“Okay, John. Just promise me you’re not too tired. I don’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel.”
“You do still love me,” he said.
“Yes. So don’t get yourself killed.”
“I’m so excited to hear that.”
“I love you. Call me from the road if you need to stay awake,” she said.
“See you tonight. Love you.” He hung up and hurried to the car rental kiosk.
“A what? A Suzuki? I thought they made motorcycles.”
“Cars, too, sir. It gets excellent gas mileage.”
Pilate eyed the tiny bright red car in the parking area outside the airport. “And probably causes back spasms and numbness in the extremities.”
“It’s all we have left,” the attendant said, shrugging. “Take it or leave it.”
Pilate silently accepted the keys and paperwork. He dragged his rolling bag with his good arm. He carried a large cup of coffee in the other arm; enduring sharp pains from the wound Taters had inexpertly stitched up in Key West.
This sucks.
“It’s how you roll,” Simon said.
“I wish I knew how to fly a plane.”
“Here’s another grand if there’s not a heavily detailed flight plan,” the Man said.
The pilot, a man who resembled a slightly paunchy, graying Denzel Washington, glanced at the money, then at the prospective customer.
“How many pilots have told you to go to hell so far?”
The Man smiled. “None. You’re the first I’ve asked.”
“What makes you think I’d do this? Fly to the middle of nowhere in the dark?” the pilot said, his eyes looking again at the cash on the desk in his small flight school office.
“Because that’s tax-free money for a milk run. A long one, yes. How long will it take to go…” the man pointed to a place in the middle of a well-worn wall map of the continental United States. “Right around here.”
The pilot moved closer to the map. “At least ten or eleven hours flying around 7,000 feet…no oxygen system to worry about, but some rougher weather. I fly the fastest single engine plane on the market, a Cessna Corvalis. Still, time takes time. And I’d need to refuel right about…” he pointed to a spot between Key West and the middle of nowhere. “Here.”
“So how long will that take?”
“Depends if anybody’s around that time of night,” he said. “You’re better off waiting until first thing in the morning, mister. The flight will still take about the same amount of time, and I’m pretty sure the gas station will be open.” He smiled, revealing big, pearly teeth. His eyes, however, revealed a man who had seen things he wished he had not.
“Six AM?”
“Five AM if you like. But it’ll cost you six thousand total.”
“Six thousand? Steep.”
“Gas ain’t cheap these days,” he smiled big again. “And neither is my lack of detailed paperwork,” the pilot said, his smile falling like an opening night curtain. “Take it or leave it.” He sat behind his desk and put his feet up.
“Let me think.”
“Mister, take all the time you need as long as it isn’t more than thirty seconds.”
The Man looked at him, his ears reddening, his fists closing and opening at his sides. “Okay. I’ll take it. I’ll be here at five.” He reached for the cash.
The pilot whistled at him and pointed. “Leave that. Deposit.”
The Man walked out, leaving the cash on the desk.
He’s the first pilot I’m going to kill, he thought.
Pilate’s drive in the Suzuki was more comfortable than he expected, but he tired quickly. By hour three of the nearly nine-hour drive, his back was rebelling; his wounded arm throbbing and his legs were numb. Even with cruise control, his calves complained from the close quarters of the fuel-sipping Japanese car.
“This really sucks,” Simon said.
“You’re telling me?” he said aloud, switching off the radio. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. He wasn’t going to be home until at least three.
Coffee made him jittery and filled his bladder to the point of discomfort. He took the exit for a rest area.
The lot was empty. No one around, just June bugs orbiting the light above the restroom door. Pilate entered, his nostril assailed by the smell of urine and faint traces of shit. A faucet among a row of several was going full blast, water splashing on the cement floor. Pilate turned the handle, but the water kept coming.
He opened his zipper and stood over a urinal. He needed to go, but an hour of holding a full bladder made him freeze up. In these circumstances, which also happened at large sporting events or concerts when other guys waiting to piss surrounded him, he knew it was best to take his mind off it and let his bladder relax.
Scrawled on the wall was some doggerel, none of it clever. Die fags die! Was scrawled in black marker. Watch your corn hole in Iowa was met by a hasty attempt to mark it out and an arrow pointing to the witty rejoinder your stupid which had another arrow pointing to a response to the rejoinder: My stupid what? A final arrow pointed to that parry with the words shut up faggit.
“John, get your publisher on the phone, I think we have the new Shakespeare. Or at least a new Nicholas Sparks.” Simon said.
Below in red marker were the words Get sucked here free just leave water “on” and wait.
“Why did they use quotation marks?” Simon asked.
Pilate relieved himself, splashed his hands under the running tap and, seeing no paper towels in the dispenser, waved his hands in the air and wiped them on his pants. He turned to leave and was startled by a tall, imposing man who eclipsed the doorway. He wore a filthy Carhartt jacket over dirty jeans and work boots.
Pilate nodded at the man, the code of silence among men in public toilets - ironically unwritten on restroom walls. The man did not take his cue to let Pilate by. He stood there, impassive, with an air of inevitability.
“That your car?” he said, his thumb jerking behind him.
“Yep,” Pilate said, stopping.
“It’s nice. I bet it gits good gas mileage when you get your campocheenos,” the man said with a vaguely rural accent.
“I’m more of a latté man, myself.”
“Easy John,” Simon said.
“That’s funny,” the man smiled. One of his front teeth was either broken or very dark in color.
“Thanks,” Pilate said. “If you’ll excuse me.” Pilate walked within two feet of him and the reach of his swing.
“You here for something?” the man said, his face impassive as his smile faded.
“Just taking a piss and getting back on the road,” Pilate said. “If you’d move over I’d appreciate it.”
“I was just making sure you weren’t here for sumptin else,” the man said. “Because I could might help you out.”
Pilate felt his guts tighten, a cramp forming just below his belly button.
“No, I did what I came here to do,” Pilate said. “And I don’t want anything else, friend.”
“I ain’t your friend,” the man said.
“No doubt,” Pilate said. “So get out of my way before our relationship dynamic goes from neutral to negative.”
The man’s face darkened in bemusement at Pilate’s banter. “You makin’ fun of me?”
“No,” Pilate said. “Look buddy, I got to get home to my wife and kid. Just move, okay?”
The man shook his head. “Maybe then I came here to git sumptin from you.”
“Maybe you’re going to be very disappointed,” Pilate said. Using his peripheral vision, he cast about the room for a weapon. Not much in there not bolted down or connected by pipes.
“No hammer,” Simon said.
But there will be blood.
“Okay, mister, you want money?” he pulled a wad of ones, fives and two twenties from his pocket. “Here.” He held the cash out with his wounded left arm.
“You giving me a present?” the man said, smiling again.
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“I’m giving it to whoever claims it. Putting it right over here.” Pilate backed up and left the cash sitting on the sink farthest from the door. The man would have to clear the doorway to get the cash.
He looked from Pilate to the cash on the sink, then back again.
“Mister, why not take what you can get?” Pilate said. “You can have the cash for nothing. But if you want to try and get anything else outta me, we’re both going to end up hurting.”
“Ya think so?”
“Tears before bedtime, pal.”
The man eyed Pilate for a cool ten seconds. “Maybe I want the money and sumptin else.”
“People in hell want ice water.”
“Huh?”
“You’re not getting anything else from me.”
“I wonder if he wrote the stuff on the wall?”
Not helpful, Simon.
Pilate’s exhaustion fled him on a wave of adrenaline. He was ready for the man’s next move, one way or another.
The man’s eyes darted from Pilate to the sink, the sink to Pilate. He inhaled deeply, then moved his bulk toward the sink.
Pilate was poised to bolt for the door, to get out of the stinking shithouse and into his car as soon as there was an opening.
The man moved closer to the sink.
The doorway opening looked as hopelessly challenging as the exhaust port on the Death Star.
Now or never, Luke.
Pilate bolted for the doorway. He closed five feet in less than two seconds. He caught a scant whiff of fresh air outside and a glimpse of the June bug-infested light before a fist clipped the back of his head. He fell forward, tripping over his feet, falling headfirst into some bushes.
The bushes scratched at Pilate’s hands, flung ahead of him instinctively, as the ground came up to meet him. He groaned and had started to extricate himself from the bushes when two large hands grabbed him by the foot and dragged him back into the restroom.
“Let me go, you fuck!” Pilate yelled as he slid helplessly across the wet floor, flopping over on his belly to try and get up.
The man stopped dragging him and let go of his foot, stepping over Pilate to shut the door. “Oh hell no!” Pilate said. He kicked both feet at the man’s right knee. Pilate’s heavy-heeled loafers made contact.
“Ow!” the man wailed, falling to his left knee.
Pilate rolled away from him, feeling Taters’s stitches in his arm rip. He got to his feet and made a fist of his right hand. He swung at the man, clipping his nose but connecting more solidly with his upper lip. The man howled in pain; a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth.
Pilate didn’t give him time to recover. He grasped a toilet stall divider with both arms and swung his legs at the man, full force. The heels of both loafers connected with the man’s neck and face. The man’s nose made a sickening cracking sound. Blood flowed easily from his nostrils.
When the adrenaline levels fall, my legs are not going to thank me for that.
“You broke my fucking nose, you sumbitch!” the would-be robber/rapist said.
“I…told…you,” Pilate said, his breath coming in gasps. “To let…me…fucking go,” he said.
The velocity of anger overtook him. His vision shorted out for a second until he saw only the blood. Pilate interlaced his hands together and formed a club, hitting the man again. Shocks of pain jolted his fingers as the man pin wheeled and slammed into the edge of a sink. A corner of the sink broke off, cutting the man’s forehead. Fresh blood issued, faster now.
Pilate fell against the wall beside the doorway, his clothing wet and ruined, his fists covered with the man’s blood.
It oozed from the man, mixing with the filthy water on the restroom floor.
He lay there, wheezing through his broken nose, tears running from eyes clouded by his own blood.
“Time to go, John,” Simon said.
Pilate stepped over the man, snatching the money from the sink. He turned to leave, then moved back to the sink. He saw a smudge left by his hand when he took the money. He took off his ruined shirt and wiped it away.
The parking lot was vacant save his little Suzuki. The man had apparently arrived on foot and then lain in wait in the shadows for an appropriate victim.
Pilate tore out of the lot and merged onto the deserted highway. Hot tears tracked down his face. His bloody hands numb as they clutched the steering wheel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’m exhausted, babe,” he said, calling Kate from the parking lot of a motel off the highway forty miles from the scene of his attack. “I’d better get a room.”
“Okay, get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Okay, sorry.”
“No problem, babe,” she said sleepily. “Love you.”
“You too,” he said.
Pilate took off his jacket, realizing that both the ultrasound photo and the letter to his unborn son, folded and in an inside pocket, were moist from the piss and blood on the slimy restroom floor. He carefully unfolded the letter and waved it and the photo gently in the air to dry. He dug through his bag for a clean shirt, removed his ruined jacket, checked himself for blood and cleaned up as best he could. Then he moved his car into the shadows behind a semi before checking in.
Pilate removed the letter for his son from his shirt pocket, and carefully laid the moist pages on the small desk. He found one sheet of cheap hotel stationery, uncapped his pen and wrote a postscript:
I’d like to be able to tell you that the world is a good place. I can’t. What I can tell you is that this bad old world is populated by people, and more than a few of them are good. Not as many as I wish, but still…
He took a long, hot shower before re-bandaging his bicep and collapsing on the bed, his right hand in a bucket of ice.
“You left Daddy Pilate a note?” Kara asked as they drove to school.
“Yes, honey. Just telling him where we are.”
“So I get to see him after school, right?”
“Right, Kara Jane.”
“Yay!” she was quiet a moment. “Mom?”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you think he got me a present?”
Kate drove to Lincoln after dropping Kara at school.
The small plane was surprisingly lithe in its ascent. The pilot knew what he was doing and the plane nimbly answered his commands.
“Nice plane,” the Man said.
“Yeah, beats the Otter I flew in the Navy all to hell,” the pilot said, smiling as he marked some notes in his logbook.
“I thought this flight was off the books,” the Man said.
“It is. But I need to mark my fuel consumption in case the gauges crap out.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“No,” the pilot looked straight ahead, then at the Man. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
The Man caught a glimpse of the sun rising behind the plane. “Beautiful.”
“That never gets old,” the pilot said, slipping his aviator sunglasses on.
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
Pilate woke up in the strange motel room, his entire body aching. He moaned.
“Wakey wakey, John,” Simon said.
He moaned again, opening an eye to peer at the digits on the clock. “Ten AM. Shit!”
He rolled off the bed onto his feet, spilling the melted ice from the plastic bucket onto the bed. His back popped in several places as he hurried into the bathroom for a sketchy toilet. He looked in the mirror; his face was haggard, the fresh bandage on his arm showed signs of blood seepage. His hand was tender and rough looking, but not too swollen.
“Looking good, John.”
Pilate felt a wave of nausea and threw up into the sink. The disgorgement continued for three minutes or so. Afterward, he sat on the edge of the bathtub, vacantly staring at the cheap towel he used after last night’s shower, wadded up in the corner.
“You fought off an attack, John. He’s alive. You go
t away clean.”
Simon, I could have killed that guy. In a fucking restroom. Just like Jack did that old man.
“Jack wasn’t defending himself. Jack was preying on someone weaker.” Simon said.
Pilate held out his bruised right hand, small scabs had formed on the knuckles.
I am so tired of blood.
“I know, John.”
Pilate was dressed and back on the highway in twenty minutes, the tiny car a blood red bullet aimed at Cross Township.
“Aren’t you a picture!” Morgan Scovill said, smiling broadly. “John Pilate never told me you were with child. That rascal!”
“Hello, sheriff,” she said.
“Morgan, Kate,” he said, his palms open before him. “Jes’ Morgan. A guy doing his stretch. Paying my debt to society.”
The pair sat down at the same table where Pilate and Morgan had talked before.
“How are you, Morgan?”
“Not too bad,” he said, his eyes on Kate’s. “Getting by.”
“They treat you okay?” she said, glancing around the room.
“Fine. Say, did they put you in the wrong room or something?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I expect you’re here to see Grif.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I figure I’ll see Grif quite a bit in a couple more months,” she said.
“He’s getting out, for sure?”
She nodded. “Yes, they’re letting him out on good behavior. And probably because of his health. He may never fully recover from the beating that bastard Olafson gave him. But yes, he’ll be living the life of a free man soon.”
“Wish I could get in on that action,” he smiled. “But I’m in for at least six more years before I can even attempt to get out on good B.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be, Kate.” Morgan winked at a guard. “I earned my accommodations in the Graybar Hotel. Did you bring me any cookies?”
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