Pilate's Blood
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“What if they turn on the floodlights on their trucks?” Riley asked.
Ryder shrugged again. “Then we die in the limelight, just like I’ve always wanted.”
Taters clapped Pilate on the shoulder. “It just might work.”
“Can you run?”
“Shit fire, man, it’s not a matter of can. It’s a matter of have to.”
“I’d say they’re gearing up,” Ryder said, peering out the window. “We’d better hit it. Everybody locked and loaded, as they say in the movies?”
“I think I just loaded my pants,” Riley said.
“Me too,” Nemec said.
“C’mon, Parker. Getting shot can’t possibly hurt as bad as an axe in your back.”
“That is a theory I don’t want to test,” Nemec said.
“John, it’s been lovely,” Simon said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Pilate’s thoughts flashed to the faces of Kate, Kara, and Peter. I wish I could hold my little boy and kiss my girls one more time.
Ryder looked at his ostrich boots. “Ya know, I love these, but they’re a royal bitch to run in.”
“These too,” Pilate said, looking at his own footwear.
“Everybody got your track shoes on?” Ryder said, launching a speck of spittle beside him. “Sorry, Parker. You got your high heels on and pantyhose hitched up?”
“Ha-ha,” he said, his voice trembling, causing each syllable to stretch into two.
Pilate released one of his long, drawn-out sighs, trying to relieve his nerves.
“Anybody wanna say a prayer?” Riley said.
“Yeah, but I’m outta spit,” Taters said. “I need a—”
“Modelo? Yeah, we know, borrachón,” Pilate said.
“John, one thing…”
Pilate nodded.
“Shane lived.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Say it. Say it now,” Taters said, without a hint of humor.
“What’s he yapping about?” Nemec said.
Ryder smiled. “I think I get it.”
“You win, Taters. Shane lived. Of course he did.”
“Liar,” Simon said.
“Yeah, I feel better already,” Taters said, cocking his weapon. “Hey, maybe we’ll get a pretty lady to throw a flower pot through the window for us as a distraction.”
“Nebraska, go for the prayer.”
Riley bowed his head. “Lord, let us live.” He looked up.
“That’s it?” Ryder said. “No thees and thous or daily bread or valley of the shadow of death or anything?”
“That’s all I got.”
“I like it. I’m sure even God can appreciate a little Hemingway now and then,” Pilate said. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up, which was odd because he couldn’t even remember the last thing he’d eaten.
“Okay. Well, here we go.” Ryder looked outside. “You guys unlock the door and get ready. When I give the go-ahead, open the door and get the hell outta my way. You don’t wanna get on Mabel’s bad side. She’s not too picky when she gets to naggin’.”
“I’ll go next and lay down some cover fire for Nebraska, then Taters and finally Parker,” Pilate said. “Parker, as soon as you’re out the door, hustle over to the bank door and unlock it.”
“Wait,” Nemec said. “I only have one good hand. Maybe I should help lay down fire and let the kid run over and unlock the door.”
“Good safety tip, Egon. Let’s do that,” Pilate said.
Nemec handed Riley the key.
“What about the door code?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” Nemec said.
“Now!” Ryder bellowed.
Pilate practically ripped the wounded door off its hinges, making a hole for Ryder, who was through in half a second. He dropped to one knee behind a large clay planter and started to fire Mabel and Walter the Walther at the line of men across the street.
Standing to Ryder’s left, Pilate fired his Smith & Wesson. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Taters and Riley pass him, making a panicked beeline for the bank. Nemec ran behind them for a few steps, then stopped and raised his pistol to fire.
“Damn it, Parker, don’t play hero! Just run!” Pilate screamed as he fired into the stunned group.
A shot fired from behind the truck and whizzed past Pilate’s ear. The pop of several rifles warned him that the surprise element was now mercilessly over.
“Oomph,” Nemec said, clutching his belly and falling down.
“Goddamn it,” Ryder said, emptying Mabel and Walter. He dropped the smaller gun and reached for a speed-loader to feed Mabel.
Pilate crouched and tapped Ryder on the shoulder. “C’mon, Commish. Help me get him up!”
“Just go, John,” Ryder said, snapping the cylinder back and aiming.
A series of pops caught Ryder, dropping him flat on his back.
“Shit,” Pilate said, looking from Ryder to Nemec to Taters and Riley.
“John, come on!” Taters called from the door. “We’re in!”
“Man down! I can’t leave them,” Pilate said. He emptied his weapon into the group across the street and started to sling Ryder over his shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Ryder said. “Just a couple stingers. Help me up, and let’s go.”
More pops went off, and Pilate dropped to the ground, hiding behind the swiftly disintegrating planter. He covered his head with his hands.
“We’re done,” Ryder said.
“By God, you’re not gonna do this to me!” Taters yelled, firing his shotgun and moving toward the three men.
“No, Taters! Just go!” Pilate tried to yell above the blasts.
“What the…?” Ryder said, poking Pilate’s arm and pointing across the street. “They’re firing behind them!”
Pilate poked his head up and saw the muzzle flash of rifles firing toward Mostek’s storefront. “Oh my God. There’s somebody shooting at them from Mostek’s!”
Three more rifle shots rang out, only to be answered by four shotgun blasts from the store. Then, as if someone had pulled the plug on the whole tumultuous outbreak, silence claimed the street.
Ryder pulled himself up with one arm, the other pushing on a wound in his upper right chest. Pilate steadied him and helped him to his feet.
“Parker, can you walk?” Taters asked behind them.
“Think so,” Nemec said. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” Pilate said.
The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, revealing several motionless bodies scattered around the trucks.
“Hello, in the jail!” a voice with a familiar lilt called.
“Cusack?” Pilate said.
“I thought maybe you could use a wee bit of help,” Cusack said, stepping out of Mostek’s store.
“You mean we,” another Irish voice said from behind Cusack. The man lit a cigarette, briefly illuminating his smile.
“Fair enough. Gents, meet Jackie the Crow.”
“I fookin’ love a good gunfight,” Jackie said. “Anybody care for a fag?” he said, holding up his pack.
“And they say God protects fools and Irishmen,” Ryder said. “Maybe they need to change that.”
“I agree,” said Kate, stepping out from behind the men, holding a smoking shotgun.
“Kate?” Pilate said.
“Don’t look at me that way. I wasn’t about to sit idly by and let those bastards slaughter you. It’s my job to keep you safe.”
“That’s a helluva pot through the window,” Taters laughed.
Pilate exhaled, as if for the first time in days, ran to his wife, and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Honey, I think it’s time you get some cowgirl boots.”
“I think you’re right,” she said.
“Where are the kids?”
“Our babies are safe and sound, John, with Marcy at the Cross and Cork.”
“I didn’t know you ran a nursery, too, Cusack…but thank you,” Pilate said.
Jackie puffed on his cigarette and looked up at the moon, then whistled a few bars of “Raglan Road”.
“Well then, the only family casualty was the Saab,” Taters said, pointing to the car parked in front of the bank. It was riddled with holes from shotgun and rifle ammunition, all four tires flat.
“Crap,” Pilate said. “I hardly knew her.”
“I always miss all the fun,” Trooper Hulsey complained, hands on his hips.
“Sounds like you had some fun of your own at the edge of town,” Pilate offered.
“Meh, those cowards dropped their weapons as soon as we rolled up. And before you ask, they’re out-of-towners, smalltime thugs from up Minnesota way.”
“Shocker.” Pilate waved as Burl Crites loaded Nemec and Ryder into the ambulance.
Nemec called to Pilate, “Just for the record, this hurts worse than the axe.”
“Burl, how they doing?”
“Parker needs surgery, but I’d say he’ll be okay,” he said, moving quickly to get in the driver’s seat. “Ryder’s got a bullet in his upper right chest. We’ll have to dig it out.”
“I’m fine,” Ryder called. “Just take care of the crime scene, Constable.”
“Will do, Commissioner.”
Pilate looked at Taters. “You should get to the hospital, too, don’t you think?”
“Nah. I got my magic pills, and I’ll be right as rain.”
“Bullshit…but you do look okay,” Pilate said. “I can’t believe we made it outta there alive.”
“I dunno. It’s not like they were pirates or anything.”
“True.”
“Mr. Pilate, I’ll see you at the hospital in a few.”
“You hurt, Nebraska?” Taters asked.
“No,” Pilate said, nodding at Riley. “He just needs to get to the hospital, right after he makes a stop at home.” Pilate shook Riley’s hand. “You did great back there, kid.”
“Thanks John. Just keeping it level.”
Taters watched the troopers as they placed the dead bodies in bags. “We need to go arrest that sum-bitch Thurman.”
“We do,” Pilate said, “but not now.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“We got dead bodies here. Tom’s dead, his guts sprayed all over the side of his truck. Otis is a pile of barbecue, and that’s his pal Bart Robeson over there, or at least a good portion of ‘im. Not one of these bodies tells us anything that proves Thurman was behind this.”
“Well, what about the fellas they caught on the edge of town?”
“They’ll be questioned, but Thurman’s placed many layers between himself and them. Same, I’m sure, for the guys who attacked the airport and the ones who took hostages at the liquor store.”
“How the hell do we catch the bastard then?” Taters said.
“We have to start outthinking the guy. He’s weak now, and we have to use that advantage to trip him up.”
“That’s all we got? A little temporary leverage while he licks his wounds? That sucks,” Taters said.
“Best we can do right now. We have to do it by the book.”
“What about Cusack and that Hawk fella?”
“Crow,” Pilate corrected with a smile. “I’m sure as shit not pressing charges on him,” Pilate said. “If I do, I have to arrest Kate too.”
“Yeah, I can see how putting your little lady in handcuffs would be a problem…or maybe not,” Taters said with a naughty grin.
“Stop.”
“Okay. Well, what now?”
“Now, we go get my wife and kids and book a trip back to Key West,” Pilate said. “I have another book to write, and you need to get that ticker fixed and get that boat wet.”
“True, but what about that?” Taters asked, tapping Pilate’s badge with his finger.
“I’ll give it back,” Pilate said. “I’m a writer, not a sheriff.”
“Constable.”
“Close enough.”
Mrs. Drum walked through the police line, wearing a housecoat, slippers, and curlers in her gray hair, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around her. “Sheriff!”
“Mrs. Drum,” Pilate said, “you really shouldn’t be here. This is no place for a—”
“Are you ever gonna catch the boy who keeps pooping on my lawn?”
Pilate looked at Taters. “See? If I can’t crack the Case of the Creeping Crapper, what business do I have in law enforcement anyway?”
The moon retreated behind the clouds, obscuring a man wearing a pair of fuzzy slippers, cartoonish spectacles, and a bathrobe. He squatted on Mrs. Drum’s lawn and let out a grunt. “How sweet it is,” he said.
Once he was finished, he wiped himself, and put the tissue in a plastic bag. He walked back to his home, went inside, and locked the door behind him.
“My precious,” Harley Cordwainer said, rubbing his hands together and giggling as he hovered over a card table in the corner of his living room, a wobbling thing, straining under the weight of hundreds of gold coins.
THE END
John Pilate returns in
PILATE’S 7
Pilate’s 7 available exclusively on Amazon.com:
www.amazon.com/dp/B011RWOQ8G/
Get the entire series here:
www.amazon.com/J.-Alexander-Greenwood/e/B004LSNT4G
AFTERWORD
Writing is a solitary effort, but publishing is not.
I had not planned on writing another John Pilate book, but I kept hearing voices in the oddest places…
Minding my own business on social media, I’d see that Pilate convinced a Twitter buddy like @Zoofster to ask when the next book was coming. I’d be at my kid’s school and a teacher would say she “sure could use another Pilate story” (had to be Kate pulling those strings). My colleagues at work—no doubt put up to it by that snarky Simon—would imply I’d given up on Pilate and Co. too soon. Heck, even my old school chums were clamoring for another adventure with our neurotic hero John and his pal Taters.
I realized I missed Pilate, his friends…and enemies, too.
So, here he is…fulfilling the prophecy about blood…all because of you, my friends, family, fellow authors and perhaps sweetest of all, anonymous readers of mystery thrillers who dare to read stuff that isn’t on the bestseller lists, thank you.
Special thanks to these folks—you all helped me so much—in ways you’ll probably never understand (in no particular order): Michael Zuffa (the aforementioned @Zoofster), Pam Sankey, Jason Gertzen, Noah Smith (great tagline!), Kathleen Weatherby, Harvey Hurtt, Alee Reed (Nelda’s biggest fan), Eddie Mann, Colin Hay, Grace and Paul Medina, Neil Finn, Brian and Tammy Hutton, real-life Frontdoor Backyard Bar sages Dave McBrayer and Tony Holland, Erica Tucker, Ryan and Kristin Long, Jeff and Wanda Hamilton, Aimee’ Walker, the REAL LIVE John Pilate (finish your book, John!), Bruce Rodgers, Jason McIntyre, Deb Trivitt, John Edmondson, Catherine Goodson, James Sudik, and my Dad, Alexander F. Greenwood (I can’t believe you finally read the books). Mom, too!
Sharon and Mick Donoff, thanks for letting me hang out and write a few chapters at your beautiful beach house.
My apologies if I left anyone out—it wasn’t intentional.
Autumn Conley, your editing is inspired. Welcome back to the John Pilate Mystery Series. (Hire Autumn if you need a superb editor: autiej@gmail.com)
Author and online guru Michelle Stinson Ross worked her butt off promoting this book. She is so creative and smart about the whole Internet thing. Thank you, my friend.
Eden Baylee deserves some form of sainthood for her encouragement and friendship, but all I can confer upon her is the title of Most Generous and Encouraging Author in North America, if not the world. Please read her books—especially her new mystery series—she’s at edenbaylee.com
Eden and my pal Mike Hulsey saved this book. I very nearly quit in the middle. It would not be here without their help. True story.<
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Thanks to the late Robert E. Trevathan, John Wayne, Howard Hawks and Leigh Brackett—I borrowed a little inspiration from you all for this one. You are missed.
Jason McIntyre’s vision to reinvigorate the entire John Pilate Mystery Series with his magnificent covers and interiors is such a blessing. Thanks JMac!
Most of all, thanks Stephanie and Caroline. I took so many moments away from you to write. Your patience and support mean the world to me.
John Pilate will return soon—as short stories, audio books, novellas and full-scale novels.
Until then, I hope you will continue to be active on our Facebook page. It keeps me keeping on when you pop over and say hello. Finally, your reviews on Amazon or wherever you bought this book are crucial. Please take a moment for a candid review. It helps keep the roads of Cross Township cleared of snow.
Peace.
— J. Alexander Greenwood
Pilate’s Blood written in Kansas City, Mo. and Laguna Beach, Ca. 2013/2014
Revised edition: 2019
www.PilatesCross.com
Listen to the Mysterious Goings On Podcast with
J. Alexander Greenwood on Apple Podcasts