“Maybe it’s me.” Pilate drank the gnat.
“John, don’t be so dramatic.”
“You know how many people have died in this town since I got here?”
Taters nodded.
“And how many people died in Key West when I got there? How many people nearly died, including you?”
Taters chewed his lip a moment. “John, stop it.”
Pilate reached for his martini shaker.
“Do you really think you need more of that stuff? It’s already got you talkin’ crazy, ‘bout ghosts and curses and other such nonsense.”
Pilate nodded.
“Okay. Well, do whatever you need to do,” Taters said, then drank his beer. “I’m not one to call the kettle black.”
“John!” Kate called from the back door.
“Yeah, babe?”
“You guys ready to call it a day yet?”
“In a few,” Pilate said, barely concealing his irritation; he wanted to drink.
Kate nodded and closed the door.
“John…” Taters murmured, the mouth of his beer bottle an inch from his face.
“Yeah?”
“Bad things happen to good people every damn day. You’re no special case.”
Pilate stopped pouring the last drops of vodka, gin, and Vermouth from the shaker into his glass and looked at Taters. “I know some ghosts who’d beg to differ.”
Cusack carried wood from the pile, around to the large fire pit behind the bed-and-breakfast, then stacked it carefully for the night’s blaze.
“Hallo, Cusack.” An Irish accent dropped from the trees, breaking the silence and startling Cusack, who dropped his firewood. “Sorry to startle. Did you think it was himself, the Sluagh?”
“No, just a fookin’ gowl,” Cusack said, picking up the wood and arranging it.
“Ha! I’d still say you oughtta close your west-facin’ windas,” Jackie the Crow said, stepping from behind a massive oak, tendrils of smoke rising from his nostrils, billowing heavenward. He paused a moment and looked about him as he tapped the ashes from the cigarette in his gnarled hand. “You know, this Cross is a far cry from da Cross of our own.”
Cusack nodded. “Leesiders wouldn’t know what to make of it.”
Both men paused in silence until Jackie flicked a bit of loose tobacco from his lip.
“There’ve been some…doin’s.”
“And it concerns my business?” Cusack said, keeping his eyes on the kindling.
“You could say that,” Jackie said. “Somebody was due for the chop, and they surely got it.”
“Must you always talk like you’re smarter than ya are? Fool eegit. Just spit it out plain.”
“Let’s just say that an obstacle has been…cut down,” Jackie said.
Marcy called from the wraparound porch.
“Better go now, Cusack,” Jackie said. “You wouldn’t want your classy wife ta see ya hanging with a Culchie chancer like me. Might let it slip to the five-oh.”
Cusack shot him a look, raised a hand, and pointed a finger at Jackie. After a beat, he turned and wordlessly trudged back to the house.
Jackie snickered and slipped back into the woods; only a few puffs of smoke hung in the air to mark his presence.
Kate put a cup of coffee in front of Pilate as he sat at the kitchen table, holding Peter in the crook of his right arm. Pilate’s mug featured a Star Trek-style red shirt and the phrase, “He’s dead, Jim.”
“How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
She nodded. “Okay. You need to take Kara to school in twenty,” she said. “I’m dropping Peter off at daycare before my eight thirty.”
“Okay, babe.”
Kate put her hair in a loose bun, gathered her school bag, and slung her purse over her shoulder.
Pilate looked at Peter’s face. His downy blond hair and dark eyes captivated Pilate’s attention. He felt a strange lump in his throat, and a tear formed in his right eye. “Kate, I, uh…” he started, then stopped to clear his throat.
“Hmm?”
“I love this little guy so much,” he said. “I mean, I hate to even send him off to daycare. Not all the time, but every now and then. I just hate having to let him go.”
Kate smiled. “Honey, like I told you before, if you didn’t feel that way at least once in a while, I’d say you were a sucky dad.” She leaned over and kissed Pilate’s forehead, reaching for their son. “C’mon, baby,” she cooed.
Pilate kissed Peter’s soft cheek. “Bye, pal,” he whispered, letting his wife take the baby from his arms.
Kate took Peter’s little arm and gently made it wave at Pilate. “Say bye to Daddy. Bye-bye, Daddy!”
Pilate rose to his feet and took them both in his arms and held them tight.
After a moment, Kate pulled back. “John?”
“I’m fine.”
“After what you saw yesterday…well, we’re okay, right?”
“Right.”
She kissed him and scooped up her car keys. “Have a good day with Taters. Don’t make Kara late.”
“Okay,” he said, wiping the tear away and watching as his son waved from his mother’s shoulder. “Bye, kiddo.”
Taters, donning a Hobie t-shirt and Bermuda shorts, ambled downstairs as Pilate helped Kara with her jacket and her Dora the Explorer backpack.
“Off to school, little lady?” Taters asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s show-and-tell day.”
“Oh shit,” Pilate said. “I mean…shoot. What are you taking, honey?”
Kara twisted her lips in a grimace. “Um, something.”
“What, baby?” Pilate asked. “We have to hurry, or we’ll be late.”
Kara looked at her feet. “It’s supposed to be something Daddy or Mommy uses for work.”
Pilate smiled. “So who did you pick, Mommy or Daddy?”
“Daddy.”
“Okay. Great. I don’t see a typewriter in that backpack, Kara, so what did you pick?”
“A martini shaker?” Taters said.
Pilate glared at him, then smiled. “Nice. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
“What’s a typewriter?”
“Never mind. Kara, we need to hurry. What did you pick?” Pilate considered the grief he caught from Kate the last time he forgot show-and-tell.
Kara took off her backpack and dug around in it for a second, then seized something and announced, “This!” In her hand was a cylindrical, shiny object, a little less than an inch long.
Pilate snatched it from her hand. “Where did you get this? Kara Jane, answer me now.”
Kara blanched. “It was behind the table, beside your bed,” she said, her lip protruding.
“Kara, do you know what this is?” Pilate asked, kneeling beside her.
“Yes. It’s part of your gun. You use it at work.”
Pilate’s heart sank. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He took Kara by her shoulders. “Honey, this is a bullet. If it’s in a gun, it can hurt people. I don’t ever, ever want you to touch guns or bullets.” Pilate cursed himself, remembering that he’d dropped a box of cartridges a few days earlier, as he locked his pistol in the safe. He thought he had found them all, but he obviously hadn’t.
“Am I in trouble?” Kara’s eyes moistened.
“No. Just please remember that guns and bullets are not toys, and you must never touch them, okay?”
“Okay, but it is part of your job, Daddy.”
Pilate’s head began to swim, and it wasn’t just the hangover. “Kara, honey, listen. Guns and bullets are not for my job. Making sure people follow the law is my job, and it’s not even a real job for me. I mean, I’m not really a policeman. I’m just helping the sheriff.”
“Daddy, you said your job is to keep me safe.”
Pilate felt a lump forming in his throat. “That’s right,” he said, giving her a gentle hug. “That’s right, but Kara, sweetie, Daddy’s also a teacher and a writer. You could take a pen
cil or a book.” Pilate stopped abruptly, suddenly thinking better about sending a copy of his book about murders in Cross Township with a seven-year-old. The dustcover alone would give kids nightmares.
Taters leaned out of the kitchen door, drinking from Pilate’s mug. “Better hurry, John. School bell’s gonna ring.”
Pilate nodded quickly.
“Daddy, I have to take something, or I’ll be the only one—”
“Okay, Kara. Calm down.” Pilate looked around the room. “Here,” he said. “Take this.” He walked over to small table by the door, where he kept his wallet and keys.
“Wow!” Kara said.
“Beats a stupid bullet, huh?”
“Yes! Nobody will have anything like this.” She danced around the room with the shiny brass object in her hand.
“You are now an official honorary deputy constable for the day.” Pilate smiled. “Just don’t lose it, okay? The commissioner will be pissed…er, mad if I lose it.”
“But, Daddy, how will you work without your badge?” Kara said, suddenly thoughtful. “How will the bad guys know who to obey?”
“The same way I work without a gun,” he said. “I just…make it so.”
Taters smiled and nodded, drinking coffee and winking at Kara.
“Say goodbye to Uncle Taters,” Pilate said, opening the front door.
As Kara hugged Taters goodbye, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror hanging by the door. Behind him was Simon, smirking, with his arms folded.
“So, you’re not a writer or teacher after all. You’re a cop, without a badge or a gun.”
Pilate looked away. “Let’s go, little toot,” he said.
“I am not a little toot! You said I’m a deputy today!” Kara said, holding the badge in front of her as she walked, as if it was a guiding star. “Boy, this is heavy.”
“Tell me about it,” Pilate said.
Due to the bullet fiasco, Pilate and Kara ran late and missed the bell.
“C’mon, Kara,” he said, pulling her by the hand.
“Okay,” she said, still clutching his constable badge.
The school door was locked, so Pilate cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in. Spying a familiar shape, he knocked.
Abbey Prince opened the door. “Good morning! Tardy, tardy, Kara Jane.” she smiled. “Did Daddy drive too slowly?”
Kara held up the badge. “He’s the police. He’s allowed to be tardy.”
Abbey’s eyes widened as she looked at the badge. “Well, that’s true.” She looked at Pilate with an are-you-aware-she-has-that expression.
He nodded. “Show-and-tell,” he said.
“Oh, right,” Abbey said. “Something from your parent’s work, right? I guess your book was out of the question.”
“Definitely,” Pilate said.
“I’ll take her to class, John,” she said. Abbey was wearing a white blouse, blue skirt, and low heels. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, not quite a match with her outfit. She was also sans makeup, a face a bit less elegant than her clothing.
“Looks like she was running a tad late herself today,” Simon said.
“Okay. Thanks, Abbey. We’ll see you later,” he said.
Kara waved at Pilate. “Bye, Sheriff Daddy!”
“Sheriff Daddy?”
“Shut up, Simon,” he muttered, smiling and waving.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pilate stopped at the convenience store to gas up the Saab and get another cup of coffee.
“Mornin’, Sheriff,” said Tracey, the pimply, plump clerk behind the counter, not looking up from her newspaper.
“Constable,” he said as he walked by, taking note of glazed donuts on the counter. Pilate never ate donuts, the harbingers of far too many empty calories, and he had to wonder if the old cliché was true and the badge was getting the best of him.
But today might be a donut day.
He poured a half-cup of coffee from the red-handled carafe, then topped it with decaf from the carafe with the green handle. “I’m gonna fill up the car too,” he said.
“Okay,” Tracey said. “On the county?”
“No. I’ll pay for it,” he said.
She shrugged as he placed his coffee on the counter. “Well, the coffee’s on the county.”
“Why?”
“The law drinks free,” she said, glancing up at him sideways, as if he was stupid for not knowing that already.
“Oh, well…” Pilate thought for a second about turning it down but realized it was the way things worked, and sixty-seven cents wasn’t worth arguing about anyway. “In that case, I’ll take a donut too.”
“Donuts are fifty cents.”
“Not on the county?”
She didn’t look up. “Coffee’s on the county. Donuts ain’t.”
“Of course.” Pilate dropped two quarters on the counter.
As he fed the Saab, he also fed himself, munching on the donut and sipping his coffee.
“Oh my God,” Simon said. “You really are a cop. Really, what’s more ubiquitous in law enforcement than the patrolman’s diet? Who needs a badge or a gun? You have coffee and a donut.”
Pilate swallowed the bite of donut and dropped the rest in the trash.
Gary Rich paced in front of the constable’s office, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his green Army jacket, eyeing the massive dent Parker Nemec’s truck had left in the bank pillar next door.
“Great,” Simon said as Pilate parked the Saab, sighing.
Pilate barely had one leg out of the car before Rich was upon him, his hands now on his waist.
“Constable, we have a real problem here,” the self-proclaimed neighborhood watchman said, a touch of spittle on his lips.
“Oh? And good morning to you, too, Captain,” Pilate said, exiting and closing the car door.
“Constable,” he started, “are you even partially aware of what is happening in this town you’re sworn to protect?”
“I’m sure I don’t know everything,” Pilate said, finding the key to his office on his key ring as he walked to the door, “but I bet you’re ready to shed some light on it for me.”
Pointing at the ruined pillar, Rich continued. “A man nearly died here yesterday. He was assaulted.”
“Yes, I know. I was there.”
Rich stopped a second and looked down and to his right, as if receiving a signal from some secret satellite. “And you did nothing to stop it!”
“Stop it? How could I have stopped it?” Pilate said, turning the key in the door lock.
“It’s your job!”
Pilate wheeled and faced Rich. “Mr. Rich,” he started, dropping the ”captain” pointedly, “the only way I could have stopped it would have been to invent a time machine and follow Mr. Nemec around all day yesterday.”
“Well, that’s just silly.”
“And so is your premise,” Pilate growled.
“My, my—”
“The idea that a small-town constable is supposed to be everywhere anytime to prevent crime is a stup…” Pilate paused, trying to think of something more professional to say. “It is an unrealistic premise. I do the best I can.”
“If a prominent member of our town can be attacked by a machete,—”
“Machete?”
Rich rolled on. “In broad daylight too! That indicates that the criminal element here does not fear your authority.”
“Fear my authority? Just where the hell do you think we live? Russia?”
“This would never have happened under Sheriffs Welliver or Scovill,” he sputtered.
“Mr. Rich, several people were murdered or nearly murdered during that time, including both of those sheriffs…and me!”
Rich pointed a stubby finger at Pilate. “Then you, of all people, should know better. You will be held accountable.”
“For what specifically? The attack on Parker Nemec or the beer cans littering the streets? Or is it the dog shit on Mrs. Drum’s lawn?”
“
Mocking me will not help the situation sir,” Rich said, trying to pass into the office, only to be barred by Pilate’s arm.
“Oh, I disagree,” Simon said.
“Mr. Rich, I’m working with the state police, the county leadership, and consulting with my entire unabridged Ellery Queen collection to figure out all this stuff—all for $1,013 a month.”
“Plus mileage,” Simon added.
“It’s not good enough. Look at you,” he said, glaring at Pilate, a sneer forming. “You don’t even wear a gun, and where’s your badge? You don’t take this seriously. You’re gonna get a wake-up call. Man, you better be ready.” Rich’s voice was quieter, almost solemn, his eyes downcast. “Some people can see evildoers from the get-go. You can’t.”
“Wait just a minute,” Pilate said, taking a step closer to Rich.
Rich backed away. “I hope you’re up to the task.” He turned away and climbed on a beat-up ten-speed bike.
“Is that some sort of threat?” Pilate called after him.
“Beware Gary Rich’s wrath,” Simon said. “I think he was in REO Speedwagon.”
Pilate stood a moment, watching the strange man pedal away, his knees pumping vigorously, his eyes forward. After a while, he shook his head and turned back to his office, his eye catching the damaged bank façade.
The office phone rang, breaking his train of thought.
“Constable, uh…?”
“Are you sure?” Ryder said.
“Sorry. Yeah, I’m sure. I just had a weird moment.”
“That little town is full of weird moments,” Ryder said with a snort.
“Don’t you dare try to pin this town on me, Boss.”
“Suit yourself.” Ryder cleared his throat. “Anyway, Nemec woke up. Wanna head over to the hospital with me to question him? Petersen from state police will be there at ten.”
“Sure,” Pilate said. “Have we had a guard on him?”
“No, though we probably should have,” Ryder said. “Low manpower’s a bitch.”
“Maybe our neighborhood watch should be called in,” Pilate said.
“Oh shit, like that nut Gary Rich? Hell no. He’d probably try to waterboard somebody for taking Nemec’s vitals.”
Pilate's Blood Page 12