Pilate's Blood

by J Alexander Greenwood

  “Screw that. He may be mental, but I want him put in stir,” Ryder said.

  Hulsey rocked back on his heels a moment. “Commissioner, he’s a nut-bag. It’s best we throw his butt in secure mental lockup, a damn straitjacket and a rubber room.”

  Ryder shook his head. “No. Put him in the can, and make sure every con in there knows he tried to kill some kids.” Ryder’s blue eyes took on a steely, blank quality.

  Hulsey shrugged. “I’m state police, Commissioner. I take orders from my colonel, and he says the gunman goes to the hospital, then to secure psych for eval.” Hulsey didn’t wait for a reply; instead, he turned and took two steps away before turning back. “Hell of a brave thing you did in there, John. You never cease to amaze us, buddy.”

  “Um…thanks?”

  “I think he meant it as a compliment, tenderfoot,” Ryder drawled.

  Hulsey nodded and walked to his cruiser.

  Pilate locked eyes with Gary Rich, who bucked up and down, screaming in the back seat. His mouth was moving, but no sound could penetrate the bulletproof glass.

  Ryder chuckled. “Damn. Hulsey’s too by-the-book for the shit, but I had to try,” he said.

  “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “No you’re not, and you don’t gotta be.” Ryder’s eyes changed subtly, becoming a little less steely, flintier.

  “John! John! Kara!”

  Pilate turned to the edge of a cordon and saw Kate breaking through the police tape. She grabbed Kara from Taters, fell to her knees, and hugged her as if she never wanted to let her go.

  “Mommy, you’re squishing me,” Kara whined.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’m just so glad you’re all right,” Kate said, and both of them broke down in tears.

  “Commissioner, I need to—”

  “Go,” Ryder said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Pilate knelt beside his family, melting into the embrace. Tears welled in his eyes. It was a bit of a struggle to clear the massive lump that had formed in his throat.

  “Mommy, Daddy did it.”

  “What, honey?” Kate asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “He kept me safe. It’s his job.”

  Kate looked at Pilate. “He did, didn’t he? He’s very good at it.” She laughed and kissed him.

  Pilate smiled, kissed his wife, then looked away, back at the school.

  “Stop, John. You know as well as I do that you can’t protect them everywhere, Daddy Dearest,” Simon scolded.

  “Here, Daddy,” Kara said, pinning the badge crookedly on his sweaty, bloodstained shirt.

  “Oh,” he said softly. “Thank you.” The weight of the brass badge made his pocket droop.

  “John, you okay?” Kate said.

  “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m fine. I just need to make sure Abbey’s all right.”

  “Go on over to the hospital with Taters. I’ll take Kara home, and we’ll all be together tonight.”

  Pilate felt like he was starring in a movie, some sort of Monday afternoon matinee about his own life, as if he had lines to say but was unsure of the inflection. What he did know was that all the anger he had felt toward Ryder was gone. “Okay, babe,” he said, hugging his girls again. “Kate, Kara, I love you.”

  Kate’s tears flowed again. “Thank you so much for saving our baby. I-I love you,” she said with a sniffle.

  Pilate felt an aw-shucks-‘twern’t-nothin’-ma’am comment coming on, but he stifled it. He merely nodded, winked at his little girl, and walked over to Taters, who was leaning on the Saab, chatting with Ryder.

  Ryder wordlessly tipped his hat to them both as Pilate approached and walked away, loping along in ostrich boots.

  “Interesting guy,” Taters said, watching Ryder go.

  “To say the least,” Pilate said. “Thanks, pal.”

  “What for?”

  “You and I worked together on this, and you know it.”

  Taters waved Pilate off. “Texting? Please. I think you got the raw end of the deal this time.”

  “Bullshit. I heard. You took charge of the scene until the deputies arrived. Ryder said you ordered all the kids and teachers to head for the barn in that cornfield across the road. You got them to safety, and then you helped orchestrate the raid on that psycho.”

  Taters looked down at his feet. “Aw shucks. Just helpin’ out, Boss.”

  “Hey…you okay?” Pilate said.

  Taters sighed and sounded perturbed as he answered, “If you’re askin’ if all this excitement gave me a heart attack, no. I’m right as rain.”

  “Good, we’re heading to the hospital now to check on Abbey, so if you need a shock or a defibrillation or whatever, I can make that happen. I know people.”

  “Pssh. Just get in your damn girlie car, Mr. Small-town Hero,” Taters said, opening the passenger door. “Shock me my ass.”

  “She’ll have a nasty scar on her side, but the bullet missed the vitals,” Head Nurse Juilie Hulsey said in the waiting area. “Doc Hutton says that aside from being shot, she’s a lucky young lady.”

  “That’s great news,” Pilate said. “When can I see her?”

  “She’s still out of it, and it’s family only for a while anyway, so…”

  “I guess that leaves me out,” a voice from behind Pilate said, breaking.

  Pilate turned to face a shaken Riley Pierson, doing his best to hold himself together. “Riley, she’s okay,” Pilate said.

  “Oh my God, Mr. Pilate, Abbey nearly died, and I was so mean to her.” His eyes were red and watery. “I really hurt her, and now she’s—”

  “Gonna be fine, Nebraska,” Pilate said. He grasped Riley’s shoulders. “Look at me, pal.”

  Riley sniffled and quickly wiped his eyes with a fist, looking at Pilate.

  “You didn’t do this to her, and what she needs now is our strength, so she can get well. Understand?”

  Riley nodded sadly, looking down at the tile floor.

  “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

  “No. I’m staying here until she wakes up.”

  Pilate nodded. “Good man. Juilie, can Riley wait?”

  “Of course,” she said. “If Abbey’s folks decide it’s okay, and if she wants to see you, you can. It will be a few hours, though, maybe not even till tomorrow.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not leaving. I want her to know I’m here for her.”

  Pilate clapped Riley on the back.

  Riley offered a sheepish smile, wandered over to an orange pleather chair, and fell heavily into it like a sack of potatoes.

  “What about Gary Rich?”

  Juilie made a face. “That creep? He got seven stitches. He also has a bump on his head and a shiner that would put Lee Harvey Oswald to shame. Nice work. Mike took him over to the mental unit at county. He’s not all there. And speaking of nuts, what about you?”

  “Me? Oh, just a bruise here and there.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you oughtta leave your diagnosis up to the professionals. Come on in the exam room and take your shirt off, and I’ll look you over.”

  Pilate shook his head. “Not necessary. Thanks though. I’m sure there’s a mountain of paperwork to do on this, so I’d better get to it. I’ll check on Abbey tomorrow.”

  “No problem, Constable,” Juilie said, winking and heading back to her station.

  “Now I bet she’s got some good…bedside manner,” Taters said, shaking his head. “You shoulda let her examine you.”

  Pilate chuckled, clapped his friend on the shoulder, and headed for the door. “C’mon, Romeo,” he said.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re on the news again,” Monique said, her studied New York City cool shaken by the news of the school shooting. “You saved some kids!”

  Pilate sighed a bit, trying to think of something clever to say, but nothing came to mind. He shifted the phone from one ear to the other.

  “John? Hey, old man, you there?”

  “Yeah,” Pilate said, looking at his boots on the l
inoleum of his kitchen floor. An untouched drink sat on the counter.

  “You okay?” Monique asked in an oddly serious tone.

  “Yeah, Monique. Just a tough day,” Pilate said. He envied Taters, who was outside, in the fresh air, leaning against the Frontdoor Backyard Bar, Modelo in hand. “What’s up?”

  “Oh. Well, I’m just calling to tell you that you might finally be achieving sexy with all this heroism. You have a real Harrison Ford thing going, ya know? Old but kinda hot? Do you have a Fedora and a whip? Wait. If you’ve got a whip, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

  Pilate laughed, a genuine chuckle. “Yeah, me and Indiana Solo, we’re like peas in a sexy AARP pod.”

  “You act more like Rick Deckard,” Simon chimed in.

  “Well, if we can table the geriatric sexiness discussion for a minute,” she said, chuckling herself, “I have some news.”

  “Frechette, hopefully. Did they catch him? Do you have my money for me?”

  “No, not yet. Sorry. He’s still on the lam, leaving a trail of empty sidecars in his wake, but I’m sure they’ll catch up to him eventually.”

  “So what’s the news?”

  “You. You’re national news again, and that made the phone ring. I put the word out about your new book, but I didn’t hear a peep till you went all Rambo this afternoon. Now I have three fishing calls and one full-fledged offer.”

  Pilate eyed the drink. “My, my, how…predictable of them.”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the ass, John,” she said. “The advance offer is $50,000.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Pilate said, whistling.

  “Yeah, but it’s not good enough. Let me keep at it. By the way, Angee called and griped at me for stealing you away from her as a client.”

  “Stealing me away? But she ditched me.”

  “I know, right? She cray-cray.”

  “Yeah, she’s always been a little…self-absorbed.”

  “Okay. Well, now that the excitement is over out there, you’d better get cracking on that sequel.”

  “Uh…” Pilate rubbed the back of his neck, squeezing it, trying to force it to pop or move a little. He was quickly developing a beauty of a headache. “About that…”

  Monique inhaled deeply, let it out in short bursts, and cleared her throat. “You haven’t written anything, have you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What?”

  “I’m working on it, just not much yet and not what you asked for.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case…” she said.

  “It’s not a nonfiction follow up. It’s a…well, it’s kind of more like a novel.”

  “A novel?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “About?”

  “Well, me, I guess, the whole magilla, just fictionalized. Don’t be mad, Monique.”

  “I’m not about to get shitty with a legit hero, John.”

  “Stop.”

  “In fact…” She paused, smacked her lips, and continued. “If I’m hearing you correctly, you will actually be able to tell your story in a sexier way by fictionalizing some of it. I mean, disguising it as fiction, you could actually do some things that are more…interesting.”

  “Yeah, I mean really, a decades-old murder mystery, attempts on my family’s life, an attack by pirates on the open water, a psychopath chasing me across the country, a school shooting? Yeah, I can see where a novel would be more interesting.”

  “Hmm,” she purred, not rising to the bait. “I like it. Could even be a series. Lemme see what I can do. I’ll work the hero angle in and see if we can sell it.”

  “Thanks, little girl,” Pilate said.

  “Ick. You went there, you dirty old man.”

  “What did Indy say? ‘It’s not the years, honey. It’s the mileage.’”

  “Gross.”

  “You started it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cocktail to drink, and you need to go have private thoughts about Harrison Ford.”

  “Ass,” she said, then hung up.

  Pilate scooped up the martini and looked into the living room. Kate was asleep on the sofa, the kids asleep upstairs, so he crept quietly outside.

  “Cheers, buddy,” he said to Taters.

  “What kept you?”

  “The promise of money and talk about sex…and bullwhips.”

  “Fair enough.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The smell of dust, rotten food, and blood still permeated the air in Mostek’s General Store, where former Sheriff Welliver nearly lost his life in a shootout with the now missing, presumed-dead, Perry Mostek.

  “Mmm. Fragrant,” Taters said, walking into a sunbeam that broke through a tear in the butcher paper covering the closed store’s glass edifice.

  “The Mostek family cleaned it up a few days after the state police released the scene back to them, but by the looks of things, they only managed to remove most of the stock and do a quick mop of the floor.” Pilate pointed to the area where Welliver nearly bled out.

  “Yeah, that stain’s gonna hang around a while longer, unless somebody gets some elbow grease and bleach on it,” Taters said.

  “Uh-huh.” Pilate surveyed the empty shelves, which made ghostly shadows under the flickering fluorescent lights. He signaled Taters to follow him.

  “That the office?”

  “Yup, right up these stairs.”

  They looked around the office, which was still furnished with a small desk and some empty filing cabinets. On the wall, hanging crookedly, was a map of Cross Township. The office was almost round, as it occupied the turret-shaped second floor of the building.

  “Nothing,” Taters said. “No safe, no secret panels.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise. Let’s go back downstairs.”

  “What are we looking for?” Taters asked, opening the lid and peering into the beer and soda fridge beside the cash register. A sign advertising a sale on Bud was taped to the side.

  “I don’t know.” Pilate stamped his foot on the creaky wooden floor. “I was kind of hoping to find a trapdoor or something. I guess that was silly.”

  Taters closed the fridge. “Maybe you’re just not looking in the right place.”

  “Well, I’ve looked at every square inch of the bare floor, and the shelves are bolted down, so—”

  “How about a beer?”

  “Taters, it’s only ten a.m. Beer isn’t the answer to everything,” Pilate said, shaking his head.

  “You sure ‘bout that?” Taters gestured at the beer fridge, then squatted beside it.

  “What?” Pilate walked over, looking at a groove on the floor that Taters touched with a fingertip.

  “Looks like this fridge has been moved a few times, and I don’t think Modelo or Bud or Boulevard Wheat had anything to do with it.”

  The fridge was heavy and unwieldy, but Taters and Pilate moved it with minimum effort. Pilate did his best to do most of the pushing to slide it over, sparing Taters any unnecessary exertion.

  “You okay?”

  “Ask me that one more time, and I’ll knock you on your ass, John.”

  Pilate smiled. “Okay, okay.”

  Pilate went to his car and retrieved two flashlights, keeping an eye out to make sure no one was watching. Satisfied that there were no prying eyes, he hurried back inside the store and locked the store door behind him, eager to check out what was beneath the fridge-concealed trapdoor. “Here,” he said, handing one of the flashlights to Taters.

  “Got your gun?”

  “Why would I need a gun in a general store basement?” Pilate said, shining his light into the hole and revealing an ancient wooden ladder. “God. I’m starting to feel like Indiana Jones.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll go first.”

  “Sorry, pal. It’s my job. I’ll take point,” Pilate said, easing down through the trapdoor, testing the rungs of the ladder. “Feels okay, but doesn’t look like anybody’s been in here for a
while.” He continued to descend, shining the light at the bottom. “Looks like it’s only about ten feet down. C’mon.”

  Pilate climbed the rest of the way down, his senses overcome by a moldy, cold, dusty smell. He held the ladder as Taters climbed down.

  “John, the ladder’s bolted to the wall. Let go and move over.” Taters hopped down from the last two rungs, shining his flashlight around the room.

  It looked like a partially finished basement, complete with a partially exposed wood subfloor, cobwebs, and dirt. The walls had old wood paneling in places, but they were mostly comprised of exposed rock.

  “Charming,” Pilate said, “but let’s see what we can see down here.” Pilate wandered around the room for a few seconds, shining his beam on the walls. He caught what felt like a cool breeze across his cheek. “You feel that?”

  Taters mumbled assent.

  “Start feeling around. That breeze didn’t come from the trapdoor.”

  Pilate and Taters tapped the walls, which appeared to be gray and solid amidst the monochrome gloom.

  “That’s weird. I don’t think there’s a vent or—” Suddenly, Taters fell forward, as if he was intentionally trying to collide with the wall. “Ouch!”

  “Taters! Hey, you okay?” Pilate asked, hurrying over to his friend, who was on the floor, covered in a dirty curtain of muslin.

  “Yeah, but look what I found, Scooby. A secret passageway.”

  Pilate felt the breeze on his face again. He helped Taters to his feet, and both men shined their lights into the passageway. Hewn from the rock, it was three feet wide and varied in height but seemed to be about five feet tall in most places.

  Stooping, Pilate walked forward a few feet, shining his light on an old sconce. “Wow. This looks pretty old.”

  “Yeah, a real temple of doom, huh, Constable Indy?” Taters’s light exposed another sconce a few feet away on the other side of the passage. “There’s a candle stub in this one. This is some real Great Escape stuff, man, except way roomier.”

  “Looks like it goes on for quite a ways,” Pilate said. “You up for it?”