Ryder produced a key and opened the cell door. “I’d say 1897 or so.” He pulled back the blanket on the cot, revealing an old shotgun. “Shells are in the desk. I’d carry it in my car, if I were you—in case of varmints and such.”
“And such, huh?”
“You need a gun rack?”
“In a Saab?”
Ryder regarded him for a moment. “A Saab?” He looked like he was going to spit on the floor. “What happened to that Batmobile of yours, that black Grand Am or whatever the hell it was?”
“I was driving the Saab the other night,” Pilate said, recalling their meeting at the gas station.
“Shit, I thought that was your wife’s car,” Ryder said. “No offense.”
“Why should you take offense?” Simon said. “Oh. Wait. Because you’re driving a girlie car!”
“The Pontiac was never the same after Ollie ran me off the road—you know, before all that mess got into high gear. Besides, I kinda like the old Saabs,” Pilate said of the 2001 9-3. “They have character. Found one in St. Joe, only 63,000 miles on her. Mechanic says she could easily go another 100,000—”
“Okay. Whatever, ya Swede. At least it’s not a convertible. It’s probably the only one in the county, so you’ll stand out for sure. Put the shotgun in the trunk. Those chick buggies do have trunks, right?” Ryder handed Pilate the keys to the jail cell and the office. “Probably in the front or something,” he muttered.
Pilate accepted the keys.
“You’ll note there’s a back door that leads to the alley. Used to transport prisoners out that way, back in the old days, to avoid the screaming mobs out front.” He snorted. “Handcuffs, ticket book, rules and regs, and county bylaws also in the desk. Paperwork’s in the center drawer for you to fill out and sign. Get it over to me Monday so I can get you on the payroll.”
Pilate nodded. “Is there a broom or something so I can clean this dump up?”
“In back. Sorry there’s no trusty to do it for ya, unless maybe you arrest somebody and sentence them to hard labor.” Ryder chuckled.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I set up an orientation for you with Trooper Hulsey, of the state police. He’s gonna come by my office Monday at ten, so be there. We’ll give you a crash course in Constable 101, Professor.”
“Okay, Commissioner,” Pilate said. “Thanks.”
Ryder offered his hand, and Pilate took it.
“Well, I’ll shake your hand, but I was asking for the badge,” he said.
“Why?”
“So I can pin it on you, dumb butt.”
CHAPTER SIX
“This is so embarrassing,” Pilate said.
“It is not,” Kate said, rubbing the constable badge with brass cleaner. “Can’t have my sexy constable walking around with a tarnished badge.” She rubbed it furiously a moment, eyed it, and pulled him to her so she could pin it on his shirt. “There.”
“‘Sexy’ and ‘constable’ don’t seem like words that go together,” Simon mocked.
“Honey, do I have to wear it?”
“Absolutely, especially on your first day. Go make your rounds, meet the people, and—”
“Everybody knows everybody in this microscopic burg, so—”
“Yes, but now you’ll meet and greet them as Pilate the Peace Officer, not Pilate the Prick.” She laughed.
“Kiss my ass,” he said.
“You wish. Now get out there and do your damn job,” she said. “Do you have your card with the Miranda warning printed on it?”
“Yes, but I’m really not supposed to arrest—”
“Do you have your citation book?”
“In the car,” he said.
“This really is embarrassing,” Simon said.
“Do you have your town bylaws and codes manual? The sash with your merit badges?”
He kissed her. “Brat. See you later.”
“Wait! I made you a sack lunch with a chocolate pudding cup.”
“I’ve had enough of you,” he said, his tone even, as if he had strenuously rehearsed the five words. “I want you outta my life. You’re not good for me or my family.”
“Keep going, John.”
“You’re not necessary. You make things more complicated. I have a wife and family now. You’re superfluous. You’re all the complications of a…of a…”
“An affair, John?” Simon hissed. “Is that what you were going to say? I’m all the complications of an affair but none of the fun?”
“I can’t do this anymore, Doc,” Pilate said, staring at the speakerphone on his constable desk.
“You can, John. Keep going,” Sandburg coaxed, his tinny voice issuing from the small speaker. “This is good.”
“You’re killing me, John, and I don’t deserve a death sentence for sticking with you all this time,” Simon said—his voice far from tinny.
“Doc, is this really necessary? I mean, Simon’s not hurting me. Really, he just—”
“Simon?” Sandberg cleared his throat. “Excuse me, John, but this Simon is not a ‘he’. It is a prop, a vestige of false support. You don’t need it anymore. It’s time you cut it loose. This is for the best, John.”
“You said he’d go once I got back on my medications,” Pilate interrupted. “I take 300 milligrams of Wellbutrin a day, and he’s still here. He’s just…quieter is all.”
“Send somebody,” Simon said. “I need help.”
“This feels wrong,” Pilate said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m killing him, and he’s like…a friend.”
“That’s right,” Simon said.
“Kind of a bastard, but a friend all the same.”
Simon sighed.
“John, you’re clinging to this figment of your imagination, and it’s getting in the way of your thought processes and complicating your life. You came to me about this, and I made a special arrangement to work with you by phone—”
“How is Key West anyway? Storms blow over?”
Pilate heard Sandberg drop something on the desk, his glasses or perhaps a pen; the doctor was obviously frustrated about the abrupt change in subject. “John, I get paid whether we talk about the weather or your neuroses. If you don’t want to do this, let’s call it done, and you and Simon can get on with being the man with two brains.”
“Damn, Doc, you sound stressed,” Pilate said.
“Maybe he should find someone to talk to about all that pent-up tension,” Simon agreed.
“I just don’t want to indulge in wasting time when we’re trying to get you healthy, especially now that you have a potentially stressful new job.”
“What ever happened to letting a patient work through things at his own pace?”
“John, perhaps you’re right. What does Simon say?”
“How about nothing?” Simon said.
“Nothing,” Pilate said.
Sandberg cleared his throat again. “Okay, John. You have fifteen minutes left in this session. What do you want to talk about?”
“I guess we could discuss about how angry I am about losing everything.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“Proof yet again that the good doctor is and always will be full of shit. How much is he charging you per hour?” Simon said.
“Well, it’s everything if it means I’m stuck in Cross Township, writing parking tickets till I get a whole lot more of it.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s say you get your money back. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know, Doc. Away.”
“You’ll run away again?”
“To sanity, perhaps,” Pilate countered.
“Fair enough. I won’t deny that, as your doctor, I’d like to see you living somewhere less fraught with bad memories, but for the time being, you have some good medicine to make it bearable.”
“I already told you that the medication doesn’t help much.”
“I meant Kara, Peter, and Kate.”
“Oh.” Pilate breathed deeply, exhaling dire
ctly into the speaker.
“Are you smoking?”
“No. If it does nothing else, the Wellbutrin is great for helping a man obey the surgeon general’s warnings. I gotta give it that. Just needed a…what’s the psychobabble for it? Cleansing breath?”
“Maybe you can elaborate on the need for the cleansing breath.”
“No,” Pilate said.
“Tell him, John,” Simon whispered.
“Maybe…” He stopped himself. “Well, maybe I just feel overwhelmed.”
“By fatherhood?”
“By everything—fatherhood, marriage, career, life, death…”
“Welcome to midlife,” Sandberg chuckled.
“I’m only forty.”
“Well, welcome to full-blown adulthood then,” he retorted. “Take your pick.”
“It’s like I boarded Space Mountain alone, had a wild ride, and arrived at the end with a wife, kids, money problems, and—”
“Don’t forget your imaginary pal!” Simon said.
“John, you’re not going through anything unusual. Every self-aware person goes through this sort of thing. I will give you this. Most of them aren’t surviving murder attempts and being stalked by psychopaths who bugged their psychiatrist’s office.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that whole bugging thing.”
“Not your fault.”
“I just never feel at peace.”
“Never? John, do me a favor. Breathe deeply again. Blow it out. Think for a second. Have you ever felt at peace? Don’t answer right away. Think about it. If you have, where and when was it?”
Pilate inhaled, held the breath deep in his lungs, then let it go. “On the TenFortyEZ, last time Taters and I went fishing. We just drank Modelo, shot the shit and fished. Hell, we really didn’t talk much, but it was such a carefree, peaceful time.”
“So your refuge is an aging fishing charter, in the waters off Key West, in the company of a buddy?”
“Yeah, I guess so. That’s bad, right?”
“Why would it be bad?” Sandberg asked.
“Because it seems to indicate that I view my family as a chore, or at least something that isn’t all that peaceful. That can’t be good, so it’s gotta be bad.”
Sandberg laughed. “Oh, John, I’m pretty sure if we asked Kate the same question about being at peace, you and the kids wouldn’t be in the picture. In your family, you play the role of protector, breadwinner, etc. With your friends, your only job is to be your true self. That’s a lot easier when you’re drinking a cold one, bobbing up and down on the water, basking in the sun.”
“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way,” he said.
“Does Simon ever horn in on your time with Taters Malley on the boat?”
Pilate cast his mind back. “You know, now that I think about it, not too much.”
“Who can get a word in edgewise with that Jimmy Buffett-wannabe-fish-smelling redneck?” Simon said.
“Would it be fair to say that Simon is heard most when you’re stressed or unsure of yourself?” Sandberg said.
“Piss off,” Simon said.
Pilate sat up in his chair. “Crap, Doc. You’re right.”
“Then you do need to work on getting him out of your life. He’s not an effective coping mechanism for stress or fear,” Sandberg admonished.
“But I’m a whole helluva lotta fun at parties.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Pilate said.
“Thus, the need to stop now and schedule our next session.”
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” Pilate said. “You need to go. You’re causing a disturbance, upsetting the other guests.”
“That’s not true, Sheriff,” the man slurred, his breath toxic and fermented.
“Constable.”
“What?”
“Constable, not sheriff, but close enough.”
“I don’t see no gun or uniform—just a tacky dime-store badge. My kid got one of them damn things outta a bubblegum machine. Did yers cost a whole quarter?”
“No, I don’t have a gun, but if you want me to get someone with a gun over here, I can make a call to the state police. They tend to listen to those of us wearing dime-store badges a whole lot more than they’re gonna listen to a ridiculous drunk.”
The drunken man cast a bleary gaze at Pilate and Cusack, the bed-and-breakfast owner. He shrugged and looked at the mortified woman beside him, presumably his wife.
“Come on. Up with you,” Pilate said. “Cusack’s agreed to waive your bar bill if you move along. Now get up and let your wife take you to your room.”
The portly tourist rose unsteadily, knocking the small table with his knee. “Sorry state of affairs when a man’s forced out of a public house by fuckin’ Barney Fife.”
“Like I said, I can call Andy Taylor, or maybe even John T. Chance if you’d like,” Pilate said.
The drunk waved him off, leaning on his crimson-faced wife.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” the humiliated missus mouthed.
“Constable,” Pilate mouthed, smiling as the two tottered upstairs.
“Mr. Pilate, you did a fine job there,” Cusack said, smiling. “We don’t get many like that, and I can usually handle ‘em, but this one was a wee bit argumentative. Marcy got worried I’d hit the fella.”
Pilate laughed.
“Tell the truth and shame the devil,” Cusack said. “Stay for a drink?” His eyes smiled, as if he knew an amusing secret.
Pilate shrugged. “Why not? I’m off duty anyway.” Pilate pulled up a seat at the bar in the cozy pub of the Cross and Cork Inn.
“What’s your poison, Constable?” Cusack said, wiping his hands on a bar towel and picking up a glass.
“Vodka.”
Cusack made a face. “Sorry. I thought you wanted a drink, not a glassful of paint thinner.”
“Of course. Silly me. I’ll have two fingers of Cork’s finest.”
Cusack gave an approving look as he pressed the glass to the optic dispenser of Jameson’s. “Our James’ll take the chill outta ya.”
“It’s not that chilly.”
“Then it will put one in ya,” Cusack said. “Oh, where are my manners? Rude to make you drink alone.” He filled his own glass. Cusack’s accent could be a trial to understand at times, but the Jameson’s helped.
“Where’s your better half?”
“Doin’ her thing upstairs. It’s late, and we don’t have but two rooms filled tonight.”
Pilate took a gulp. Though he was not especially partial to whiskey, he decided it was something he could get used to.
Cusack and Marcy had moved to the county a year ago and purchased the thirty-room Carlson mansion, a structure built in 1866 by the Carlson family, on the edge of downtown Cross. The Carlson family had settled much of the area between Cross Township and what was now known as Goss City, and they’d made their fortune moving freight up and down the Missouri by steamboat. Pilate remembered the late Derek Krall, Cross Township’s de facto historian, saying the Carlsons had cleaned up even more during the Civil War by “picking the right side.”
The mansion was occupied until the flood of 1943, which rerouted the course of the Missouri and flooded the stately old pile. The Carlsons went bankrupt trying to restore the property to its former glory, and most of them moved away into obscurity or died off. It was empty in 1963, when just a few blocks away, Professor Brady Bernard killed Cross College President Walker Keillor and Dean Gareth Kennedy, then himself.
By the late sixties, a string of new buyers had purchased the mansion and made a go of it as a B&B. The Cusacks were the latest owners, and they’d named it quite appropriately. Cusack and Marcy refurbished the old manse in the style of an Irish pub and bed-and-breakfast, and the Cross and Cork quickly became one of the most popular B&B’s in southeast Nebraska.
Cusack married Marcy, a Cross College grad, after they met at a pub in his hometown of Cork, when she and a friend visited Blarney Castle. He warned her off kissin
g the Blarney Stone. “If people only knew what the kids do to that stone at night,” Cusack once told Pilate, shaking his head slowly.
The Cross and Cork did well, especially with tourists who visited for OakFest or journeyed in to watch the leaves change. It was close enough to the college that it filled up on homecoming and parent weekends too. Pilate enjoyed the little bar. It almost made him feel as if he’d been whisked away from Cross Township temporarily, though it did scare up a few daunting memories of his British ex-wife.
“How’s the constable business? You been at it how long? A week?”
“Yeah.” Pilate sipped the Jameson’s, enjoying the warmth on his tongue. “It’s boring, but at least the pay is shitty,” he said, smiling into his glass.
“Wife and kids?”
Pilate liked that about Cusack. Whenever the man talked to anyone, he genuinely appeared interested in what they had to say and how they actually were doing. “They still tolerate me,” Pilate said.
Cusack snatched up his glass. “Another?”
“No thanks. Driving…and I’d like my wife to continue tolerating me.” Pilate dropped a ten on the bar.
Cusack turned his back to Pilate and raised a bushy silver eyebrow. “Somebody dropped a tenner on the bar. Is it yours?”
“Cusack, I’m a public official.”
“Correction, buddy. You’re an off-duty public official.”
Pilate smiled and tucked the bill back in his pocket. “Thanks.” He stood up, extending his hand.
Cusack turned back to Pilate and offered his hand as well, though his eyes looked past Pilate and landed on an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed mustache who walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar.
“Heya Dave,” Cusack said. “Usual?”
The man nodded at Cusack and fished in his pockets for a cigar.
“See ya next time. Say hi to Marcy for me,” Pilate said.
“What? Oh. Yeah, will do, buddy.” Cusack smiled, turning his attention back to Pilate. “And hello to your boss too.”
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