DO NOT STORE PERISHABLES
RENT DUE 5th of Month
“Oh my God,” Pilate rasped. He was locked in a self-storage unit. “Clearly not climate controlled,” he thought.
“Okay, you’re a perishable. Still, this is good news,” Simon said. “You’re not in an empty warehouse somewhere. Somebody is bound to show up and you can make noise and get out.”
“Yeah,” Pilate said falling back on his haunches, then sitting on the floor. “Except this might be one of the storage businesses that got flooded out and closed in the hurricane last year. Some of them use old shipping containers as units. Sure smells like it.”
“Well, that’s depressing.”
His mood plummeting, Pilate felt his energy going the same way. He lay on his back, the hard, hot floor adding to his misery.
A buzzing sound jarred him; his eyes opened.
“John?”
Another buzz.
“Johnny? Wake up.”
His hand uncurled on the sheet, and the Tarkin figure, loosed from his grip, fell over the side of the bunk bed. He rolled off the Simon game, which went silent without his childhood weight pressing all the buttons at once.
“Daddy, where are you?” A little boy’s voice broke the silence.
“Pete? Pete, honey?” Pilate said.
“You’re never home,” said a girl. It was Kara, his stepdaughter.
“I’m coming home kids, I promise,” he said, inexplicably wet tears in the corners of his eyes.
Pilate awoke alone on the floor, clammy, cramping and miserable.
“Poor Kara. To lose one father is tragic, but to lose a second one, well that’s just careless,” Simon said. “As for Peter, well… you aren’t exactly around much, anyway.”
Pilate shook him off.
“I promise. I promise,” be muttered. “I’ll fix this.”
The aura of heat before his eyes made every move an effort; his energy lower than the thirty percent left on his phone. The clock read 5:02 a.m. He went to his contacts, found Kate’s number, and tapped the text messaging icon:
“Not sure you will get this but wanted you to know I spent these last hours thinking of you and the kids. Hard to explain--just can’t always be present. Even when I’m in the next room. Sometimes takes all I have to be patient with anything. But I do love you all am so very sorry I made a mess of everything. No matter what happens if I survive I want to be a better person. Even if you don’t love me anymore I want you to know I will always love you and Kara & Pete are everything to me.”
He pressed send, and soon received the hateful error message in return. A thought struck his sluggish brain, and he went to one of the pencil-sized holes drilled in the front of the unit. He aimed the phone at the outside world, and tried to send the text again, only to receive another error message.
His head pounded like he had a massive hangover, a sunburn and an ice pick in his guts all at once. He sat back down and resolved to try again, swatting away a mosquito who had no problems getting inside the cage and biting him.
“Maybe you should try and reach somebody who can help you. You’ll only panic Kate even if by some miracle that signal gets out,” Simon cooed.
Pilate nodded, wiping sweat from his eyes and choking out a raspy, dry cough. He thumbed out a group message to Taters and Val.
“John Pilate. Locked in a unit I think at Xtra Keys Self Storage. Suncrest Road on Stock Island I think. Very hot in here. Not sure kidnapper will return. He has been gone for several hours. I need help. I am dying."
A loud clanking sound startled him. He looked up to see the access panel open an inch.
“Sir?”
Pilate had grown to hate that voice so much, but now he was ecstatic to hear it. He rose up on his elbow, summoning the strength to move closer to the access panel to feel the cool breeze.
“Sir?”
Pilate remained quiet.
“Sir? If you are awake, don’t think I am foolish enough to open the big door. You need to tell me you’re still with us.”
Pilate sighed. “I’m too weak to do any harm, anyway.” His throat protested with every word. “You have water?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have some?”
“I think not.” Honk, honk.
“Fuck you then,” Pilate said, his words slurred with exhaustion.
“Sir, not nice. You know something, you are not a nice friend.”
“I’m not your friend. How the hell do you know anything about me anyway?”
“I saw you at the bookstore. You signed my book and did not smile with grace and favor. You emailed and said we could be friends. And at the gym. I tried to be nice and give you a towel while you were talking to that woman who is not your wife. That’s not nice.”
Pilate searched his mind, fighting to remember if he had encountered anyone with a towel at the gym. “That woman is my trainer.”
“You want to sweat with her?” his kidnapper said, honking.
“And you emailed and said to come meet you for a drink.”
“What? I never did that.” He sounded unsure.
“Well, it’s obvious you did.”
“Oh my god this guy is on fucking planet Mongo,” Simon said.
Pilate gasped for a moment, trying to catch some cool air from the small gap. “Just tell me. What do you want?” Pilate’s hand swept the ground seeking the large glass shard.
“I want you to be nice,” he said. “I want you to not act so big. Be nice-nice to the little people.”
“Jesus man, I am little people,” Pilate rasped, his fingers finding and curling around the shard of glass. “Can I have some water, please?”
“I made you something.”
“Can I please have some water? I can’t handle another martini. On the wagon.”
“No, this is morning. I made you coffee. Like you drink with your girlfriend at Frenchie’s. Nice and hot. With cream and sugar. Here.” The panel slid open all the way; the black nitrile-gloved hand slid a cup of coffee on a saucer on the ledge. “Come get it.”
“No energy,” Pilate said, slowly raising himself up.
“I think you will get the energy. It would not be nice-nice if you did not take this nice coffee.”
Pilate efforted to his feet, a slight breeze from outside reviving him some. “How do I know you didn’t poison it?”
The man honked. “Oh, that’s silly. Why would I poison you, my friend? Not nice-nice.”
“Yeah, and you can just leave me in here to rot, I suppose.” He palmed the ruined martini glass.
“Drink the coffee sir,” he said in monotone. “We can chat like nice friends over coffee.”
Pilate staggered to the panel, one hand grasping the shard, the other his iPhone. He reached the ledge and peered out. It wasn’t bright, there was no work light illuminating the hallway this time. He saw the outline of the tall, skinny man, with shoulder-length hair, slouching a foot or so from the panel.
“So you’re a Jimmy Buffet fan? I like ‘Fins.’ What’s your name, is it…Lovejoy? No--Strong?” Pilate said, pressing the screen on his phone at his side. The send button glimmered in the half-darkness, tempting him. He had to be sure. There would be only one chance.
“Oh, now you want to be friends. Just drink your coffee.”
“Where’s yours? It wouldn’t be nice-nice to drink coffee in front of you,” Pilate said. “Anyway you said we were friends having coffee--”
“I had mine,” he said. “Now drink yours.”
“Here’s something for you, fucker.” Pilate thrust his arm through the panel, the glass shard like the tip of a spear aimed at the lanky man. The man yelped, honked and parried; his thrust with the makeshift glass dagger had missed, not unlike Pilate’s impotent punches at Val in the ring. Pilate shouted, cursing, his arm flailing helplessly at the man who had backed out of reach. The coffee cup fell inside his prison cell and shattered, hot liquid splattering his legs.
“Sir! Pull your arm
back in now. Do it or I will have to hurt you.” His monotone now that of a pimply high school junior, breaking comically with every other syllable.
“Fuck you,” Pilate growled, his arm flailing like a dropped fire hose, whipping the air with menace. He realized he wasn’t going to hit the guy, but every second of his bare arm in the relative cool of the hallway made his struggle worth it. Pilate pulled his arm back, keyed send and thrust his other arm out into the hallway, the iPhone mostly concealed in his fist.
The man pulled something from his pocket. He held it high where Pilate could see it. “I will tase you,” he said, without the honking laughter.
“Come and try,” Pilate said, his arm still exposed, though no longer flailing. Instead, he held it high, as if trying to play keep-away with a child.
“This is your last warning,” the man said. “I mean it.”
Pilate jerked his arm back inside, but kept the phone as close to the portal as he dared. “Alright, alright. Fine.”
“Step away. Go to the back,” the man ordered.
“Why? What are you going to do? Come in here and tase me, bro?” Pilate said, snickering bitterly but standing his ground. It was a standoff; the kidnapper couldn’t tase him without coming close enough to risk being stabbed with the glass.
“Do it or I will forget to give you water.”
“I don’t have any water now,” Pilate said.
“Step back and I will place a bottle of cool water on this ledge. After you imbibe that, we can discuss the future.”
“How do I know you won’t shut that panel and leave me here?”
“You don’t. But that would not be nice.”
“I have two children,” Pilate said. “Please.”
“Big man,” his tormentor replied.
“Fuck off and die, you worthless piece of shit,” Pilate said, sagging against the opening in the panel, filling his lungs.
“Move away, sir, or I will tase you in the face.”
Pilate felt a fresh chill go through his body; his guts seized in a painful spasm. “I’m asking you one more time. Let me out. Please? Let me out. I miss my kids,” Pilate said, his lungs reviving with each gasp of the cooler air.
Pilate felt the phone vibrate. He read the message notification:
“WE ARE ON THE WAY. DON’T LOSE HOPE. MODELOS CHILLING. STAY STRONG. – TM”
“I will count to three,” the man said. “One.”
“The cops will be the least of your worries if I die in here, you know.”
“Two.”
“Taters may be a little low right now, but he’s pretty mean when somebody messes with his friends. And Kate? Ever hear about her aim with a shotgun?”
“Three.”
Pilate jerked away from the panel, but before the kidnapper could slam it shut a new sound came faintly in the distance – the wail of police sirens.
“Do you hear that, asshole? That’s the cops. They know where I am. You left me my cell phone, you…you amateur!”
The panel slammed shut and the kidnapper’s voice came one last time, cold and angry but somehow not entirely disappointed. “”I am sorry you could not be nice.” Pilate heard the man’s footfalls receding rapidly as he ran down the hallway. The sirens grew louder but were still far away.
“Have a nice-nice day, you creepy fucking nutjob,” Pilate whispered, falling to his knees, his eyes greedily reading and rereading the message from Taters.
The sirens were louder still as he slipped further down to the floor, laying on his side, looking at the photo of Peter and Kara.
“Hold on, Johnny. Hold on,” Simon said.
“I’m good,” he rasped. “I’m coming home, kids. Gonna fix it.”
“Stay awake,” Simon said. “They need to be able to find you fast. Bang on the door.”
“Okay. But you have to go now, Simon,” Pilate whispered.
“Not until you’re alright, Johnny. Not until then.”
THE END
AFTERWORD
Ten years. That’s a lot of days, minutes, and seconds.
Seven installments of the John Pilate Mysteries. That’s a lot of pages and words.
So, you may be wondering why Pilate’s Shadow is a very long story rather than a full-blown novel? I don’t know; when I sat down to write, this was the result. I didn’t want to force anything or pad the story to get to a certain length. I just wanted to tell a good tale and get John Pilate back on the hot seat; achieving this in 14,000 words or so is how it shook out.
Finishing Pilate’s Shadow during this tenth anniversary year of the first book’s publication had me looking back to the days when I first moved to Kansas City to take a new job and be with my soon-to-be wife. I left behind a tiny town in southeast Nebraska with a dark chapter in its history and a bushel of conflicting emotions for me.
Pilate’s Cross was meant to be a one-off book, based loosely on a true story from that town, a tragic murder-suicide at a small land-grant college in 1950. Soon after the book came out, I realized Pilate’s Cross was more than just a “one-off”; it was a new world of fun characters navigating interesting situations with myriad possibilities. Indeed, the best was yet to come.
In Pilate’s Cross, John Pilate arrived in Cross Township broken and barely hanging on. The ensuing novels followed his ups and downs, his friends and foes, exotic travels, and most importantly, his battles with his inner demon, Simon. As we arrived at the last novel, Pilate’s Rose, a battered Pilate has started to confront the reasons why he does the things he does.
In Pilate’s Shadow, he’s in full-blown panic mode as psychotherapy and life events force him to honestly confront the origins of his pain. Of course, he also has a bad guy showing up to complicate things.
In this life, some are luckier than others, but nobody gets out unscathed. Mental health issues touch us all, whether it be a relative, a friend, or ourselves. It can be genetic in origin, or perhaps the lingering hangover for a hideous cocktail of abuse, neglect, and cruelty.
Pilate has certainly had his share of bad stuff, and he’s coming to terms with the fact that he doesn’t need antidepressants simply because he was “broken” at birth. No, he experienced childhood trauma that festered into adulthood. This has a multiplier effect on Pilate, as his decision-making, relationships, indeed, his very sanity is hampered by depression, low self-esteem, and crippling anxiety attacks.
There lies the thesis of the John Pilate Mysteries: our fractured, all-too-human hero trying to outwit the bad guys and live another day.
As we move forward to the next ten years, we’ll see if Pilate can confront his dark side, and learn to live with it in a way that is not ultimately self-destructive. I’m guessing we all do that in our own ways. I know I do.
I’m often asked if John Pilate is me.
Well, yeah. Of course, he is.
But he’s you, too. And so is Kate, and Taters, and the rest of the gang. Just remember, though, they are fictional, and a lot of the stuff that happens in these books is not necessarily inspired by real life. Much of it is just that spice in the stew, that hint of Lillet in a fine Vesper martini.
So, here’s to ten years.
Thanks so much for sticking with John. You know, I wanted to quit after the third book, but couldn’t seem to seal the deal. John kept calling. (Or was it Simon?)
That said, there’s a new novel on the way, and this little story I originally tucked into a special edition of Pilate’s Rose is, in many ways, the introduction. I see it as the bridge between the first six parts of the series and what looks to be the last six, which will be coming your way over the next few years.
I’m very curious to see how it all ends up. Until next time…keep reading.
J. Alexander Greenwood
Kansas City, Mo
2019
P.S. Special thanks to my cover artist, Jason McIntyre, and my editor, Robert Hayes, Jr. Literally couldn’t do it without them.
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