“It’s Pilate, Gampy,” Jacey said.
“What?” he said, sharply.
“Nothing, Gampy.”
“Good day, Miss,” he said, heading up the stairs.
Kate whispered to Jacey. “Long walk day?”
“See you,” Jacey whispered, looking at the floor.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Taters said, cradling Pilate on the deck, looking around for signs of the speedboat’s return. “I always wanted to say that.”
“Hurts like a mother-” Pilate said.
“You okay? ‘Cause I’m tearin’ out after the bastard.”
Pilate nodded. “Taters, you armed?”
He nodded. “I got my .45,” he said.
“Well, it’s never let us down,” Pilate said, crawfishing down below to get to the first aid kit.
Taters gunned the engines and barreled through the azure waters, seeking the speedboat’s wake. To his consternation, light was fading.
“I’m losing him,” he said. “Can’t see shit. He’s turned off his running lights—I can just barely make out a boat about two miles out.”
“Let him go, Taters,” Pilate called from below. “Let him go. I have all I need.”
“What do you mean? What do you have besides a hole in your arm?”
Pilate poked up on deck, gritting his teeth and wrapping a gauze bandage around his bicep. “Proof.”
“I’m getting you in fast as I can,” Taters said at the wheel. He picked up the radio mic. “I’ll call ahead for the EMTs. Mayday-”
“No!”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘no’? You’re shot!”
“Grazed me. It’s nothing. And we don’t need the police, Coast Guard or the added media attention,” Pilate said.
“Look, you stubborn son of a bitch, we have to take care of this-”
“You can sew my arm up,” Pilate said. “Dude, do we really want the Coasties to get wind that we were anywhere near the forbidden zone? That shots were again fired at your boat?” Pilate taped up the gauze on his arm.
Taters looked at Pilate, then back to the darkened horizon, throttling down a notch. “Shit.”
Kate sat in her car outside the store for a moment. She saw the blinds move in the small upstairs office above the door. Perry Mostek was watching her.
She turned the key and put the car in gear, reversing into the deserted street. She drove to the school to pick up Kara, then headed for home.
After situating Kara at the kitchen table with a peanut butter and honey sandwich and a glass of milk, along with an admonishment to do her homework, she flopped tiredly on the couch and made a call.
“Robert, it’s Kate Nathaniel Pilate. I’d like to get on the list for visitor’s day tomorrow,” she said. “Can you make it happen?” She listened to Jim a moment. “No, not Grif. Morgan Scovill. S-C-O-V-I-L-L.”
Taters ran the large sewing needle through the flesh of Pilate’s bicep.
“Damn it, that hurts!”
“Sorry pal, but you’re the one who wanted to stay out of the hospital,” he said, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Drink some more vodka.”
Pilate dutifully downed another large shot. “This is like a scene out of a damned movie.”
“Like Shane?”
Pilate glared at him. “Ha ha. No.” He made a “pffffhhhhh” sound as Taters tugged on the thread.
“I’m just glad Jordan’s at her Bunco night,” he said.
He cut the thread, made a small knot and stood up, his bones cracking loudly. “There ya go. Keep it clean and you should be all right. Only six stitches and a couple of butterfly closures.”
“Thanks,” Pilate said, eyeing the repair.
“Just like sewing up a sail, though the sails don’t whine quite so much. Give me the vodka.” Taters took a swig, coughed a little and sat back down. “So you have your proof, eh?”
“Yep,” Pilate said.
“You think your old boss came back from the dead, rented or stole a speedboat, found you out there, and shot you.”
“He said he would kill me,” Pilate said. “But when you get down to it, he’s a coward.”
“Coward enough to beat a guy to death at a truck stop with a hammer?”
Pilate swigged more vodka. “Well, you make a good point. Maybe he was just playing with me. You know, freaking me out. Maybe he never guessed he’d hit me.”
“Or maybe it wasn’t even him. Maybe it was a friend of our old pal, the Bahamian.”
“I dunno,” Pilate considered. “The Coast Guard sounded pretty certain they cleaned that particular infection out of the area.”
“Maybe so,” Taters said. “Well, at any rate, you have a plane to catch tomorrow…to Chi town I believe.”
Pilate got to his feet and stretched, favoring his wounded arm. “Glad it’s not my book signing arm. Doesn’t really matter, anyway. I’m skipping Chicago. Going home. If Jack Lindstrom is indeed alive, I doubt he’ll go back there, but still.”
“Well, what if he does?”
“Then I’ll be ready for him,” Pilate said, capping the vodka bottle.
“Well, I’m on the lookout here,” Taters said. “He isn’t getting anywhere near Jordan and me.” Taters picked up his pistol and tucked it in his belt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning, Pilate made quick but heartfelt goodbyes as Taters helped him load his bag on the belt at the airport.
“Take care, brother,” Taters said.
“You too,” Pilate said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You do just that very thing. And make sure you let the local PD know who might show up in Cross. It will keep you alive,” he said. “That’s the Taters Malley Theory on that.”
They did a brief “bro hug,” then Taters walked back to his Jeep.
Pilate took a last look around him.
“Looking for Lindstrom?” Simon said.
How’d ya guess?
Seeing nobody familiar, Pilate walked to his gate.
He had some time before his flight, so he called Kate. He got the answering machine. He hung up and tried her cell, but no answer. Not unusual for Cross, with reception being as lousy as it was.
He called the college and asked for Dean Trevathan, but was told the dean was out today.
“Well, crap,” Pilate said. “Nobody wants to talk to me.” He started to put his phone away when it rang. He opened it without looking. “Well, I was beginning to think you didn’t miss me…”
“By the looks of your arm, I didn’t.”
Pilate’s belly dropped. He looked around the airport. Only a few dozen sunburned travelers waiting for their ride.
“You missed all the important bits,” Pilate said. “I thought you said you were going to kill me.”
“I said maybe I will kill you,” the muffled voice said. “Yesterday I wounded you, but very soon I may kill you.”
“What, if you get up the nerve?”
“Don’t test me, fucker.”
“Oh, hit a nerve, did I?” Pilate’s voice quavered a little, but he steeled himself.
“You think you’re so smart,” the voice said.
“Well, Jack, I guess I hit that nail on the head. With a hammer.”
“You’re…” the voice’s breathing became loud and labored. “…a dead, dead man, Brother John.”
Click.
“It would seem Jack Lindstrom is alive and unwell,” Simon said.
Pilate called Petersen of the state police and told him everything.
“Why didn’t you call the authorities in Key West?”
“Long story. I’m telling you because I trust you, and you can make sure my family is okay.”
Petersen made a sound like he was in pain. “Well, that may be something you’ll regret. The local P.D. coulda been looking for him last night and today.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Okay. When are you getting back to Cross?”
“Today. I’m suppos
ed to make a two-day stop in Chicago, but I’m canceling. Going to book a flight home as soon as I get to Midway. It’ll be easier to get home from there than here.”
“Good idea. If that truly is Lindstrom, there’s no way he’ll be able to fly, not unless he has some exceptional fake documents. I’ll send an alert to the TSA just to be sure. If he can’t fly, he’ll only be able to take a bus or drive. You’ll have time to get home and look after Kate and the kiddo. We’ll also have time to coordinate with the sheriff in Cross. Speaking of, you’ll be glad to know that the unimpressive Sheriff Welliver, thanks to some encouragement from yours truly, talked to Hilmer Thurman. He’s reasonably assured Thurman didn’t shoot at you. He thinks Thurman would prefer to shake your hand.”
“Apparently Mr. Thurman didn’t reveal details of your visit to the good sheriff,” Simon said.
“Hmmm. Well, I think that’s probably right. But if it wasn’t Thurman, then who was it?”
“If we’re operating on the theory that somebody indeed did take a shot at you, they intended to kill you and missed,” he said. “I think somebody local - people I know nothing about, I’m afraid - would be your next suspect list.”
“I’ll dig into it when I get back to Cross,” Pilate said. The PA announced his flight. “That’s me, I gotta go. Thanks.”
“No problem, just be careful, and don’t do anything in Cross unless you talk to me or Welliver first. Okay?”
“Got it,” Pilate said, his arm throbbing as he picked up his carry-on bag.
“John, are you serious? You’re canceling Chicago?” Monique said. She covered the mouthpiece of her phone and apparently repeated it to someone standing nearby. “John, you’re at number five on the list. You have to keep the appearances going.”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“Gotta get home,” he said.
She lowered her voice. “John, I know that reporter from the Post spooked you with talk about the Key West fling, but surely you can get Chicago done before you head home? From there we can postpone some of the west coast stuff.”
Pilate wasn’t about to tell Monique the real reason he needed to get home - well, the most important reason: a madman is on the loose, looking to kill me. And maybe my family.
“My marriage is more important than this book,” he said. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m trying to get a flight to Omaha, so I have to go. I promise I’ll call when I get home and we can work out a new schedule.”
“John, it’s not like I can just wave a wand and make the news media reschedule you. I’m a publicist, not a magician.”
“Monique, I assure you I’ll do everything in my power to keep this book rising to the top. Trust me.”
“You are so never getting laid by me, even in the next life.”
Pilate heard someone say something in the background.
“Nothing, Mr. Frechette.”
“Bye, Monique.”
“Good luck, John.”
“And to you.”
There wasn’t a flight to Omaha from Midway until 6:30 p.m., which meant Pilate would be cooling his heels at the airport for another five hours. The flight was only 52 minutes; he would pick up his bag, get to his car and drive back to Cross, approximately two more hours. In a perfect world where all things went as they were supposed to, he would be home in just over eight hours.
Shit.
He bought the ticket, then thought about alternatives.
Pilate went to a rental car kiosk.
“Hi,” he said to an attractive but frazzled-looking woman behind the counter.
Hi,” she said. “How may I…”
“Could you tell me the driving time from here to Cross Township, Nebraska?”
Her face looked a bit pained, then puzzled. “Cross Township. Hmm. Never heard of that one. Let me look it up. Have the zip code?”
He gave her the five numbers; she entered them into her keyboard with a clack clack clack.
“Well, there it is. Huh. Says it would take you approximately, and of course these map things are never a hundred percent…”
“Yes,” Pilate said. “Nothing is these days.”
“It would take you about eight hours and forty-one minutes to drive from here to there.”
“Hmmm,” Pilate said. “Interesting.” He would be exhausted from driving, but if all went well, he would be there in just about the same amount of time. “That’s assuming I go the speed limit, I assume?”
She looked at him blankly. “Well, yes, of course. Especially if you’re renting one of our cars.”
“Of course,” he said.
“John, she’s fine, and you’ll get there just as fast and twice as rested.”
“You’re right.”
“About?” The woman said.
“Oh, nothing. Thank you.”
Pilate walked through the concourse in search of a place to think.
He sat in a departure area between a grotesquely fat woman and a trio of boisterous tweens, picking at an overpriced, brown salad he bought off a small vendor station.
“Screw this,” Pilate dumped the salad and walked away. A few gates down, he found a seat at a crowded bar and ordered a Stoli, straight up with a lime.
“Nice.”
Thanks, Simon.
He pulled out his cell phone and tried Kate’s cell again. No answer, so he left a message explaining he was on his way and would explain it all when he got there. The last words he said on the message were Be careful.
“Is this Stoli?” he asked the bartender.
“Absolut,” she said, blending a margarita.
“Overhyped, bland vodka,” he said to himself.
“What?” she said over the noise of the blender.
He held the glass up, as if to toast her. “It’s overhyped average vodka. It just has a cool bottle and good marketing, but thanks,” he smiled.
The bartender clearly didn’t hear him, and smiled back.
Kate plugged her cell phone into the charger. She was annoyed she hadn’t heard from her husband, then realized there was a message on her cell phone. “Will this town ever get any decent cell service?” she growled. She used her home phone to dial into her cell’s voice mail and retrieved Pilate’s message about the change in plan.
She dialed his cell, wondering if she should tell him about her trip to Lincoln tomorrow, never mind the horrible news about Peter Trevathan.
“Hello? Is that you babe?”
“Hi John,” she said. “What’s going on? Why are you canceling Chicago?”
“I think I need to be home. We need to get things worked out,” he said.
“What about the book?”
“Screw the book,” he said. He didn’t want to worry her about a possible visit from Jack Lindstrom or a potential local threat.
“Thanks,” she said. “But we’re okay. I can wait another couple of days.”
“Of course we can wait, but I don’t think we should. Look, my plane starts boarding in ten minutes. I’ll be home in about three hours, okay?”
“Okay,” she said. Despite their problems, his face would be a welcome sight at her door.
“I miss you, Kate.”
“I miss you too.”
“Hug K-girl for me.”
“I will. Love you,” she said.
“You too. See you in a few.”
Kate hung up and decided she might not tell him where she was going tomorrow. She didn’t want him to worry or get all worked up.
“I hope he talked to Dr. Sandburg while he was in Key West,” she said aloud. “Said the woman talking to herself.”
Pilate hung up with Kate and gathered himself up to get in line for the plane. His heart dropped when he saw the word DELAYED beside his flight number.
“God…dammit.”
He dropped his bag on the floor and fought the urge to kick it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“And just how long is the delay?”
The impassive airline staffer tapp
ed at her computer keyboard. More clack clack clack.
“Oh, it looks like. Huh. Oh, okay. Mechanical trouble in St. Paul. Looks like,” she looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I think this flight may cancel.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Yes, sir. If you would excuse me a moment I need to make an announcement.” She scooped up a microphone and announced the fight was indeed canceled and passengers should make their way to her desk to arrange another flight…tomorrow.
Pilate sighed heavily. “Is there no other airline flying to Omaha tonight?”
Clack clack clack.
“Not tonight sir, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, just explain to me how the fuck I’m supposed to get home to my pregnant wife tonight?” he felt his face and ears turning red. The velocity of anger surged through him, leaving reason behind.
“Sir, I don’t have to take any abuse,” she said, looking at her computer. “And oh, shoot, my terminal froze. It may be a few minutes before I can help you.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, stamping away.
“Hey, mister,” another man said. “There’s no need for that.”
“And that goes for you, too,” Pilate said in an unintentionally superb George Bailey impression.
“Why so upset? You know as well as I that deregulation killed decent airline travel thirty years ago,” Simon said. “Just be pleasantly surprised when things actually work out.”
“I’m renting a car, honey.”
Kate sighed. “Why don’t you just go to a hotel and get some rest. You’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Well, crap, Kate, I might as well stay here for the book signing,” he said. “No, I’m heading home. Listen…”
Kate yawned. “Yes?”
“I want you to be careful. Lock the doors tight,” he tried to keep his voice level and not overly excited.
“What’s up, John?”
“I just have an uneasy feeling about things,” he said. “Look, I don’t want you to worry, but I’d feel better if I were home tonight and you were keeping an eye out in the meantime.”
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