“Nearly getting killed in Key West,” Trevathan said.
Kate nodded. “You haven’t had time to come to grips with that, let alone becoming a husband and instant stepfather, with a baby of our own due in a few months.”
“You’re right,” he said.
“Maybe we should find somebody for you to talk to here,” she said. “Like Dr. Sandburg in Key West.”
“Maybe so. But I don’t like my odds of finding a good therapist in the county, let alone within decent driving distance.”
“Well, maybe Sandburg will do a phone thing with you, at least until you can find somebody,” she said. “Will you ask him?”
Pilate leaned in and kissed her. “Yes, I will.”
“Good man,” Trevathan said, hauling himself out of the chair. “Don’t get up, I’ll show myself out. In the meantime, we have a summer session of teaching for you, Kate. John, when do you start your book tour?”
“Late August,” he said.
“Perfect. That gives you some time to get your head together, especially since you’re loafing instead of teaching,” he said, donning his coat and cap. “Good night, kids.”
“Good night,” they said.
Kate handed Pilate his mug. “Drink this. When you’re ready to come upstairs let me know and I’ll help you.”
“Thanks babe,” he said, taking the cup of tea.
His tea gone cold, Pilate sat in the chair and considered the turns of his life. Not nine months ago he was days away from being evicted from his apartment, ink on the divorce papers still fresh, no prospects and so depressed he could scarcely find a reason to get out of bed.
A chance classified ad and a surprising job offer had yanked him from his prison of sadness, self-pity and failure and dropped him in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. The governor granted a fresh start to Mr. John Pilate; a sweet proposition, even if his parole was to be served in Cross Township.
Little had he known he was methodically being set up as a patsy, a fall guy, in a battle between two camps fighting for control of the town. Pilate survived by his wits, some luck and the help of people like Trevathan and Kate.
Kate. A beauty who knew her share of tragedy; a few years earlier she was made a widow and single mother by the same shadowy people who conspired to use Pilate.
She had reluctantly fallen for Pilate, the broken man from out of town. He had a haunted look and a sad, shabby sense of self. Nevertheless, he was funny and different. Not bad looking, and great with Kara.
You have a good heart, she once told him.
Kate trusted him, and Pilate had defiled that trust in Key West.
Pilate spent several weeks on that Island of Bones, grinding out the book and getting into trouble. However, the main thing he did was indulge in self-pity with his “imaginary friend” Simon egging it on. He took to drinking too much, reliving the near-death experiences in Cross, and even resenting Kate for loving him.
He allowed himself to be seduced – no, damn it, own it – he had encouraged a beautiful young cop to seduce him. He wanted to take everything new and good and smash it into pieces. He didn’t know why.
I knew that was wrong.
“Oh but you were…what’s the word? Entitled.”
Get out of my head, Simon.
“Get off your own back, and I will,” he said.
“I need to tell her,” Pilate said, startling himself at the sound of his voice in the quiet house.
“Behold, the most selfish thing you can do,” Simon said. “You’ll feel better for about thirty seconds, then you wound her beyond repair. Why must you unburden yourself to her? She’s already carrying your child, don’t make her carry your foolishness.”
Perhaps.
“Besides, I’d say you’re doing a very nice job on penance lately. You won’t forgive yourself.”
No. I won’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Cell phone reception hasn’t improved much, even with that shiny new tower on Monticello Hill,” Pilate said, disgustedly slipping his cell phone back into his pocket.
“It takes time,” Kate said.
“Yeah, I know,” Pilate said. “How you feeling today?”
“Pretty good,” Kate said, her hand moving to her belly in a sweetly unconscious gesture. “Not nearly as much morning sickness as with Kara for some reason.”
“Does that mean it’s a boy?”
“That’s idiotic,” she smirked. “It could mean a lot of things, and most likely it means that I’m nearly eight years older than when I was last pregnant,” she said, her eyes darting over student papers, marking corrections in red. “Jeez, these kids can’t spell.”
“Amazing in the age of spell check,” Pilate offered.
“Yeah,” she said. “So is that what you want?’
“Beg pardon?”
“A boy,” she said, grading papers at the kitchen table.
Pilate sat still for a moment. “I honestly have not thought about it.”
“That’s nice,” Kate said, her tone half-hurt, half bemused.
“Well, what I mean is everything’s been such a blur…”
“Yeah yeah,” she nodded. “Keep digging that hole, Pilate.”
“I just want a healthy—”
“—happy baby,” she said. “Yep, that’s the safe answer.”
Pilate sipped iced tea, then moved his angry left leg off a dining room chair onto the floor. “It’s honest.”
Kate put her pen down. “You okay about this? Because if you’re not, tough crap. We’re having a baby.”
Her eyes looked tired, but still had that defiant, sexy spark in them. Her Key West-tanned face glowed; cliché or no, Pilate figured it was from the flood of hormones of being pregnant. A baby-related bonus of some sort.
He cast a sidelong look. “I am keenly aware of that fact,” he said, rising to his feet. His left calf protested, though not as much as it had a few days earlier. “So, next week it’s June. Into the second trimester.”
Back to grading papers, Kate grunted. “Uh huh.”
“So I’ll be on my book tour in August and September,” he said. “On the road. Will you be okay?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be here on the nest. Baby’s not due until November.”
He looked around the kitchen in Kate’s century-old farmhouse. “I know.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
“I just worry,” he said.
“I worry more about you,” she said. “Look at you, old man, hobbling around.”
“Funny.”
She brushed a lock of dirty blonde hair from her eyes. The highlights she gained in the Florida sun were fading, and pregnancy prevented her from calling on Miss Clairol. “John, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Instant fatherhood got you down?”
“Maybe a little,” he said.
“I get it,” she said. “But Kara adores you and the new baby—”
“I think I’m just playing catch-up with my emotions,” he said.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s interesting.”
“How so?” he said, gingerly walking his empty iced tea glass to the sink and leaning against the counter.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just figured you had a handle on your emotions, especially with therapy.”
“I’m fine,” he said, folding his arms.
“Yeah, you look fine,” she said, shuffling papers and turning in her chair to face him. “John, what is it?”
“Well, if you must know, I’d like to know how you got pregnant.”
She looked at her lap, then back to him. “Well Johnny, when two people love each other very much…”
“I’m not kidding, Kate,” he said. “I mean, I thought you were on the pill.”
“I was, but sometimes the pill doesn’t work.”
“Well, it just seems to be such an odd thing…”
Her eyes flashed, her face turned a shade of pink he rarely saw on Kate. “
You think I tried to get pregnant?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Oh my god, do you think I was so enamored with you that I would trap you into marrying me by getting pregnant?” She threw her pen at the stacks of papers. “Poor Kate, the town widow, sitting in her tiny web in Cross Township just waiting to trap a fly from out of town?”
“That’s not what I meant!” Pilate raised his voice.
“Is it what you thought?” she said, rising from her chair.
He lowered his voice. “Of course not.”
“John,” she sighed heavily. “What are we doing here?”
“I don’t know,” he said; looking at the floor, then back at her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I messed up.”
“What? We’re having a silly argument and that’s messing up?” She said, her face quizzical.
“John, no.” Simon said.
“I just mean about Key West…” Pilate was going to lay down his burdens at the feet of his pregnant wife. He was a car doing ninety with no brakes.
“What about Key West?”
“I did some things I’m not proud…”
The phone on the kitchen wall rang. It was as if someone had splashed a bucket of cold water over the sleepwalking John Pilate. “I better get that,” he said.
“What about Key West?” Kate said.
He picked up the cordless handset from the wall bracket. “Pilate residence,” he said, turning his shoulder to Kate.
“John Pilate?” a muffled voice said.
“Yes, I can barely hear you,” he said. “Would you speak up?”
“Only,” the voice rasped. “If you’ll die.”
“Who is this?” Pilate said, his teeth gritted.
“You have some things to answer for, John Pilate,” the voice said.
“Is that so? Then why don’t you tell me what they are.”
“John who is it?” Kate whispered. He waved her back.
“You caused a lot of problems for many, many people,” the voice said.
“If you have a problem with me, why don’t you get it out in the open. Let’s meet,” Pilate said.
“Oh we’ll meet,” the voice said. “Soon enough.”
“Now, dammit, now!” Pilate said.
“I’m a pretty good shot, John. You’re very lucky I didn’t nail you by the river the other day.”
“Who is this?” Pilate’s stomach roiled, his hand shook.
“You’ll find out. You and your growing family. Soon enough.”
Click.
Pilate heard the dial tone and immediately punched star 69. “I’m calling this fucker back,” he said.
“Who the hell was it?” Kate said.
“My mystery man. You know, the creep from the phantom phone booth.”
Kate put her hands on her hips, “Well what did he say?”
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s ringing.”
The phone rang several times, but after a full minute, no one answered.
He hung up. “Kate, he said that I had some things to answer for, and that we would meet soon.” He decided against telling her the caller had claimed to be the shooter from the river.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” she said.
He looked at her, but his mind was on the call. “I’m calling Sheriff Welliver,” he said, picking up the phone again. “Screw that, I better call the state police.”
“Do you think it’s a prank?”
“I hope so,” he said. “But if it isn’t, I intend to be ready.”
“Well, okay,” she said. “Let’s tell the authorities and see if they can track down the number.”
“They will, but I guarantee it will be a pay phone or an anonymous cell phone,” Pilate said, putting the receiver down.
“Okay,” she said.
“Look, don’t worry,” he said. “It probably is a prank, just like the other calls.”
“I’m not,” she said. “Yet. But this is the first call you’ve had since we came back to Cross.”
“Yeah…and after I got shot at.”
Kate put her arm around him and lay her head on his shoulder. “John, this has to be a prank. What else could it be?”
He held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “Kate, we’ve been through too much for me to bullshit you. I don’t think this is a prank. I think it is Jack Lindstrom.”
“John, that’s impossible,” she said.
“And yet?”
She broke away from him and walked back to the table, her left hand on her belly. “I’ll grant you this,” she said. “It may be more than a prank, but it’s not Jack. He took his way out. We need to think about the other people who would have reason to be pissed at you. I think the short list includes the extended family of Ollie Olafson and his cronies. Hell, it could even be somebody who was close to Derek Krall.”
“Nobody was close to Derek Krall,” Pilate said.
Kate bit her lip. “Yes, that’s true. However, the Olafsons had ties to the KKK and ran their own hillbilly mafia. Somebody out there might be interested in revenge.”
“You have a point there,” he said. Kate and Pilate had not only taken down the now-deceased president of Cross College, Jack Lindstrom, but John had killed Mayor Olafson. His son Craig died in the same gunfight at Nathaniel Mortuary, owned by Kate’s father-in-law. Derek Krall, the school librarian who had played both sides against each other, was also dead, murdered by members of Olafson’s inner circle. “I need to talk to some people about this.”
“Start with Welliver?” she said.
“Kate, that man is the sheriff,” Pilate said, making air quotes around the word ‘sheriff.’ He ran his hands through his hair and tried to pop a kink in his neck. “We both know that there hasn’t been a straight sheriff around here in forty years. The state police don’t know this area well enough, and forget the FBI. Shit.”
“Trevathan?” Kate asked, instantly knowing the answer.
“Trevathan is only one step away from being as big an outsider as I am. I just don’t know who I can trust. I don’t know who will give me straight answers.”
“I think you just answered your question,” she said.
Pilate looked at her and smiled. “Oh my god, you’re right.”
“I’m right quite often,” she said. “He’s at the same prison as Grif, in a different wing, but the same prison.”
“You think he’ll see me?”
“Visiting day is tomorrow,” she said. “Only one way to find out.”
“Perfect,” he said. “You coming along to see Grif?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think you were going to tell me about something you did in Key West that you’re not proud of,” she said, her eyes boring into him.
“Don’t tell her, John,” Simon said.
He nodded, slowly.
Glassy with tears, Kate blinked her eyes rapidly. She inhaled deeply and stood straight as a post. “I know that there are things you want to tell me, need to tell me, but I doubt that any of those things would do anything to help our marriage or raise our kids. Do you?”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes on hers.
“Then I have one thing to say to you,” she said.
“What?”
“Keep it to yourself. And never, ever talk to me about it again,” she said. “I knew you were a little broken when I met you - I get that - and if you did things you felt you needed to do, then so be it. If you have issues with something you did, you take them up with yourself or your therapist. What I care about now is everything you do from the day you slid this ring on my finger.”
Pilate should have felt relief, but he only felt more guilt. “Okay.”
She picked up the papers and slid them into her satchel. “John.”
He looked at her expectantly.
“Move on. We have too much to do,” she said. “Now call the state police and tell them about that call.”
The next morning came and Kara announced she had the sniffles. Kate deter
mined Kara also had a mild fever, so she stayed home with her. Visiting hours for the medium security prisoners were 12:30 to 3:30 p.m., so he planned to drive up US-75 to Lincoln, have lunch and then go to the prison.
He wasn’t on the approved visitor’s list yet, that would take time. Pilate called in a favor with Detective Petersen at the state police, who got him in as a member of the press. He also mentioned the weird phone calls. Petersen said they’d check it out, but Pilate wasn’t holding his breath.
Pilate didn’t let on to Kate, but he was glad he could be alone on the ninety-minute drive to Lincoln Correctional Center. He needed time to think.
“Reliving the whole Cross conspiracy, are we?” Simon said.
Pilate checked the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Simon, reclining in the backseat of the Grand Am.
“Events have made that necessary,” Pilate said. He felt silly, talking aloud to himself, but it soothed his troubled mind.
“At least Kate now believes you’re getting phone calls, and she may even believe someone shot at you.”
“True,” Pilate said. “She doesn’t think I’m crazy.”
“She would if she knew you were driving along talking to your imaginary friend.”
“True.”
“And aren’t you lucky she didn’t indulge your attempt to purge your guilt about that little dalliance in Key West?” In the rearview mirror, Simon smiled at Pilate.
Pilate cleared his throat. “Yes, and I think it’s time I got off my own back about it. Enough is enough.”
Simon affected a corny German accent, straight out of a World War Two flick. “Mistakes ver made.”
“Oh please do shut up,” Pilate said.
Morgan Scovill stood across the table, seeming to exude an aura of authority even as a prisoner. He still had presence, even if it was confined and diminished amidst the snack machines and crowd of visitors in the prison visiting area. A vaguely institutional smell of antiseptic blended with the musk of human sweat assailed Pilate’s nostrils.
“Mr. Pilate, you look like you got a tan,” the former sheriff said. His belly was still prodigious but his face looked drawn, his eyes hollow and his sandy beard graying. On closer inspection, Pilate saw that without his sheriff’s badge, Scovill’s bravado and authority were revealed as a sham. From certain angles, he looked small, sad and tired.
Pilate's Ghost Page 3