Both men scanned their respective documents.
“If we get lawyers and go to court, whatever was in that sub would have to come out, or the case would fall apart,” Pilate said.
Ripley steepled his fingers together under his chin. “Maybe, but the government is pretty heavy handed about national security these days. You might be able to take this to court, but I guarantee they’ll bankrupt you before you get what you want out of it.”
“I could write a book about this and make millions,” Pilate said.
This time, Taters nudged Pilate under the table.
“If you’re prosecuted and found guilty, you won’t make one thin dime off of this,” Ripley said. “Ask a lawyer. Oh, and Mr. Malley, your boat will be auctioned off. An old Connie like yours should do pretty good.” He looked at his watch. “You have about two minutes left before the Fed gets here and this deal goes away.”
“You mean we’ll just get charged and go to court?” Pilate said.
“Or maybe you’ll just go a little further south than Key West for a nice long vacation in solitary,” Ripley said.
“Gitmo?” Taters said.
“Perhaps.”
“In that case, give me a damn pen.”
Ripley smirked and slid one across the table to him. Then, he turned his attention to Pilate. “What about you, Mr. Pilate? This is your get-out-of-jail-free card. You still get to write your little book about the incident in Kansas, and—“
“Close enough.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“So, what’s it going to be?”
Taters signed the document and slid it across the table to Ripley, then offered the pen to Pilate.
“John, don’t be an idiot,” Simon said.
“John?” Taters said.
“So it all never happened, right?”
Ripley nodded.
“Fine,” Pilate said, and then he applied his signature.
“Remember, as I said, this is ironclad. If you so much as think about breaking this agreement, the Feds will do their absolute best to ruin your life,” Ripley said, standing and scooping up the documents. “And let me assure you they’re very, very good at that. That said, gentlemen, you’re both free to go.”
“Thanks,” Taters said. “Now where’s my boat?”
“The Coast Guard will release it to you,” he said. “I have some paperwork for you to get it out of hock.”
“Thanks,” Pilate said, filing past Ripley out the door.
“Try to stay out of trouble, gentlemen,” he said, sliding the pen back into his shirt pocket.
In the hallway was a Coast Guard captain, as well as two men in dark suits that looked out of place in the sub-tropic climate of Key West. They drank coffee from white Styrofoam cups, looking up at Taters, Ripley, and Pilate. Ripley handed the files to one of the dark-suited men.
Pilate nodded at the men, who responded with blank stares.
“Jordan’s going to be back tomorrow,” Taters said as the pair walked past white patrol cars adorned with suns and palm trees, “or is it today?”
“What time is it?”
“I think it’s ’bout an hour before dawn hits,” Taters said.
“Breakfast?”
“Pepe’s Café?”
“Long walk from here,” Pilate said.
“I could use one,” Taters said.
“I could use a drink.”
“And a cigarette?”
“Nah,” Pilate said. “Mine got wet when I dived in after Kay. I’m takin’ that as a sign and giving ‘em up.”
“Good luck with that,” Taters said.
“It’s pretty easy to do when you’re broke. Like my grandpa said, the best way to quit smoking is to stop buying cigarettes.”
Breakfast was a somber affair of eggs, bacon, and silent mastication. Their eyes stared into space in exhaustion.
“Hear that?” Taters said. “Radio out of Havana. We just saved ourselves from getting a lot better reception, courtesy of the U.S. government.”
“Yep,” Pilate said. “I guess in the grand scheme of things, we’re damn lucky.”
“Well, my boat’s full of holes, and the fuel lines need repair,” Taters said.
“It’ll eat the last bit of my advance, but I’ve got it covered. It’s my fault anyway,” he said, draining his orange juice.
Taters shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no to you helping out,” he said, wiping his chin. “But let’s say we go halves.”
Pilate reached across the table, and the pair shook hands.
“One thing,” Taters said.
“Yeah?” Pilate said, stretching in his seat, his back and neck popping out a symphony of stiff-jointed cracks and creaks.
“Would you be willing to, uh…to help me explain all this to Jordan?”
“Kind of hard to do when we’re not allowed to talk about it.” Pilate smirked.
“Well, you’re the damned writer,” Taters said, “and clearly, I need a story that’s gonna save my ass from the wrath of that woman.”
Pilate practically fell out of the cab at Trevathan’s place. It looked much less threatening by comparison after recent events. He walked in and dropped his keys and dead cell phone on a side table; the phone had run out of power while it sat in a drawer in the police station.
“So, you’re alive,” Trevathan said, leaning out of the kitchen.
“Holy…you scared the shit out of me!” Pilate yelped.
“Had to return the favor,” Trevathan said. “What the hell happened here? Are those bullet holes in my sofa?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story, and I’m wiped out,” Pilate said, taking a seat at the dining room table.
“Tough shit,” Trevathan said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of Pilate. “My house, my rules. Now spill it.”
“Long story short, some bad guys here on the island broke in here that first time, looking for stuff to steal. You recall that, right?” Pilate said.
“Yep—when you barred up my windows,” Trevathan said.
“Well, apparently, in that first break-in, the goons were startled by somebody, and one of them dropped a gun—presumably a murder weapon—so they came back for it.”
“Where did they drop it?” Trevathan asked. “I mean, you never saw it, right?”
“Right. They dropped it near the sofa, and it got kicked under there,” Pilate said.
“And when they came back for it, they got the drop on Buster, who was here to check on you, and you showed up and then there was gunfire?”
“Right—they only hit your sofa, thank goodness,” Pilate said. “I had to take Buster to the hospital and give a statement to the police.”
Trevathan sat silent. He sipped his lukewarm coffee and looked at the gunshot sofa, his glass eye aimed slightly askew. “So you managed to nearly get my best friend killed, my house broken into, and you can’t tell me any more than that?”
“I told you everything,” he said.
“Bullshit, John.” Trevathan said. “That’s just too weird.”
Pilate threw up his hands. “If you don’t believe me, ask Buster.”
“I will,” Trevathan said. “But anyway, let’s table that for now. How close are you on the book?”
“I’m behind,” he said. “Way behind. But I was going to add some stuff about Jack, and—“
“Jesus, John! Let that shit lie where it fell,” Trevathan said.
“I have to put something in there about him,” Pilate said.
“Jack’s dead, and that’s it. You know what they say about sleeping dogs, don’t you?”
Pilate studied Trevathan’s lined face. “You think there’s a chance?”
“I do.”
“Then why don’t we look into it?”
“Because Kate and Kara will be here in two days,” he said. “You need to work on what is a real danger, not a supposition.”
“What do you mean, ‘real danger’?”
“I mean
that Kate is the most precious thing in your world, and you’re going to lose her if you don’t stop chasing ghosts,” he said. “Live in the world as it is, John. Make a life with Kate. For God’s sake, don’t screw that up—your one good thing.”
“It may be too late,” he said.
Trevathan bit his lip, took off his glasses, and set them on the table. “All Kate knows is that she’s worried about you, and that’s all she needs to know. If you did something you’re ashamed of, so be it, but don’t make her pay for it by telling her.”
Pilate nodded slowly, indicating he understood.
“John, I did some things back in the war I’m not proud of,” Trevathan said softly. “I broke a promise or two to my wife back then, but she never knew—or if she did know using that womanly intuition of hers, she understood my reasons. We never spoke about it.”
“But that was war,” Pilate said. “I can’t use combat as an excuse.”
“John, trust me when I say you’ve been fighting plenty of battles this past year—back in Cross and apparently here in Key West,” he said, putting his glasses back on. “It’s over now. Forget what you did, forget Jack Lindstrom, and focus on Kate. Rebuild your life, man.”
“But what if Jack’s—“
“Alive? If he’s alive—which I don’t think he is—I find it hard to believe he would come anywhere near anyone who knew him. That would be a stupid risk. Jack was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. John, even I thought his death was strange and perhaps a trick—but come on! The man was at the end of his rope. He’s gone.”
Pilate smiled. “You’re right. It was just my imagination.”
“John, call your agent and tell her you’ll deliver the book in another three weeks. I will try to help. Then you need to help me get the place ready for Kate and Kara. I also need help getting the boat ready. She’s not big, but she’s fun. You like boats?”
“They’re okay,” Pilate said.
“So, how do you explain the phone calls?” Pilate asked, looking at Dr. Sandburg as he scribbled notes on the pad on his lap desk.
“Are you sure there even were phone calls, John?” he said, not looking up. “Any chance those calls were merely manifestations of Simon that you mistook for this Lindstrom fellow?”
“Well, I suppose that could be,” Pilate said.
“The man’s a quack,” Simon said.
“John, you’re a person who I’d call hyper-imaginative. I think you had some issues in your childhood that led to your development of this imaginary friend, and when stress overwhelms you, your imagination goes into overdrive. It gives you a refuge. This idea that your former boss is actually alive and calling you is just a byproduct of that.”
“Well, he did sound a little like Simon,” Pilate said, rubbing his bearded cheek.
“And you could never get an answer when you tried calling those numbers back?”
“Right, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, maybe you should run those numbers, get your cop friend to—“
“Wish I could, but the phone memory was, uh…wiped recently,” Pilate said.
Sandburg smiled indulgently. “Ah, I see.” He scribbled more notes.
“Am I crazy?”
“No,” he said, “but you’re mentally exhausted.”
Pilate nodded in agreement.
“I’m giving you a scrip for a low dose of Klonopin. It will help you sleep—take the edge off any anxiety.”
“I really hate taking pills,” Pilate said.
“Take them as needed, John. It’s just a little help.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“And, John, if you get another call from someone you don’t know, just tell them they have the wrong number. For all you know, that could actually be the case.”
Kay let John in her apartment. She wore only a loose Key West Police Department Athletic Team t-shirt and panties. Her hair was tied back, and her cheek and eye were bruised in a mix of green and purple.
“How you doing?” he said, placing a box of donuts on the table.
She sat in the breakfast nook, one knee under her, the other under her chin. She snagged a donut from the box and bit it in half. “Donuts for the lady cop, John? Really? Could you be more cliché?”
“Sorry.”
“Just kidding,” she said, her mouth full. “I’m doing better actually.”
“Good.” He opened the refrigerator, found the skim, and poured her a glass. “Look, Kay, I am so—“
“John, let it go.”
“So they told you the deal?”
She nodded, wiping the sugar glaze from her mouth with the back of her hand. She sipped the milk, eyeing him. “We can’t ever talk about it,” she said.
“Talk about what?” he said.
They looked at one another a moment, and Pilate felt an undeniable stirring of sexual intensity.
“So, when’s she getting here?” Kay asked.
“Tomorrow,” Pilate said. “I plan on making things right.”
“John, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, “unless you count being human. Happens to the best of us.”
“How the hell is it that I’m the only one who thinks that? How’d you get so wise at such a young age?”
“Sleeping with older men,” she said. “And that’s a joke, by the way.”
“Well, I better go,” he said, standing. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She nodded. “Yup,” she said. “My face will heal, my job is safe, and I’m going to get one more good lay out of you before you move on with your life.”
“Kay, I can’t—“
She stood up and shoved the rest of her donut in his mouth. “Shh. You owe me,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt and leading him into the bedroom.
Pilate ran his hands over Kay’s breasts, nuzzling her neck as she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and slid her hand in his pants.
“Kay…wait,” he said, stepping back. “I can’t.”
Kay looked at him; his obvious interest in her below the belt now looked ludicrous. “Can you walk out of here with that thing like that?” she said.
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll look like Groucho Marx,” Simon said.
“You’re a bad, bad man, John.”
“Shut up, Simon,” Pilate said, walking back to Trevathan’s house.
“Well, actually, you did better than I expected.”
“Thanks.”
“Everything okay?” Trevathan said, rolling up the cord of the vacuum cleaner.
“Yeah, just peachy,” Pilate said.
“Well, let’s eat and then get the boat out of mothballs, okay?” Trevathan said.
“Yup,” Pilate said.
“Their flight gets in at two tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Have you called her?” Trevathan said, putting the vacuum in the closet.
“No,” Pilate said. “I figured I’d just save it until I see her.”
“John, call her,” he said, coughing. “You need to check in.”
“That cold again? You okay?”
Trevathan shook his head. “Nah. Just dust from the vacuuming. Go call Kate.”
Pilate went upstairs and opened the doors of the balcony. Boats and jet skis milled about the harbor as he dialed Kate’s home number.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, hon’,” he said.
“John? You okay?”
“Yep,” he said. “Fine. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too,” she said. “Kara’s so excited. She’s never been to the beach, you know.”
“Well, we’re going to have an incredible time,” Pilate said.
“It will be a nice week,” Kate said.
“Just a week?”
“Well, that’s what we planned,” she said.
“Plans are made to be changed.”
“Heard anything?” she said.
“No,” he said, “but I’ll check.”
“I figured somebody ought to tell you, honey,” Pilate’s mother said through the phone, her voice pitched with the excitement of breaking news.
“Well, I’m very happy for her and Dave,” he said. “When’s she due?”
“Anytime now. Johnny, are you okay?”
“Yeah, Ma, I am,” he said. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s fine—just ready for the cold weather to end,” she said. “Of course, ‘round here, that just means tornado season.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After landing the afternoon before, they had joyfully reunited. Kara and Trevathan were excited to get in his boat and see Key West from the water.
As they tooled around the harbor on Trevathan’s small pontoon boat, Kara squealed with delight at the sight of fish. Trevathan laughed, gently guiding them past Wisteria Island, Sunset Key, and the massive cruise liners docked at Key West. Pilate saw in Kate’s eyes the wariness she’d had when they first met in Cross Township several months earlier.
The evening came quickly, and all decided a quick meal topped off with key lime pie would do the trick. Tomorrow would be the big day for hitting the town, seeing the sights, and perhaps a few hours on the beach.
Kara was put to bed in the tiny guest room reserved for she and Kate. Trevathan begged off an after-dinner drink, saying goodnight, and heading upstairs to bed. Pilate was set to explore sleeping on a sofa full of bullet holes.
“How are you?” he asked, handing Kate a glass of wine and sitting beside her on the sofa.
“Tired,” she said as she gently placed her wine glass on the coffee table. “But I’m okay.”
“Well, you look beautiful,” he said, sipping his wine.
“You look exhausted, John,” she said. “I need you to tell me what you couldn’t say on the phone.”
“What do you want to know? I already told you about Samantha.”
“Not about that,” she said. “I want to know what all the shenanigans have been about, all this stuff with the police.”
“The police?” Pilate dried his damp palm on his shorts. “Would you believe me if I said I can’t tell you what happened or I’ll be shipped out to Guantanamo Bay?”
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