Pilate's Blood

by J Alexander Greenwood

  Taters shrugged. “Sure, but I wish you’d brought your gun.”

  After working their way through at least 200 yards of cramped, cobwebbed passage, the pair arrived at the terminus.

  “Well, shit.”

  “Don’t go no farther?” Taters asked.

  “Nope. Just sorta…quits,” Pilate said. “At least here, we can stand without stooping.”

  “This don’t make sense.”

  “I know. Maybe they gave up. I mean, it’s unfinished. Or maybe it caved in.”

  “You’re forgetting something, Constable,” Taters said, pointing around in the air.

  Pilate snapped his fingers. “The breeze! Of course. There has to be some way outta of here.”

  “Said the joker to the—”

  “Look!” Pilate pointed his light up, revealing a wooden door in the ceiling, about seven feet off the ground. He saw small cracks in and around the door; they apparently allowed for airflow when both ends of the passage were clear.

  “The last tourists to these caverns musta pulled the ladder up with them,” Taters said.

  “Crap,” Pilate said, shining his light at the floor. “I didn’t think to keep an eye out for footprints. Do you see any?”

  “Oops, Columbo. Just ours, I think.”

  “Well, we’ll have to look more carefully later. For now, we need to see what’s on the other side of that door.”

  “I’m lighter than you. Gimme a boost,” Taters said. “Doc told me not to do any heavy lifting.”

  “No, that won’t do. Let me get on all fours, and you try to reach from my back. But if a rat saunters by, you may get a headache from me launching you into the ceiling. I hate rats.”

  “Got it,” Taters said, putting the flashlight in his back pocket and stepping onto Pilate’s back.

  “Oomph,” Pilate groaned. “How in the hell does Jordan tolerate you on top of her?”

  “I’ll try to forget you said that,” Taters said, adding a couple grunts as he balanced on Pilate’s back and reached for the door. His fingertips brushed the wooden slats.

  “Get it?”

  “Not quite,” Taters said, reaching again, stretching his arm. “Dang.”

  “A little more alacrity, if you please, Taters,” Pilate said, gasping.

  Taters pulled the small Maglite from his back pocket and used it to extend his reach. It made a decidedly solid thump on the wood. “Hit it, but it ain’t moving any. There might be something on it, a case of beer or something.”

  “Okay. Get down then,” Pilate said with another grunt.

  “You sure?”

  “Get off me, Taters.”

  “That’s what she said.” Taters snickered, climbed off Pilate’s back, and helped him to his feet.

  Pilate brushed the dirt from his knees and palms. “Crap. Well, we’ll have to go get a ladder or something.”

  “And do what? I mean, we have no idea where this goes. How are we gonna explain ourselves if we open it up and climb into some nice lady’s boudoir or something? Catch her in flagrante delicto?”

  “God, Taters, you really need to get laid,” Pilate said, “but you’re right. Besides, we can easily figure this out by counting the paces and checking it out topside.”

  “I hope it opens up to someplace that serves them conch fritters.”

  “Fat chance. If my calculations are correct, I think we’ll actually be somewhere that serves something…a wee bit stronger.”

  Cusack slid a double-shot of Jameson’s across the bar to Pilate and Taters. “For our hero,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  Pilate had just started to introduce Taters to Cusack when he held up a hand, poured the drinks, and presented them to the pair.

  “Cusack, this isn’t necessary,” Pilate protested, with little enthusiasm.

  Taters picked up his tumbler of whiskey and inhaled the aroma. “Much obliged.”

  Cusack poured himself a shot and held up his glass. “To John and Taters, who saved the day.”

  Pilate flushed, embarrassed, but clinked glasses and drank half the contents. “Thanks. We were just—”

  “Doing our jobs,” Taters finished, a poor Clint Eastwood impression.

  Cusack glanced around the bustling bar. “Well, in any case, glad you stitched up that bastard. Well done.”

  Pilate nodded.

  “So what brings you over here this time of day?” Cusack said. “Trying to beat the lunch rush or all those OakFest folks?”

  “Not exactly,” Pilate said, putting his glass down. “We were wondering if we could have a look at your basement.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I dunno what you tink you’ll find down here,” Cusack said, grunting as he moved aside boxes. “I’ve never noticed any door in the floor or nothin’.”

  Pilate helped move some of the boxes across the wooden floor, looking for any unexpected entryways to another chamber. “Hmm. Maybe it’s not even a door at all. Coulda been floor we saw.”

  Taters nodded.

  “You found a passageway leading from the store to here?” Cusack asked, scratching his head. “Odd.”

  Pilate stopped staring at the floorboards. “Odder still, when you think of the coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Well, yeah. The tunnel or passage or whatever you call it leads from this bed-and-breakfast you currently own, to the general store you’re trying to buy.”

  “’Tis odd, John, no doubt about it.”

  Pilate folded his arms. “Cusack, be honest with me. Did you know about this or not?”

  “No,” he said emphatically, his eyes going from Pilate to Taters and back again. “Well…not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “John, I have the situation well in hand, as you say here in the U.S. of A.,” Cusack assured him, a tinge of irritation evident in his usually jovial demeanor. His knotty hands rested at his sides, his fingernails dirty.

  “Cusack, I’m the law in this town.” Instantly, Pilate felt idiotic just saying it, and he knew Simon was no doubt in hysterics somewhere in his cerebral cortex, but he continued, “I’m investigating an attempted murder of the man who controls the sale of that store and, incidentally, holds the note on your place.”

  Cusack threw his hands up in the stagnant air. “All right Copper, you got me,” he said, then plopped himself down on a box, releasing a frustrated sigh.

  Pilate and Taters leaned against the basement wall, waiting for Cusack to spill the beans.

  “I’ve only been down there once, and I couldn’t believe it when I found out it goes from here to the store. I mean, it has to be an old bootlegger’s passage, if ya get my meanin’.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So…it would be a helluva ting, ya know, for the punters.”

  “What?” Taters said.

  “You know, a proper tourist attraction. ‘Visit the secret bootlegger’s tunnel beneath Cross Township,’ that sorta ting,” Cusack smiled. “Like that town in Kansas. Atchison, I believe? The most haunted town in the state? You know how much money a gimmick like that brings in?”

  “So you wanna buy the store why?” Pilate said, not really getting the concept.

  “That’s what’s really grand. I want to make it a proper restaurant and bar, not like the wee bar I have upstairs. A real swanky place, maybe with a speakeasy in the basement. There are loads of possibilities, and the tunnel will draw people in.”

  “Loads of money-makin’ potential, for sure,” Taters acknowledged.

  “Yeah,” Pilate said, deflated.

  Cusack looked up at the men standing over him. “Well, cheer up, boys. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “No, no, sorry, Cusack,” Pilate said. “It just seems a little… I don’t know. Like a bit of an anticlimax. But wait. What about groceries for the people in Cross? Are you saying if you get this, you aren’t gonna sell milk, eggs, bread, and diapers?”

  “Hell no. That’s too much work for me. There
’s plenty of room ‘round here for somebody else to build a new store.” He beamed. “I mean, really, how boring would that be?”

  “Maybe you’ve got a point, buddy,” Taters drawled. “I mean, the last grocer apparently liked to moonlight as an assassin.”

  Pilate and Taters asked Cusack a few more questions, including some about his relationship with Hilmer Thurman, whom Cusack swore he’d never met. Pilate thanked Cusack for his time and walked back to the Saab with Taters.

  “So, let’s see. We’ve got an Irish dude who wants to buy the town general store, which includes a secret underground passage,” Taters said on the short walk from the Cross and Cork to the constable’s office. “From a Polish family who bought the property from a Swedish guy who’s an ancestor of the town crime boss.”

  “Sounds about right, Taters,” Pilate said with a nod.

  “And the banker behind the whole thing caught an axe blade in the back why?” Taters asked Pilate from across the Saab roof.

  “Good question.” Pilate opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Unless this Thurman guy did it because he wanted to kill Nemec to keep him from screwing up the sale of the store,” Taters mused.

  “Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill him. Maybe he really was trying to send a message.”

  “To who?”

  “Everyone involved.”

  “But Cusack denies even knowing Thurman.”

  “I know, but I think he was lying through his teeth.”

  Leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling of the constable’s office, Taters asked, “Are those pencils up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell, John?”

  Pilate shrugged and harrumphed. “I get bored.”

  “Well, you ain’t got no time to throw pencils now,” Taters said. “You’ve got a mystery to solve, Copper.”

  “Something’s not adding up here. I guess I’m gonna have to have a word with Hilmer Thurman.”

  “Cool,” Taters said. “I wanna meet that cat.”

  “Sorry, but I think you’ll need to keep your distance on this one, pal,” Pilate said.

  “What? Why? You deputized me, remember?”

  “Let’s go over to the college cafeteria, and I’ll think about it.”

  “Nothin’ to tink about,” Taters said, aping Cusack’s accent. “I’m going.”

  Kate joined them for lunch.

  “How’s our girl?”

  Kate ran a hand through her dirty-blonde hair. “She’s so tough. Since school’s out for a few more days while they clean up the mess that nut made, I asked her if she wants to stay home with me. She prefers to help out at daycare here.”

  “I think she’s feeling protective of Peter,” Pilate said. “She wants to make sure her baby brother’s okay.”

  “I think the phrase is ‘keep him safe.’“ She smiled. “I can’t tell you both how glad I am you were there. Jesus, it coulda been so much worse.”

  Taters winked.

  “I wish I had been more proactive about that guy,” Pilate said. “I mean, I knew he was a whack-job, but I had no idea how dangerous he was.”

  “Hell, can we really tell these days?” Taters said. “I mean, there’s a fine line between crazy and eccentric.”

  Pilate nodded. “Yeah, like Harley Cordwainer. He’s eccentric. No, wait. He’s both.”

  “It doesn’t help that it’s practically easier to get a handgun than it is to get a driver’s license,” Kate said, her jaw set. “Insanity. Sometimes I think we live in a damned armed madhouse instead of a civilized country.”

  “Easy now, Kate,” Taters said. “Most gun owners are good folks, and—”

  “Okay, let’s not go there,” Pilate said. “Not now, okay?”

  “‘Course, John. Sorry, Kate.”

  She nodded. “Been a tough—”

  “Week?” Taters offered.

  “Week? Yeah. Try year,” Kate said. “Nearly killed a couple times over. It isn’t easy when your mortality is constantly thrown in your face.”

  Pilate could hardly argue with her, and her flash of temper was the sign of someone who had been living with the pall of trauma, death, anxiety and the threat of violence over her life.

  “Too true, my dear,” Taters said, putting a hand over his heart without realizing it. “Too true.”

  “I’m sorry, Taters,” Kate said. “I know you’ve ducked a few bullets yourself.”

  “Not another word about it, sweetheart,” Taters said.

  Pilate pushed his plate away.

  “Not hungry?” Taters asked rhetorically.

  Pilate shook his head.

  Kate sipped her iced tea for a moment, absently eyeing the students coming and going. “Halloween dance next week,” she said.

  “OakFest this week,” Pilate said. “Which reminds me, I need to see a man about an axe.”

  “Just wait in the car,” Pilate said, his hands on the steering wheel, parked in front of the Brown Betty.

  “Jeez. Can you at least crack the window so I don’t get too hot?” Taters said. “C’mon, John. I won’t say a word. Just let me go in for backup.”

  “It’s not dangerous, Taters,” Pilate said, opening the car door.

  “Then why are you wearing your gun?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thurman sat at the bar instead of the usual perch in his office. Scanning a copy of The Cross Courier, he peered over his reading glasses into the mirror, catching Pilate and Taters as they made an entrance. Also unusual was the silent jukebox and the absence of the leathery Nelda. In fact, save the three men, the Brown Betty Roadhouse was empty.

  “Hello, Constable,” Thurman said, not moving his head or his hands. The newspaper remained up, his eyes glued to the page.

  “Mr. Thurman,” Pilate said, stopping at the door and surveying the rest of the room.

  “Nice badge,” Thurman said, his head still frozen as if held in an invisible vice. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Name’s Malley,” Taters said.

  “Well, Constable, Mr. Malley, what can I do for you?” His eyes danced over the headlines.

  “Got any Modelo?” Taters asked, earning an elbow from Pilate.

  “We don’t serve that Mexican swill,” Thurman said, smiling.

  Taters took umbrage but stayed quiet.

  “Got time for a little chat?” Pilate asked, folding his arms, which had the effect of pushing his badge out over his forearm. It gleamed in the soft glow of the silent jukebox and beer-pushing neon lining the walls.

  The newspaper fell to the bar, and Thurman was on his feet, removing his reading glasses and walking behind the bar in a motion so fluid that Pilate nearly reached for his sidearm. “Coffee?” he offered, filling a red University of Nebraska Huskers mug for himself.

  “No thanks.”

  Taters also demurred.

  “Well, c’mon over, and let’s have this little chat of yours,” Thurman said, sipping from the Huskers mug.

  Pilate walked to the bar and eased himself onto the stool that had been vacated by Thurman. The Cross Courier was open to the story about Gary Rich’s assault on the school. Pilate closed the paper and pushed it aside.

  “Nice work, there, Constable,” Thurman said. “You just keep surprising us with your heroics. Maybe I oughtta ask for your autograph on that there paper.”

  Taters sat beside Pilate, facing the empty room rather than Thurman. “Don’t surprise me one bit,” he said. “John’s a decent guy who does the right thing.”

  “Don’t we all?” Thurman said, smiling into his mug.

  “No, not all of us, sir,” Taters sniffed. “If we all did, John wouldn’t have to be a hero, now would he?”

  “Okay, Mr. Thurman, look. I need to talk to you about Parker Nemec.”

  “How’s the ol’ boy doing?” Thurman placed the mug on the bar and leaned on its scarred wooden surface with both hands.

  “He’s alive,” Pila
te said. “The question is, why did somebody mistake him for a piece of firewood?”

  Thurman shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe because he’s about as interesting as a stick of mesquite.”

  “Mesquite?” Pilate said. “That reminds me. I seem to recall that your friend Otis, over at the Tin Roof, is known for being handy with chopping wood.”

  “Not my circus. Not my monkies,” Thurman corrected, pinching the end of his nose for a second, and then putting his hand back on the bar. “I play poker with him on occasion, but that’s about it.”

  “Hmm,” Pilate said. “Well, we can’t seem to find him.”

  “So look harder.”

  “I hear Cusack, the Irishman, is bidding on the Mostek store.”

  Thurman remained impassive, regarding Pilate without saying word.

  “And I hear you are too.”

  Thurman grunted, his face still blank.

  “Big talker, aren’t ya?” Taters said.

  “I suppose I am when there’s somebody worth talking to,” Thurman said. “Not some wannabe hero and his trailer-trash pal from Key West.”

  Taters rose to his feet. “Sir, with all due disrespect, fuck you.”

  Pilate put his hand on his short-tempered, bad-tickered friend’s arm. “Taters, go wait outside, pal.”

  Taters jerked away, keeping his eyes on Thurman’s. “No, asshole. If you wanna dance, I’m your huckleberry.”

  “Taters…” Pilate said, his voice deadly still.

  Taters backed off.

  “See ya,” Thurman said. “I’ll call you if I get any of that wetback juice in stock.”

  Taters stormed out, leaving the front door ajar.

  “See what you did, Thurman? You went and insulted a nice guy,” Pilate said. “That’s not like you, not very…gentlemanly at all.”

  Thurman breathed in and out deeply. He took another sip of coffee, looked around the bar, then stared at Pilate. His eyes betrayed a heaviness Pilate hadn’t observed previously. “John, I thought we had an understanding,” Thurman said, his voice quiet and measured.