Pilate nodded. “That is quite a coincidence.”
Taters rolled his eyes. “Yeah, quite the co-inky-dink.”
The pair said nothing until they got back in the Saab.
“So, what do you think, kemosabe?”
“Not sure, Sancho. I’d say there’s definitely some Hilmer Thurman in this mix. Thurman’s right-hand man is a fat guy named Tom.”
“Well shit! There you go,” Taters said, smacking one hand into the palm of the other.
Pilate breathed in deeply. “Let’s think about this logically. Thurman’s cousin Ollie, who runs Cross Township, dies.” Pilate looked down a moment, shaking off the memory of the gunplay that led to Olafson’s death. “His cousin, Hilmer Thurman, comes to Cross to take over the family interests. He clearly wants to establish his sway around here, and after Mostek disappears, Thurman makes it known that he wants the Mostek place.”
“And this Mostek disappeared after he nearly killed the last sheriff and took some shots at you, I might add,” Taters said.
Pilate nodded. “What do you wanna bet that Mostek is dead?”
“Thurman?” Taters said without missing a beat.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, but why does he want the store so bad that he’d intimidate the banker with an axe in the back?”
“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t he just quietly go to Mrs. Mostek and tell her she’s to sell the building to him?”
“Maybe she knows that Thurman killed her husband.” Taters asked.
“Well, that, and the according to the local scuttlebutt she’s been in poor health and doped to the gills most of the time,” Pilate said, recalling a rumor he had heard from more than one person around town. “Maybe she washed her hands of the whole thing and told Nemec to handle it…or both.” Pilate put the key in the ignition between the front seats and started the car.
“Okay, setting that aside, it looks like the building was first built and owned by an ancestor of this Thurman fella,” Taters said. “Do you s’pose that’s worth killing over?”
“People have killed for less in this town,” Pilate said, backing out of the parking lot, “a lot less.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Sheriff, you’d better get over here right now,” Mrs. Drum squawked into his cell phone.
“What’s going on now, Mrs. Drum?”
“What do you think happened? He did it again!” she shouted.
Pilate held the cell out a couple inches from his face. “Did what again?”
“Pooped in my yard!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Drum, but what would you like me to do about it?” He felt a distinct stabbing pain in the back of his neck.
“Arrest him!”
“Who?”
“Are you dense, Sheriff? Arrest the person defecating on my property.”
“Who is doing it?”
“What do we pay you for anyway? How the heck do I know?” she said, nearing apoplexy.
Taters chuckled quietly.
Pilate smirked, though the pain in his neck rendered his effort at defiance hollow. “Well, ma’am, unless you see who’s doing it, I really don’t know—”
“Did it on my front porch this time!”
“Oh jeez,” Pilate said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Drum. I will step up patrols.”
“You’d better, Sheriff.”
“Constable.” Pilate ended the call, the sound of Mrs. Drum slamming her receiver down making him wince. “There’s gotta be a better way to earn this massive salary.”
Taters snickered. “Why you don’t say adios to this place and head back down to Key West is beyond me.”
“What would I do there, besides enjoy my life and have fun?”
Taters nodded. “Of course. How silly of me.”
“Commissioner, I need a warrant to search Mostek’s store.” Pilate heard Ryder inhale deeply through the phone, as if he’d been expecting the request.
“Why?”
“I did some checking, and I think Thurman is definitely behind all this,” Pilate said. “I wonder if there’s something about that store that’s driving this.”
“Location, location, location.”
“No, not that.”
“Like what then?”
“No idea. I just wanna look around.”
“Well, go get the keys from the bank. Tell ‘em I said so.”
“No warrant?”
“No. Just go get the keys, and be discreet,” Ryder said. “Let me know what you find,” he said, his voice flat.
“Okay. Will do,” Pilate tucked the phone in his pocket.
“What?” Taters said.
“I don’t know. He seemed…distracted.”
“Well, what do we do? Go to a judge or magistrate or something?”
“No. He said we just go back to the bank and get the keys.”
“Oh. Well, that’s easy. On TV they have to—”
“This isn’t CBS, Taters,” Pilate said. “How you doing?”
“Me? Fine.”
“No pain, no heart stuff?”
Taters shook his head. “Nope, no problem. Let’s go, John.”
Pilate nosed the Saab in the direction of the bank. “Tonight’s martini is gonna be most welcome.”
“The backyard bar awaits.” Taters smiled. “Ya know, I have to admit that one good thing about this place being as boring as it is…well, it’s done wonders for my stress level.”
“Yeah, that’s one benefit of the smallest town in the world. I—”
Pilate was interrupted by the police radio in his car: “Code One! Code One! Ten-forty-three, Walker Keillor Elementary School. Code One. Ten-forty-three at Walker Keillor Elementary School. All units respond.”
Pilate tensed. “Hold on.” He slowed the car, then turned around in the middle of the road. He pointed the car the right way and floored the gas pedal.
Taters grasped the door handle tightly. “What the hell? What’s a ten-forty-three?”
“One of the codes I had to learn the hard way. Somebody’s shooting a gun at Kara’s school.”
Pilate gritted his teeth and turned on his emergency light. “Taters, pick up the radio and tell them I’m in transit.”
Taters clicked the button a couple times and said, “This is, uh…Constable Pilate. We have received your message and are in hot pursuit to the scene.”
“Transit, not pursuit, Rosco P. Coltrane,” Pilate whispered. “ETA three minutes.”
“Uh…we are in transit to the scene. ETA three minutes,” Taters repeated.
“Roger, Constable. Be advised, reserve sheriff deputy at least twelve minutes from scene. State Patrol twenty minutes out. Be advised, responsible is a white male, about thirty-five years old, dark hair, green pants, green jacket, blue tennis shoes.”
“Roger,” Taters said. “John, what do we do? Wait for the deputy?”
“Hell no. No way. My little girl’s in there, damn it.”
Subsequent communications reported that the shooter had hit at least two people and was holding a classroom hostage. Fortunately, most of the teachers and students had evacuated safely.
“Taters, get the gun outta the glovebox,” Pilate said. “When we crest this next hill, we’ll be about 500 feet from the school. I’m gonna stop the car and get out and go around the back of the building. You take the car to the front and help evacuate people. When the deputies arrive, tell them I’m going in, and for God’s sake, tell ‘em what I’m wearing so they don’t shoot me.” A trickle of sweat beaded down Pilate’s side.
“John, maybe we should wait,” Taters said, checking the .38 Smith chamber.
“Can’t. This guy’s already shot two people, and there’s no SWAT team. Those two deputies are good guys, but they’re only slightly more qualified than me. Okay, maybe a lot more, but anyway, we don’t have time to wait for the State Patrol. Besides, I’m just gonna climb a tree or something out back, and I’ll text what I can see from there. I’ll set my cell on vibrate, in case they wanna
give me instructions. You with me?”
“You never have to ask me that,” Taters said. “I just wish I had my .45.”
“Me too. There’s a shotgun in the trunk, along with a box of shells. Get it. Okay, here we go.”
Pilate crested the hill. The school was an anthill of chaos, with teachers, children, and parents running in all directions. Pilate put the car in park, took the gun from Taters, and ran into the woods adjacent to the school.
“Godspeed!” Taters said, running around the back of the car and slipping in to the driver’s seat. He felt his chest tightening. “Just cut that out,” he said aloud.
Pilate clipped the holster on his belt as he ran through the woods behind the school. He could hear the shouts of kids and teachers as they hustled away from the scene.
“John, we should wait for the professionals,” Simon said. “This is not part of your job description. It’s beyond your training…and your competence.”
“Kara, what’s my job?” Pilate tried to clear his mind. Kara was likely out front of the school already, out of harm’s way. He just had to position himself to give intel to the deputies.
Pilate crawled through the brush beside the school playground, trying to get eyes on the classroom where the gunman was holed up. He couldn’t see anything and would have to get closer.
He crawled behind an oak tree and pulled himself to his feet. He spied another large oak not twenty feet from the cafeteria door that opened out to the playground. Scanning the windows again, he still saw no signs of commotion. He could only assume that the shooter was probably in a classroom on the far side of the school.
Pilate broke into a run, covering the distance between the oaks in only a few seconds. Then he ran and flattened himself against the wall beside the cafeteria door. His hands quivered as he fumbled the .38 out of the holster. He gave it a quick look to make sure it was operational, then put his left hand on the cafeteria door.
Pilate gently pulled the door open an inch and peered inside. Dozens of food trays had been hastily abandoned on cafeteria tables, and chairs and food were haphazardly scattered about the gaudy linoleum.
Good. They got out.
Pilate opened the door wider; it groaned on rusty hinges. Pilate froze in place for a moment, then opened it wider, willing the hinges to silence. He slipped in and headed quickly toward the interior door that led to the main hallway. Pilate stepped on the remnants of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and nearly fell on his ass, but he righted himself and pressed his sweaty torso against the wall beside the door.
“Wait. Doesn’t that Robbins kid have a peanut allergy?” Simon said.
Pilate ignored Simon and listened outside of his head. He heard nothing but eerie silence.
“Maybe he surrendered?” Simon volunteered.
“Shut up! Let me think!” A man’s voice echoed through the hallway. “Just shut the fuck up and let me think! No more jabbering!”
“Never mind.”
Pilate surmised that the gunman was in Corridor B, the same hallway that led to Kara’s classroom. He darted out of the cafeteria, into the main hallway, and headed for the corner that turned into Corridor B. The shattered glass of a trophy case crunched under his feet. He winced and stood still. Catty-corner across the hallway were the main doors to the school and the principal’s office.
A man’s body lay motionless on the floor, his face turned to Pilate, eyes open, glassy and lifeless—he looked surprised. A dark red wound marred his chest.
Pilate next heard the collective murmur of children crying. He felt a vibration in his pocket, a text message from Taters, and he quickly read it: “Deputies still on the way. Teachers said guy in Army jacket busted in, claiming delivery driver was going to hurt kids. Shot delivery guy and teacher who got in way. Has Glock. Delivery guy may be dead. Teacher bleeding.”
Pilate texted back: “Dead man in main hallway. I’m 10 feet frm rm. Not sure where kids. Will wait for deps. Which teacher?”
No sooner had Pilate pushed send than he heard a gunshot and the terrified screams of children.
“Fuck this,” he said, bolting down the corridor. A haze of gunsmoke filtered from a classroom; it was Abbey’s class.
Pilate saw a smear of blood just outside the door, as if someone had been shot in the hallway and dragged inside. He slowed and looked for something he could throw. He scooped up a Dora the Explorer backpack from the floor and inched to the door of the room. He heard children crying and the familiar voice of Abbey Prince.
“Please, mister, you have to let the kids go,” she pleaded, her voice quavering.
“I-I was just doing my job,” the man said, stammering. “The kids were not safe.”
Pilate crouched low, peeking into the room. Packed into a corner were at least ten kids, crying, and a man pacing back and forth past a prone and bleeding Abbey Prince.
The man looked vaguely familiar, but Pilate couldn’t see his face. The collar on his Army jacket was turned up, obscuring his profile. Abbey was holding her right side, and the bright red blood oozing between her fingers wasn’t a good sign.
Pilate knew he was nowhere near a good enough shot to take the guy out without risking hitting the kids or Abbey, but he also knew he had to do something.
His cell vibrated again: “Dep outside in tree sez he has a shot at guy. can you distract?”
“Yes,” Pilate texted.
“Dep sez if u distract, he will take shot.”
“OK. What do I do?”
“Count to 30 and get guy away from kids. Godspeed.”
Pilate inhaled a shallow breath and replied, “Yes,” then began his countdown.
Shit! Do I say “Mississippi” between each number?
“It doesn’t matter now, John. Just count to thirty,” Simon said.
Pilate counted, grasping the backpack and the .38. He slid up to his full height.
Twenty-one, twenty-two…
He hadn’t seen Kara in there, but it was hard to make out any faces.
Twenty-four, twenty-five…
God help me.
Twenty-nine…
Pilate burst into the room and threw the backpack at the gunman. It hit him on the back, startling him, and he turned to face Pilate.
“Rich?” Pilate sputtered at the neighborhood watch captain.
Rich blinked and raised the Glock in Pilate’s direction.
“No, Gary!” Pilate yelled.
“Where’s that fucking deputy?” Simon shouted in Pilate’s brain.
On cue, the deputy fired, shattering the window.
Gary Rich grunted as the bullet grazed his shoulder. He fell back, still grasping the Glock, waving it wildly at the terrified students.
Pilate was five feet from Rich. Clutching his revolver, he threw himself at him, slamming him into a bookshelf and knocking the Glock from Rich’s hand. Pilate smacked Rich across the face with his pistol, knocking him out.
The kids shrieked in fear and relief as Pilate rolled Rich on his belly and pulled his arms behind his back. Pilate pinned Rich’s arms down by planting his knee on them.
He turned and saw Abbey smiling at him, trying to get up. “No! Stay put, Abbey. Just stay there,” Pilate said.
In seconds, the room filled with two deputies, followed closely by Burl Crites and another paramedic Pilate didn’t recognize, both carrying heavy gear.
The deputy patted Pilate’s shoulder. “Good work, Constable. I’ll cuff him.”
Pilate nodded, holstered his gun, and knelt beside Abbey. He looked at Burl hopefully, and Burl returned the hopeful look.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Abbey said, trying to smile.
“That’s Cons—”
He was interrupted by a hug around his neck.
“Daddy!” Kara squealed. “You were right about your job. You kept me safe!”
“Thank God,” Pilate said. “Are you okay, baby?”
Kara nodded and wiped tears from her eyes. “I was scared, but I knew you would save us, e
ven without this.” She proudly pointed at his badge, still pinned to her shirt.
“What’s my job?”
“To keep me safe,” she said, smiling. “And everybody else.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Why didn’t you shoot the son-of-a-bitch?” Ryder asked.
“Like I told you before, I don’t ever plan to shoot at anybody again,” Pilate said, repressing the urge to knock Ryder on his ass. “Besides, the kids were in the line of fire, and I’m not a good shot.”
“Sir, Miss Prince is at the hospital. They’re prepping her for surgery,” a reserve deputy said as he strung crime scene tape around the school steps.
Ryder nodded. “Good shooting,” he said to the deputy, who nodded and went back to work.
Pilate glanced at Taters, who was holding Kara just a few feet away, beside the Saab. Pilate felt the adrenaline draining from his body.
“Didn’t mean to criticize, John,” Ryder said, his voice just above a whisper, clasping Pilate’s shoulder a moment.
Pilate nodded, looked around the scene, then glanced back to Ryder. “I know. How the hell did a nut like that get access to a gun?”
“Second Amendment,” Ryder said, shrugging.
“Yeah, well, that’s just great. A delusional idiot breezes in here with a gun, kills a man, shoots a teacher, and God knows what else he could’ve done. He had three clips of fifteen on him. But yeah, we have to let that happen ‘cause the British may invade us at any moment, right?” Pilate felt his adrenaline boiling over again, his vision red and closing in like a camera aperture.
Ryder looked at him dispassionately.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Is that all the fuck you have to say? ’Second Amendment’?”
“For now, yes.”
“Ya know, Ryder, you’re one cold son-of-a…” Pilate pointed a finger at Ryder.
Trooper Hulsey strode up. His eyes darted from Pilate’s red face to his index finger and Ryder’s cool, expressionless face. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, pointing at Gary Rich, who was handcuffed in the back of Hulsey’s patrol car. “We’re gonna run the shooter to the hospital. Once the docs have that arm all patched up, we’ll take him over to the cookie factory.”
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