“That’s a laugh,” Pilate said. “My publisher would be happy to tell the world I’m getting death threats. It’d boost sales.”
“Well, I’m just saying that it may scare off your biggest fan if he thinks people are watching more closely,” Petersen said.
“Yeah, that asshole Mark Chapman really gave a shit that anybody was watching him,” Pilate said.
“True.”
“Look, I’m going to have a buddy meet me in Florida. I have some events there this weekend, and he can be my security,” Pilate said. “He’s had my back before.”
“Sounds good. So you’re in…” Petersen ruffled more pages. “Boston today, then back down to Virginia Beach, then Savannah, then Florida?”
“Right, then I’m off to Chicago and maybe Kansas City.”
“Kansas City? Really?”
“Barbecue. Arthur Bryant’s, or maybe some Oklahoma Joe’s.”
“Got it.”
“But if things change for the worse, I’ll cancel the whole damn thing,” Pilate said.
“Let’s take it one day at a time. I have your number. I’ll let you know if the feds say anything useful. Just be careful, John.”
Pilate hung up and went downstairs to the lobby of the Holiday Inn Express. Nice, but not as extravagant or interesting as the Sheraton New York Towers.
In the lobby, he asked the front desk to call him a cab. He was due on Good Day Boston in an hour.
He took out his cell phone and dialed Trevathan.
After five or six rings, Trevathan’s secretary picked up.
“Dean’s office,” she said.
“Hello Marta, it’s John. The old man in?”
“The dean is out today,” she said, coolly.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “Well, is he back tomorrow or…”
“John, I don’t know.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m just in between TV appearances…”
“My other line is ringing, John, I can tell him you called,” she said.
“Um, okay.”
“Goodbye.”
Pilate dialed Trevathan’s home number. After a dozen rings, his machine picked up. “You know what to do,” his voice growled on the tape. At the beep, Pilate left a message asking Trevathan to call him back as soon as he got the message.
Next, he dialed Kate at her office.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey babe,” he said.
“You were good on Today,” she said.
“Thanks! You’ll never believe who I met backstage. Well, kind of met.”
There was a silence. An utter lack of sound, not even breathing.
“Kate?”
“I’m here.”
“What is this? What’s wrong?”
“I just…had a moment, I guess. I’ve had some time to think. You’re out there on your own without me, and…”
“And what?”
“This is so dramatic, I know. And we’re all so sick of drama. But I have to tell you.”
“What, babe?”
“Every man I’ve ever loved has abandoned me,” she said. “You’ve never once asked me where my father is, have you?”
“Well, I, I thought from what you said that he had passed away.”
“He left me and Mom when I was seven. Just about Kara’s age,” she said.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Kate,” Pilate said.
“Thanks, but I don’t want your pity. I just want you to listen,” she said.
“It wasn’t pity…”
“Dad left me with my alcoholic mother on Halloween night. I was wearing one of those horrible Collegetown smock costumes. I was Pebbles. You know, Pebbles and Bam-Bam?”
“Yes,” Pilate said.
“The mask had those tiny slits. The condensation from my breath was horrible inside it - smothering. But I wore it all night, sitting on the couch, waiting for Daddy to take me trick-or-treating. Momma blacked out after polishing off a fifth of Bushmills, and I just sat there, watching The Day the Earth Stood Still on Sleepwalker’s Matinee. I guess the earth really did stand still for me.”
Her voice was eerily detached. She had covered this ground before, and the retelling was a mere reading of a script now, no emotion invested. Pilate’s heart broke as he visualized the little girl sitting on the couch, patiently waiting for a man who wouldn’t be coming home.
“Baby…Kate…”
“He never came back. Last I heard he was in Florida. Please don’t read anything into that. Mom died when I was in college,” she said. “Accidental sleeping pill overdose. But I think she knew what she was doing. Anyway. I was on my own long before that. I met Rick in college in Iowa. We got married, moved back to Cross and had Kara. He started poking around in Cross at the same stuff you did. Olafson’s gang killed him for it. He left me – not by choice, but he was gone, leaving me with a kid to raise just like Dad did to Mom. Now, Dad’s gone, Rick’s dead and the third man I’ve ever loved is running around New York…”
“Kate, I have not abandoned you,” Pilate said. “I will be with you until the end of my life.”
“That may be soon if you don’t stop chasing ghosts, John,” she said.
“What?”
“Lindstrom. Stop it. Just finish your press tour and come home to me. Stop living your life like it’s a bad TV show. You have to live because you love me, Kara and our son.”
“Kate, don’t you understand that I’m trying to protect our family, protect us? Yes, I’ll say it, I made mistakes in Key West,” he winced at his carelessness with words. “But what I will not do is abandon you or our children.”
Kate’s voice broke. “Just come home safe.”
“Kate?”
“Yes John?”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me. I’ll be coming home.”
“You better you better you—”
“Bet.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Until then, I want you to keep an eye on your surroundings.”
“What?”
“I talked to Petersen at the state patrol,” he said. “They don’t want you to worry, but they’re taking some of the phone threats I received seriously.”
“Oh god, John, the baby.”
“Kate. The baby’s fine. So are you and Kara. I think this is going to be wrapped up before you know it,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that by the time I come home for the break on the book tour, the asshole who has been calling me will be in jail,” he said.
By the time the call ended, Pilate had rescued the tiny raft of his marriage from the rocks and shoals.
Checking again at the airport, he saw that so far there had been nothing out of the New York Post except for a short review by a book editor - not the pugilistic Mr. Lamb. The review panned the book as “sensationalistic, overblown, self-congratulatory twaddle.”
Practically on cue, Monique called.
“Did you see the review?”
Yes,” he said. “Not too kind. This from a paper known for headlines only half as literate or sensible as those of the National Enquirer.”
“I suspect it will make people want to read it even more,” she said.
“No such thing as bad press, eh?”
“Right. Have a good flight, mister.”
Pilate threw the paper in the trash. He boarded the plane, found a window seat and pulled the hotel stationery and his pen from his pocket. Once the plane was in flight, he again propped up the ultrasound photo and started writing on the stationery on the little tray table.
Your mother has been a trouper throughout the pregnancy. She’s been tough, confident and not a complainer. And let me stipulate that I think pregnant women have every right to complain. But she didn’t. That’s her. She’s had a tough life in many ways, and yet she keeps going. She’s been just great, even when I was pissing and moaning about putting your “pack and play” and crib together.
&nb
sp; As you’re probably guessing by now, this little note is not edited much; it’s very stream-of-consciousness. Reading it may bore you, or even fascinate you. I have no idea. I do know it’s helping me.
Speaking of reading, I hope you’ll be a reader of books in general. If you don’t like reading, it certainly won’t be because of lack of trying on the part of your folks. We love reading, and I love writing. (You cannot be a writer unless you’re also a reader.)
I’m writing this for you because this is the best way I know to express myself. It occurs to me that I may also be writing it to help me figure out who I am now that I’m your dad.
Pilate wrote several pages, feeling a little self-conscious and silly, but motivated. He described his favorite music, foods, places and people. It went on until he ran out of paper, front and back. Along the margin of the last piece of paper, he scrawled:
Welcome to the world, our family and our hearts, dear child.
He carefully folded the papers and tucked them and the photo in his jacket pocket.
By the time he reached Florida, he felt the threat of exposure by the New York Post had evaporated.
He landed in Fort Myers, rented a Ford Taurus and drove to his hotel. After dumping his bag and changing into shorts and a t-shirt, he drove out to Barabbas Colony, where the formerly living Jack Lindstrom once owned a condo.
The place where he took his own life. If you believe such things.
Pilate drove past the black iron fence. No need to go inside. He just wanted to see it again.
“A dry hole, John,” Simon said.
Pilate did not acknowledge his inner voice. He shook his head slowly, then threw the car in gear and drove out to the bay, where he was to meet a certain Chris Craft Constellation, dubbed the TenFortyEZ.
“You look good,” she said.
“You’re a good liar, missy,” Grif Nathaniel replied, kindly.
He was in his late sixties, but looked ten years older. The beating he had taken a few months earlier resulted in a coma and brain injuries that would dog him until the end of his days. The secret he had lived with his entire adult life had cost Grif his freedom and the lives of his father and son.
“You doing okay?” Kate said. She would never show it, but visiting him in prison made her skin crawl. She especially hated bringing Kara there. Today, to Grif’s disappointment, Kara stayed in Cross with a neighbor.
He looked at the diet soda on the table before him. Grif had opened it and a bag of Doritos, but hadn’t touched either since. “Oh, sure,” he said, softly. “Just counting the days. You know.”
“Only a few more weeks,” she said.
“Out by Christmas,” he said, brightly.
“The people from SCI have finished most of the legal stuff for the sale of the mortuary.”
He looked away for a moment, as if she had slapped his face. “Okay.”
“I’m so sorry, Grif. The business has been in the family for generations. This is awful for you,” she said.
“What’s awful is being in the business of grief,” he said. “Grief. Yes, I know that’s what people call ol’ Grif Nathaniel behind his back. Grief. Ha.”
Kate looked at him. She hadn’t seen him this animated in a long time.
“Kate, I forfeited my right to the family business in 1963 after I found out about what Ollie Olafson was up to and did nothing about it. Absolutely nothing. And who cares about the business anyway? It cost Ricky his life. Your husband. My sweet son.” His eyes swam with tears. “I can live with Dad’s death. He made his bed. But Ricky? He was innocent. Nothin’ to do with any of it and that son of a bitch Olafson killed him.”
Grif’s shoulders heaved with sobs. Kate reached across the table and took his hand with one of hers, fishing a tissue from her purse with the other. She felt tears spill from her own eyes.
A guard walked by, giving Kate a look. She slowly withdrew her hand from Grif’s.
After a moment, the two composed themselves.
“I’m so sorry,” he sniffed. “You didn’t come here to see an old man boo-boo.”
“Grif, I need to ask you something about that.”
He blew his nose and wiped his eyes, nodding. “Okay.”
“Olafson. Does he have any allies left alive?”
“Allies?” he said, finally sipping the soda.
“Anybody left from his old crew?”
Grif put the can down, cleared his throat and looked over her shoulder as if he were doing a math problem in his head. “Honey, that beating I caught messed me up a little. I’m a little aph- aph—”
“Aphasic. I know,” she said, gently. “I know it gets worse when you’re upset or frustrated. So just take some deep breaths and think a minute. I just want you to think. Who was Ollie’s crew?”
“Well, there was his son Craig, and he’s dead. I take no happy—I mean…joy in that. I know how it feels. At least Ollie didn’t have to live with it, though.”
“Okay, Craig Olafson.”
“And that crackbrain. Is that right? No, crackhead. Crackhead guy. They caught him. He’s in maximum.”
“Right.”
“Well, let me see. There were a few guys around who moved meth and mary—mary…”
“Pot.”
“Right. Pot. But really the bad guys were Craig and Ollie. Kennedy moved out of town years ago. Scovill was sheriff.” He scratched his grey head. “I’m not sure there’s anybody else.”
“Well, what about sympathizers? People who may not have worked directly for Ollie, but would be mad about Ollie’s death?”
He sighed. “Honey, that’s half the town. I mean, most are too cowardly to do anything more than hate John in silence.”
“So is there anybody you can think of who might be mad enough to try to hurt John?”
“Is somebody trying to hurt John?” his eyes were plaintive. “To hurt you or my granddaughter?” He was getting worked up.
“No. Just been some weird phone calls and stuff.”
“Have you told the new sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Well, where is John anyway?”
“He’s around,” she said.
“No need to hide it from me,” he said. “I saw him on TV. I know there’s a book. Is he out making the rounds?”
Kate nodded.
“That story needed to be told.”
“Yes.”
A bell sounded.
“That’s time,” he said. “Visiting hours are done.”
“Okay, Grif. Do me a favor. If you think of anybody we should be concerned about, anybody who might be a problem, will you call?”
“Of course,” he said. “One thing, though.”
“Yes?”
“Bring Kara Jane with you next time, okay?”
“Deal.” She hugged him quickly and kissed his cheek. “Take good care of yourself, Grif. We’re looking forward to having you home for Christmas. And your grandson is looking forward to meeting you.”
His eyes widened. “A grandson! Oh my!” His eyes grew teary again. “Tell John congratulations. And you tell my granddaughter I love her more than ketchup!”
The guard led him and the other prisoners from the visiting area. He looked frail and confused.
Kate sighed and cleared the soda can and Doritos off the table.
“He has his good days,” a guard said.
“Yes,” she said. “Is he okay?”
The guard shrugged. “Nobody’s messing with him, if that’s what you mean. He has friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yep. Inside.”
“Who?”
“A certain former law enforcement officer,” the guard said. “Excuse me.” He left the room.
“Scovill,” she whispered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sipping cold Modelos on the aft deck of the TenFortyEZ, Pilate thumped the armrest of a recently installed fishing chair. It was one of three solidly bolted to the deck.
“About time you go
t these installed,” Pilate said.
Taters Malley slugged back a swig of the Mexican beer. “Well, first I had to plug up the bullet holes and repair the fuel line due to the nosy parker ways of a certain famous author.”
“Touché’,” Pilate said, tipping his beer in salute.
“How you been, John?”
“Pretty good, man. Pretty good.”
Taters had his deck-shoed feet up on the railing, looking over the hundreds of ships docked in Naples. “Saw you on the teevee,” he snorted. “You looked pretty good. Held your own with that dude.”
“It was over before I knew it,” he said.
Taters grunted appreciatively.
“How’s the wife?”
“Great. Just great. How’s Jordan?”
“She’s gorgeous and sassy,” Tater said, smiling under the brim of his straw hat.
“Good.”
“For a guy with a bestselling book on his hands you don’t seem very enthusiastic,” he said.
“Who said it’s a bestseller?”
“Well, I figure it will be with all the media attention,” he said.
“Oh, that reminds me, here.” Pilate pulled a copy of the book out of his bag and handed it to Taters.
Taters tipped his hat back on his head, put his beer down and wiped his hands on his shorts before taking the book.
“Who bled out all over this thing?” He busted into laughter.
“Fucking graphic artists,” Pilate said. “It’s not a book cover, it’s a damn scene from a horror movie.”
“Oh man, thanks for autographing it,” he said. He closed the cover and looked Pilate in the eye. “You…uh…you didn’t…”
“What? Mention the business we had in Key West? Not hardly. I’m keeping my word to the government.”
“Good. I just got this lady repaired. I don’t want to lose her when they cart us off to Gitmo.”
“Nope. No worries there.”
Taters gently placed the book in the galley and returned to his seat.
“What’s going on here for you?”
“Book signing at the local bookstore in the morning, then we cast off for Key West for a couple of days; I have a reading at the Island bookstore. I also have a doctor’s appointment. Going to see Sandburg. Then I get on a plane to Chicago.”
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