The sting of chlorine in his eyes reminded him of the Gulf, of diving in to the black water beneath a hail of gunfire to save officer Kay Righetti. He pushed thoughts of her from his mind, focusing on his breathing.
Three laps and he was exhausted, his calf aching despite the ease of the regimen. He rested his elbows on the cool edge of the pool.
Behind him, he heard the slap of flip-flops on the floor. He craned his neck and spied Abbey Prince dropping her towel and hurrying to the edge of the pool a few yards down.
“Hi,” he said.
“Oh, Mr. Pilate. Hi,” she said, blushing as she stood there in her one-piece swimsuit. “I didn’t know that was you.”
“Yep. Just me.”
“I didn’t know you swam,” she said.
“Likewise. I picked it up in Florida. Good exercise.”
She walked to the ladder and quickly climbed in the pool. Aside from some freckles, her skin was milky white. Her arms jiggled a bit, but her legs were muscular. “Florida! That sounds so exciting, I mean what happened to you down there.”
“What do you hear?”
“Oh,” she swam nearer to him. “Just that you were helping the police with some stuff. That you…” her face turned into a mask of caution, “…saw a guy murdered?”
He nodded. “So, when’s the big day?”
She blinked. “Big day? Oh we’re not that serious yet.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Riley and I aren’t getting married right away.”
“Oh, you and Riley. I meant when do you start student teaching.”
“Oh,” she flushed crimson. “August. I report on the eighteenth.”
Pilate gently kicked his feet a few times. “So you and Riley are together, though, right?”
“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He won me over.”
“Lucky guy,” he said.
She smiled. “Thanks. So is Mrs. Nathaniel…or I mean, Mrs. Pilate.”
“Thanks, Abbey. Means a lot coming from you.”
She looked around at the sound of the locker room door opening.
“Speak of the devil, Riley Pierson,” Pilate said.
He strutted over. “Hey, Mr. P—how are you? How’s the leg?” He stripped off his t-shirt, revealing a muscular torso.
“I believe the term is ‘ripped,’“ Simon said.
“It’s getting better,” he said. “I may start running again next week. Need to shed a few pounds,” Pilate said, pulling himself out of the water.
“Oh, I don’t think you need to lose any weight,” Abbey said.
Riley shot her a look.
“Thanks. Just have to be careful. At my age it’s a little tougher to take it off once you put it on. Take it easy, you guys.”
“You bet, Mr. P,” Riley said, slipping into the pool.
“Not sure I’d like being called ‘Mr. P’ when I’m in a pool. Hmm,” Simon said.
“Bye,” Abbey said.
Pilate grabbed his towel and slipped on his flip-flops, then headed for the locker room.
He opened the padlock on the red locker. A piece of paper fell at his feet. Someone had folded it and slipped it in one of the three small vents on the locker door.
The note was typed. It read:
You can quit looking for me. I will find you when I’m good and ready.
Pilate bounded back into the pool area, the pain in his leg renewed but ignored. Riley and Abbey were treading water, kissing.
“Riley,” he shouted.
“I wasn’t…” he said.
Abbey pulled away from him.
Pilate shook his head. “Was anybody in the locker room a minute ago?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I didn’t really stop in there. I just walked through from the lobby.”
Pilate turned and ran back out through the locker room to the lobby. It was empty. He burst through the double doors outside. The quad, sparsely populated even on a busy day in summer session, was also empty.
“Damn it.”
“So what was it, a ghost?” Pilate said, the note on Trevathan’s desk between them.
“Cool it,” Trevathan said, looking over the note. “This could be from anybody.”
“Well, shit, yeah, but it has to be the asshole who’s been doing all this…”
Trevathan waved him quiet with a weary gesture. “Okay, John. Sit down.” He cleared his throat noisily.
“Hey listen,” Pilate said. “I’m sorry about the other day, but I’m worried.”
Trevathan nodded. “Maybe you should be,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Unless you think Riley did it to screw with your head a little? As I recall he was around during the race, too.”
“Well,” Pilate said. “I think he is a little jealous of the attention Abbey shows me,” Pilate said.
Trevathan shrugged. “See? It could be nothing but a joke or silly jealousy.”
“He has a point, John. That little punk might just be one who would pull something like that,” Simon said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pilate said. “Riley’s a good kid.”
Trevathan nodded. “Just a thought. You’re dripping water all over my office. Why don’t you go back and change. Let’s have lunch or a drink or something tomorrow. “
“Sorry,” he said. “Okay. But should I do something with this note?”
“Call the sheriff. Or Petersen over at the state cops.”
“I called Petersen this morning about the threatening calls,” Pilate offered.
“And?”
“Nothing conclusive. He just told me to be careful.”
“Good advice.”
“Where we going, John?”
Simon, you sound worried.
“I know you when you’re like this,” he said.
Well, I should hope so.
Pilate pulled in to the parking lot of the Brown Betty off US-75. It was a respectably rundown roadhouse, perched on the edge of hundreds of acres of wheat like the lone raisin in an oatmeal cookie.
A water cooler perched on the top of the converted one-story farmhouse was partially obscured by an old neon sign. The sign featured a pinup girl in a modest bikini and the words “The Brown Betty”. Pilate had seen it many times as he drove past at night. Several letters were burned out, so in the dark it read “The own et.”
Two cars, one a late-model Cadillac, the other an old Nissan, were parked almost out of sight in the back of the small brown structure. A well-used Ford pickup rested in front.
Pilate parked beside the pickup, turned off his engine and awkwardly hauled himself out of his car. He limped to the front door, inhaled deeply, sighed out the excess and opened it.
A gust of cool, metallic, smoky air struck him, along with the sounds of Journey on the jukebox.
Any Way You Want It.
Pilate walked in, letting his eyes acclimate to the dim. The roadhouse was maybe twice the size of his living room, yet it still accommodated a small stage for the occasional live band, a dozen or so tables that comfortably seated four each, and a bar at the back of the room.
A heavyset, bearded man wearing a de rigueur trucker cap sat at the bar. He glanced up from his bottle of Budweiser, then looked at the tall, thin lady tending bar. She was a bottle blonde with an apparent affinity for the tanning booth, her leathery skin wrinkled around the eyes and mouth. She wore a Cornhuskers t-shirt and jeans that conspired with the hair to give her a youngish aura. It only worked from a distance. Pilate guessed she was sixty or so, but the kind of sixty that had said, “screw you” to dressing age-appropriately when she was forty. She pinched a long, thin cigarette between two boney fingers resting on the bar.
“Howdy,” she said, not unpleasantly. “Whatcha drinkin’?”
Pilate looked at the heavyset man’s beer. “That looks good.”
“Coming right up,” she said, taking a puff from her cigarette and resting it in an old tin ashtray as she bent to pick Pilate’s beer from her cooler. “You want it in a glass?”
“I cannot believe you’re going to drink a Bud,” Simon said. “Yeah, you really blend in.”
She opened the bottle and set it in front of him. “Two-fifty.” Her voice was husky and worn.
Pilate laid four dollars on the bar.
“Thank you,” she said, scooping up the money in one hand, her cigarette in another. She turned back to the heavyset man. “So I told her ‘well haul it over here, jumbo, if you think you can kick my ass let’s see what happens.’“
They both laughed.
“You don’t disrespect me in my own house,” she added, stubbing out the cigarette and lighting another. “I don’t care if you are my daughter.”
Pilate sipped his beer.
“I know that’s right,” the heavyset man said, polishing off his beer. He pointed at the bottle and stood up. “I gotta see a man about a horse.”
“A miniature pony you mean,” she said, laughing as the man shook his head and walked to the door marked “Huskers.” Pilate didn’t see another door.
“I guess it’s a one holer,” Simon said.
The phone rang. The woman picked it up, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. “Betty.”
Pilate looked around the bar. Besides the usual Cornhusker and beer company swag, there were autographed dollar bills stapled to nearly every free surface on the ceiling and behind the bar.
“Yup,” she said. “’Til two.” She hung up. “How’s that beer?”
“Good,” Pilate said.
“You ever been in here before?” she eyed him with an almost comical look.
He shook his head.
“I thought so. You look kinda familiar, though.”
“I just have one of those faces,” Pilate said.
“No,” she said, peering closer through the haze of her own smoke. “I seen you somewhere.”
Pilate smiled. “You take any classes at the college?”
She snorted. “Shit no. Why would I do that?”
“To get an education. You know, for your…career.”
She spread her arms wide. Her tiny old breasts jiggled under her t-shirt. “What, and leave all this?” she snorted with laughter again; wisps of smoke issuing from her mouth and nose.
Pilate laughed.
“No, really, how do I know you?” she said.
“You should read the papers more, Nelda. This is John Pilate, the man who killed my cousin Ollie.”
More smoke crawled from Nelda’s nostrils as color drained from her tanned face.
Pilate cleared his throat and turned to face the man who spoke.
Behind Pilate stood a man in his mid sixties, reasonably fit, with thinning grey hair and kind eyes. He wore brown Ropers, jeans and a tan work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hands were at his sides, casual. To his left was the heavyset man from the bar. Apparently, the door marked “Huskers” wasn’t a restroom after all.
“That’s not exactly the way the l-law sees it,” Pilate said. Nervous, he stammered a little on the word “law” and hated himself for it.
The man’s eyes smiled, then his mouth followed. “Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” he said. “My name’s Thurman. Hilmer Thurman.”
“Well, I guess you know who I am. Nice to meet you, Mr. Thurman.”
Thurman looked over Pilate’s shoulder. “Nelda, stop reaching for that shotgun.”
Pilate whirled to face Nelda, who held up both hands. “No! Wait, I wasn’t…”
Thurman laughed. “Sorry, my idea of a joke. Mr. Pilate, join me in my office?” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Um, sure,” Pilate said. “Just you and me?”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “Tom, wait out here. Get Nelda a shot of something so she’ll stop shaking.”
He walked to the door marked “Huskers” and opened it, holding it for Pilate.
“The restrooms are outside. We don’t cotton to that nasty indoor plumbing here,” he laughed at his own joke for a second. “Come on in.”
Pilate entered the small office. Thurman slid between the wall and a old school teacher-type desk. The surface was clean except for an ancient rotary phone and a notepad and pencil. Thurman sat in a cracked leather office chair. It groaned and squeaked. He gestured for Pilate to sit in a small wooden chair in front of the desk. “Please, sit down.”
Thurman talked with a faint tinge of Minnesotan accent, but nothing comical like Pilate had seen in the movies.
“John Pilate,” he looked at Pilate a moment. His smile vanished but his eyes retained a kind, even gentle, quality.
“Careful, John, this man isn’t Mister Rogers.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” Pilate said.
“Well I was going to ask you that very thing,” Thurman said. “I do believe this is the first time you’ve darkened our door.”
“I was just having a beer,” Pilate said.
“Uh huh.”
“And I was unaware that you had been here all that long,” Pilate said.
“Well,” he smiled again. “Circumstances being what they were, I inherited a business, so I’m here to run it. Death in the family. You know?”
Pilate nodded. “So you inherited the bar business when your cousin died?”
Thurman nodded.
“Anything else? Any other interests?”
Thurman’s salt and pepper eyebrows raised in surprise. “Brash comment, there, sir.”
“Brash? That’s not a word I expected out of you,” Pilate said.
“Are you attempting to insult me or are you just nervous?”
“Sorry if I insulted you,” Pilate said.
Thurman’s eyes deadened. He leaned forward in the chair, clasping his hands together on the clean desk. He looked at his hands a moment, then at Pilate. “Let’s cut the shit, John. Stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up.”
Thurman pushed a button under his desk. Three seconds later Tom walked in, letting in the chorus of “I Married Her Just Because She Looks Like You.” His bulk took up most of the available space in the cramped office. Thurman nodded.
“Hold still, mister,” Tom said, patting Pilate down.
“I don’t have a gun,” Pilate said.
“How grungy of you.” Simon chided.
Tom looked at Thurman, nodded and left with Thurman’s unspoken leave.
“Hell, I know that,” he said. “You’re not a stupid man. I was just checking to make sure your pal Petersen at the state patrol doesn’t have you wired for sound.”
“I see,” Pilate said, reseating himself.
“Nature abhors a vacuum, John,” Thurman leaned back in his creaky chair. “When you shot – and yes, I know, it was self-defense - when you shot my cousin Ollie, there were several business interests that naturally would have reverted to his son, Craig.”
“But Craig was…”
“Shot dead by Sheriff Scovill.” Thurman completed the sentence, though his eyes remained gentle. “That left Helga, Ollie’s wife, and she’s in no condition to run the Betty or anything else. So, she asked me to step in and keep things going.”
“Kind of you,” Pilate said.
“I said cut the shit,” Thurman said softly. “Are you here because you’re afraid I want revenge? Think maybe I’m mad because you killed off my fat ass cousin? Think maybe I want to put a bullet into a member of your family?”
Pilate’s ears and cheeks flushed red.
“You’re trying to be calm but your face gives you away. You’re all red about the ears and cheeks—especially around the buckshot scars.”
“Get on with it,” Pilate said, his jaw stiff.
The eyes smiled again. “John, let me ease your mind. I’m here just doing my best to keep my cousin’s interests afloat. I hate to sound like some two-bit backwoods crime boss out of the movies, but I’m a businessman. Business is good. It’s better when you don’t run afoul of the authorities.”
“I agree with that. Very strongly,” Pilate said.
“Good,” Thurman said, his eyes on Pilate’s. “You’re a well-known guy. You have some friends who could make my life difficult. I don’t need that, and I assume that with a baby on the way you don’t need any aggravation, either.”
“Mr. Thurman, please don’t talk about my children,” Pilate didn’t stammer. He was cold and clear.
“John.” Simon pleaded.
“And like the crime bosses in movies, I’m supposed to applaud you for telling me not to talk about your family,” he chuckled. “Be all impressed by your balls. And say that family is everything. Well, screw that. Because you know what, John? You know what? I couldn’t stand Ollie. He was a fat, self-important, lazy jackass. But there is something to making sure the world knows you can’t fuck with somebody’s business. That’s the difference. If I could, if you weren’t some kind of national hero guy, I’d make you pay for what you did. But I can’t. It’s not smart. So I won’t.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for that?”
“You should.”
“Thank you.” Pilate was suddenly aware that his left leg was shaking. His tortured calf was spasming.
“But here’s the deal,” Thurman said, unclasping his hands and placing them palms down on the desk. “You stay out of my business. You tell your cop friends that we are not at odds with one another.”
“You shot at me,” Pilate said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Excuse me?” Thurman said, his right hand cupped behind his right ear. “I’m a little hard of hearing. What did you say?”
“Somebody shot at me. During the race. Out by Patterson Point on the river.”
Thurman’s hand dropped to the desk with a clunk. “Again, are you insulting me, or still nervous?”
“Somebody fired several shots at me,” Pilate pointed to the scratch on his cheek. “This is from a ricochet. Was it one of your people?”
“What did I just tell you?”
“Was it some kind of warning? A message?” Pilate’s calf screamed in pain. He was dying to rub it, but dared not.
“You little bitch,” Thurman said, his eyes still kind, his voice low but losing its calm.
“Now whose face is red?” Simon said.
“If one of my people had taken a shot at you, you’d be dead, my friend. And if I wanted to send a message, I’d use the post office.”
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