge, dusty oak desk. He gestured at a map of the county behind him. “Good news is, most of ‘em are not your problem. Your concern is Cross Township.” He pointed at a tiny area in the southeast portion of the county, outlined in red. “It’s under the law enforcement jurisdiction of the town constable. That means you are the law when it comes to 865 people, 225 households, and 99 families. Add an extra 1,000 and change of mischievous students in fall and spring semester.”
“I see,” Pilate said, rubbing his chin, his stomach fluttering again, unpleasantly this time. “And who do I answer to? Besides the vacancy in the sheriff’s office, there’s no mayor until November either.”
“Well, there’s the town council—six of the least interesting, most fractious, tedious people you’ll ever meet. The chairman…er, chairperson is Calista Thorson. She’s acting mayor. Sixty-eight years old and more worried about her sewing club getting free iced tea at the diner than she cares about actually running the town,” Ryder said, shifting his right boot under his left on the desk. “Just tip your hat when they come ‘round, and be earnest and perfunctory when you go to council meetings.”
“I can do earnest and perfunctory.”
“Yup, I figured you could.” He pointed his finger at Pilate like a gun and clicked his tongue. “So, beyond the civilities you afford the council, you just answer to me.”
“Okay,” Pilate said, scanning the small office for remnants of the possessions of his former nemesis, Ollie Olafson: most noticeably the dust on the desk and shelves, an unused copy of the Yellow Pages, and three National Rifle Association member stickers peeling from the window glass. An empty gun rack hung, forlorn, by the door, as if grieving its former owner’s demise. Pilate noticed also that the large storefront windows
and door had heavy wooden shutters on the inside that could swing open to let the light in or be locked shut, presumably for security reasons.
“Does that mean you’re in?” Ryder said, eyebrows raised.
Pilate nodded. “Let’s see how it goes.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ryder answered gleefully, then flipped something small and shiny on the desk.
“What’s that?”
Ryder stood and pulled his Wranglers up by his large bronze belt buckle. “A little tarnished, but it’s serviceable.”
Pilate picked up a seven-pointed brass badge with the words “CONSTABLE” and “CROSS TOWNSHIP” imprinted in the center.
Ryder handed Pilate a heavy black plastic box.
“And what’s this?”
“Your sidearm,” he said. “It’s a .38. I know you know how to use it.”
“I’ll wear the badge, but I don’t want the gun.”
“Ya never know what you’ll run into out there,” Ryder said, contradicting his own nonchalance and grinning with tobacco-yellowed teeth.
“I’ve had enough of guns, Commissioner.”
“Kidding, John. I get it.” He waved Pilate’s indignation off. “Keep it in your desk if you want, but I have to issue it to you. I’ll get you a permit. There’s also a varmint gun—a shotgun with birdshot—to take care of rabid dogs, skunks, Democrats, etc. It’s locked in the jail cell.”
“Jail cell?”
“Yep.” Ryder’s eyes smiled in the shade of his hat brim. “C’mon. She’s back here.”
Pilate followed Ryder through a side door that led past a toilet, into a small back room with an eight-by-ten jail cell. Encased in blue steel bars, it contained a cot with a blanket and a sweat-stained pillow. The jail area also doubled as a small break room, as it was equipped with a microwave, mini-fridge, and a flimsy card table that looked as if it might not be able to support the weight of a full deck or a bowl of ramen.
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