PILATE’S
SHADOW
A New John Pilate Mystery
J. ALEXANDER GREENWOOD
Copyright © 2019 Caroline Street Press
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. Published by Caroline Street Press. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover designed by Jason McIntyre
TheFarthestReaches.com
Books by J. Alexander Greenwood
Pilate's Cross
Pilate's Cross: The Audiobook
Pilate's Key
Pilate's Ghost
Pilate's Blood
Pilate's 7
Pilate's Rose
Big Cabin & Dispatches from the West
(with Robert E. Trevathan)
Novellas
Pilate’s Shadow
Non-Fiction
Kickstarter Success Secrets
Kickstarter Success Secrets: The Audiobook
Visit www.PilatesCross.com
for the latest updates, merchandise and the Clues Blog.
Listen to the author on his weekly podcast,
Mysterious Goings On.
www.MGOPod.com
TODAY
“I made you something.”
John Pilate’s eyes fluttered.
“Guess what? I’m going to open the little door to give it to you. If you be nice-nice, you get more nice things.”
“Nice-nice? Who are you?” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. “Why are you doing this?”
“We’ve been through that, sir,” he said with a petulant sigh. “Now, do you want this or not?”
He didn’t care what it was, knowing that an open access panel door meant some cool air would get in. That was worth more than gold.
“Okay, okay,” Pilate said, rolling on his side and sitting up, the relative coolness of the atmosphere of the floor obliterated by the heat hovering just two feet vertically. He flagged as nausea briefly overwhelmed him, and his gorge began to rise until he willed it back down, swallowing intensely and painfully in his parched throat.
“Okay, sir, now you be nice-nice here and I will open the panel. Okay?”
Pilate tried to place the accent. It wasn’t foreign, exactly, but there was something odd about the speech pattern. In their previous encounters, Pilate had noted the man’s voice was oddly flat most of the time, but when he was excited it became an off-kilter approximation of the giddiness of a child. It was a staccato, honking vocal gyration, the aftertones of which unfailingly lasted about two seconds after each excited sentence.
“Okay, sir? Nice-Nice?”
Pilate gasped, realizing he had not answered verbally, instead he had sputtered ,“Okay, mother—” in his mind, cut off by his captor.
“Okay, okay,” Pilate said. “Nice-Nice.”
“So stand back, okay sir?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pilate said, a lone bead of sweat trickling down his forehead into his eyes, as if he were at the gym. He felt itchy and dazed; the liter plastic bottle of lukewarm water he had been given last night was now nearly drained. It was hot in here, not quite like an oven right before you stick the frozen pizza in, but damn close.
The panel door slid back, a sliver of light cut through the soupy black cloud, accompanied by a gust of air – cool in comparison to the dead heat of his cage, but not refrigerator cold. With the panel open, he could just hear the faintest roar in the distance – the sound of a highway not too far away – but he could not spare attention to that right now, not with fresh air playing on his face.
“Jesus,” Pilate whispered. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“Oh, so now you’re into Jesus?” Pilate’s old friend Simon teased from inside his head.
“Shut up, Simon,” Pilate rasped, subvocally. Wouldn’t want Mr. Nice-Nice to think I’m crazy. “That goes for you, too, Jesus.” Taking advantage of the momentary light from the doorway, he turned to peer into the dim shadows of the room. A worn and rickety wheelchair rested on its side in the corner, where Pilate had previously kicked it, the bucket to piss in set unused in the opposite corner. “Not much liquid left in me,” he thought. The urge to move his bowels or vomit had mostly subsided, though the cramps in his gut—a fun feature of heat sickness—was ever-present, a perpetual, hateful kick in the balls.
The panel door was four feet off the ground, a rough rectangle about a foot tall and eight inches wide. A three-inch deep ledge was set inside; Pilate made out the lumpy welds around the ledge he had previously sensed by touch.
“Hey,” Pilate said. “Hot in here.”
“Now sir, you’re trying to lose some weight,” the voice said, then the honking laugh.
“Ha, ha,” Pilate said. “Seriously, I’ve had heat stroke before, and it’s not good, okay? This could kill me—”
“Do you want what I made for you, sir?”
“If it’s an air conditioner,” Simon said. “Or a goddamned Glock. Or maybe a bazooka, even.”
“Sure. But wait, what’s your name, pal?” Pilate said, switching gears.
“I am trying to give you something, sir,” the voice was dull and flat again, signifying...impatience?
“Okay,” Pilate said, rising to his feet and moving closer to the panel and the blessing of a breeze.
“That’s close enough, sir. Stop there, okay? Nice-nice!” Pilate winced at the pestilential honking.
“Okay,” Pilate said, luxuriating in the relatively cool breeze from outside the metal box – he was pretty sure it was a shipping container—he had called home for…how many hours, now?
“Now you wait there,” the honking laugh again. “You’re gonna love this, sir.”
Pilate was intrigued, but more than anything, he wanted to keep this guy talking and that cool breeze blowing.
“Why are you keeping me here?” he said, trying to sound curious rather than outraged.
“Please, sir, it is now the effervescent moment. I made it for you.”
“What?”
“Shhh.” A black nitrile-gloved hand, at the business end of a long-sleeved white shirt, darted into the panel, a single index finger making the “one moment” gesture, then darting back out like the tongue of some alien lizard.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Simon said…his voice strangely outside Pilate’s head now…almost as if he were perched in a shadowy corner of the container, observing.
Pilate ran a hand through his sweaty hair and breathed the welcome fresh air in deeply. Besides being cool, it didn’t smell as dank and metallic as this room he now called home. An oddly familiar chokka chokka sound filtered inside the room along with the cool air, chased by silence.
“Oh, come on. It can’t be,” Simon said.
“Ta-da!” The hand reappeared, holding a glass containing a clear liquid cold enough to make it glisten with sweat. Pilate chuckled at the thought of a glass sweating as much as he was.
With a flourish, the gloved hand placed the glass on the ledge and withdrew.
“Somewhere between a martini glass and a coupe, the Nick and No
ra glass, named after the cinematic husband-and-wife detective team,” the man said, apparently reading. “It brings back the suave sophistication of 1930s high life.” He broke out into more honking.
“Oh my god,” Pilate said. It was indeed a martini glass. It was also his favorite style, the Nick and Nora model, featured in the Thin Man series with William Powell and the sexiest woman who ever lived, Myrna Loy.
“Please, drink, sir!” with the honking punctuated by nitrile-skinned hand claps.
“What is it?”
“Martini, sir. Of course!” Honk, honk, honk. “I made you a special treat.”
“Umm, thanks. But the last drink I had from you made me sick and got me stuck in this box. Pass,” he coughed. “What I could really use is a gallon or so of ice water.”
“You please drink this special thing I made,” he cleared his throat. “Drink it or you will not like the consequences, sir.”
“It rubs the lotion on its skin,” Simon intoned, ever the sardonically spectral spectator.
“I already don’t like the damn consequences,” Pilate said. “My name is John. Not sir. Now, I have been patient with you, but hear this, Mister Nice-Nice. Listening? People will be looking for me. Important people who are often tempted to violence. Get me? So you have a choice. You can let me out now and I will forget about this—”
“Like hell,” Simon said.
“Or you leave me in here and my friends with the Key West PD find you and kick your ass from here to the Dry Tortugas.”
“You drink my special thing or I will close this door and leave you here in the hot all day tomorrow.” His voice was detached, flat and soft.
“What do you want from me?” Pilate screamed, his voice echoing painfully off the room’s scorching metal walls, his face filling the open panel. He looked through the opening but saw only a bright set of work lights in what looked to be a hallway.
Hmm. Not outside.
“Special drink,” two hand claps, one after each word, punctuating the way annoying people do when texting. “Getting warm.”
“Fine,” Pilate said, snatching the Nick and Nora from the ledge, swallowing half of the drink without hesitation. It was vodka, perhaps some gin and a hint of Lillet Blanc and lemon.
“It’s actually a passable Vesper martini,” Simon said.
“You like?”
Pilate put the glass back on the ledge. “It’s fine.”
“Your favorite, right?”
“Yes,” Pilate said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Finish it?”
Pilate picked up the glass. “Maybe later. I’ll hang on to it.”
“You should finish it before it gets warm,” the man said.
“What do you want with me?” Pilate said, his naked irritability waning with the cool air and the drink.
“Want?”
“Yes,” he said. “Why did you abduct me?”
“We are friends now, right?”
“Who?” Pilate asked.
“You and me. We are friends now.”
“If you say so, chief,” Pilate said. “Is this what you do with your friends? Lock them in a hot box?”
“I just want something only a friend can provide,” he said.
“Oh shit, does he want you to write a book for him?” Simon said.
“Well, tell me what it is, and maybe I can help and we can be better friends,” Pilate said.
“I’m…I’m shy.”
“Don’t be shy, my friend,” Pilate said, trying to smooth out the ragged syllables, his face hovering close to the panel again. “Just tell me what you need.”
The panel slid shut, cutting off the sounds of the distant roadway, the harsh slamming sound painfully reverberating in Pilate’s ears in the sudden silence.
“Maybe later.”
Pilate screamed, seizing the glass and shattering it against the wall.
A Long Time Ago
“I made you something,” the little boy said, presenting a piece of cardboard with both hands, his towhead mop falling into wide, dark eyes.
The woman didn’t look away from the television. “Shhh, I’m watching this.”
“Oh, well, I just made it to say sorry for—”
“Shut up. I’m trying to watch this,” she jerked her head towards him, then back to the TV. “Well, never mind, it went to commercial and I missed it. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, his hands trembling.
“What is that?” She looked at his hands.
He brightened. “It’s a card I made to say I was sorry for breaking the knob on the radio.”
Her eyes darted at the cardboard. “You’re getting glitter everywhere. And that’s not going to get you out of being grounded. Now go to your room.”
“Okay,” he gingerly placed the card beside her on the sofa.
She reached for a pack of cigarettes, knocking the card with glued and loose glitter and crayons spelling “Sorry” on the floor.
“God dammit, get back in here and clean up this stupid mess.”
Last Week
The fist crossed his jaw, forcing his head back a few inches, jolting him into a strangely calm, split-second silence. His first impulse was to turn away, but that would expose a defenseless flank. Instead, he blocked his face with his fists to ward off another blow, leaving his ribs open for the stabbing left hook that stole his breath.
“Oof,” Pilate gasped, staggering back on his left foot.
“Come on, ya bum. Get in there,” Simon said, ringing a bell in his head.
Pilate reset his stance and fired off a jab with his left. It was a mile off, but he had to do something to try and slow down the incoming onslaught of punches.
Another fusillade of hooks pounded Pilate’s ribs, driving him into the ropes, where he hung like a half-deflated mylar balloon entangled on a fence.
“Is this all you got?” Simon growled.
Pilate inhaled, inflating his lungs and pulling away from the ropes. He hopped on the balls of his feet, keeping his distance, breathing as deeply as he could through his mouthpiece and nostrils. He was having a tough time getting his lungs to fully inflate.
His opponent closed the distance in three steps, firing off a jab that glanced off Pilate’s headgear. Pilate took the opportunity and landed a right hook, forcing his opponent to retreat. He followed up with a simple jab cross combo to the head.
“Get after it!” Simon bellowed.
Seizing the momentum, Pilate strode forward, firing off a sloppy left jab, right hook combo that landed, but with little force.
“Don’t get cute, Rock!” Simon said. Pilate imagined Simon wearing a beanie and an old school hearing aid, cursing from ringside.
Pilate’s opponent pivoted, ducking an un-thrown cross and punching him in the solar plexus. Pilate groaned, dropped to one knee and covered his face with both gloved fists until the bell rang. Pilate hauled himself to his feet. The rip of Velcro signaled his opponent was removing gloves with the help of a trainer.
“Good hits, guys,” Felix the trainer said, tipping his hat to a lanky, greasy-haired guy behind him. “Erik, one: don’t stand so close to me. Two: get them towels.” Erik nodded like a squirrel with a nut and scooted away.
Pilate nodded, breathing heavily in the swampy gym atmosphere. The gym’s website bragged about this being an old school boxing gym with no air conditioning. Pilate had thought that was somehow a plus at the time. Now he needed an inhaler to get through most bouts, his exercise-induced asthma more acute these days.
Felix pulled Pilate’s gloves off. Hands free, Pilate removed his headgear.
“Nice work, John,” Val said, removing hers. “I thought you had me there for a second.”
“Right,” Pilate said, his wrapped fist bumping hers, sliding through the ropes and stepping down from the ring. “I was lucky to get out of there on my feet.”
Val climbed down, adjusting a black sports bra underneath her red tank top. “Technically, one foot, o
ne knee. But you held your own.”
Pilate made a face, his eyes heavenward.
“Let’s get our miles in now and then you can go.”
Pilate nodded grimly.
“Oh, stop pouting,” Val said, swigging an orange concoction from her sports bottle. “You’re the one who wants to lose fifteen pounds.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pilate said, gulping from his bottle, then taking a pull off his inhaler. The lanky, greasy-haired man offered him a towel. Pilate shook his head dismissively. “No thanks.” The man nodded and loped after Felix, who whistled at him.
Val shoved their boxing gear in a locker and tapped a few times on the screen of her sports watch. “You okay?”
Pilate nodded. “Yeah, my lungs are a little challenged these days. Mostly allergies, and exercise makes it worse. The inhaler helps.”
She nodded. “Good. Ready? I’ll take it easy on you. Here to Knight Pier and back. No stopping, no walking. Go.” Val’s athletic frame bounded out the door, her ponytail bouncing with each step.
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to go this whole ‘Spencer for Hire’ route. So get a move on, John. Simon says.”
Pilate sighed and hit the street.
After the run and a quick bicycle ride home, he straightened the “For Sale” sign hanging from the old Trevathan place’s porch. Pilate hated to let it go, as Trevathan had left it to the Pilate family; but it had not worked out the way the old man thought it would. The little cottage wasn’t a haven for his family to escape to; it was instead the epicenter of mayhem, misadventure and marital distrust. If he truly wanted to get his family back, the entire island of Key West was a distraction he could no longer afford.
Pilate stepped gingerly from the small galley kitchen, chugging a Yeti Rambler brimming with ice water in one hand, a gallon freezer baggie of ice in the other. His old friend Trevathan’s lounge chair groaned predictably under his weight. He placed the bag of ice on the top of his left foot, which pulsed with a stubborn case of tendonitis.
Pilate's Shadow Page 1