Kate looked around again.
“Kate?”
Her head snapped back to Morgan.
“So I’m saying to myself ‘I know she’s been here before, so I’m sittin’ here wonderin’ why does Katie look so nervous?’“
Kate fidgeted with a tissue in her hands, then squeezed them in to a fist and relaxed them. “Sorry. Look, Morgan, I’m here to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Exactly,” she said.
“What?”
“Shooting. Somebody took a shot at John. I think you might know who it was.”
Scovill turned his head to the right, then left, stretching his neck. The grey hair was more pronounced than ever in his sandy beard. “Kate, you know how much affection I have for you, and the respect I have for John.”
She looked at him.
“And I would do anything to make up for what those bastards did to your late husband. He was a friend of mine.”
She looked at the table, then back into his eyes. “It was this man Thurman, wasn’t it?”
He looked as if someone had just stepped on his foot wearing football cleats. “I’m going to say this once,” he said, his voice lowering. “I’ve asked around as much as I dare, and I can tell you Thurman wants no trouble out of you or John. It makes no sense for him to stir stuff up, especially since you and your husband basically did him a favor.”
“We killed his cousin!”
“We - don’t forget I was there, too - we knocked a competitor out of the way,” he said through a clenched jaw, “one that in the ordin’ry course of events he wouldn’t have even gotten a shot at. We dropped this county into his lap, cousin or no. Now that don’t mean he loves you, but it means you get a pass - for now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not going to screw with you for Olafson’ death. It may be a different story down the road a bit, but so far, so good. Anyway, all that said, it don’t mean he’s going to get in the way if somebody else tries to have a little fun at your expense.”
“I figured that, too.” Kate felt her baby kick and winced.
“When you due?”
“Late November, maybe early December.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” she smiled. “He’s going to be a field goal kicker, I think.”
Scovill smiled. “I wish I had taken time to have kids,” he said.
“Not too late, is it?”
He snorted. “Hell yes, Katie, it is. Daddy in an orange jumpsuit? Whatever. ‘Sides, my wife’s left. She don’t wanna wait for me to get out. I don’t blame her. Puttin’ her life on hold for the likes of me? Nah.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just said ‘I figured that,’ so I assume you have a theory of who actually did take a shot at John. And please, please, please don’t say Jackie Lindstrom,” he rolled his eyes.
“No, not Jack. He’s dead, we all know it.”
“Well, not all of us.”
“I know what John thinks, but he’s wrong,” she looked around the room again. “I’m told you’ve put some protection on Grif in here. That true?”
Scovill twisted his lip a bit, then looked at Kate. “Maybe.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I just let it be known he’s my friend.”
“I thought former law enforcement officers had less than zero power in prison.”
“Well, as you know, I worked both sides of the fence. Anyway, my protection isn’t 100 percent bulletproof, but he should be fine in his remaining days here. In fact, I’d say he’s in more danger once he gets out unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you get the guy who’s really gunning for John. And you.”
“Who?”
“Well, he isn’t the butcher, or the baker or the candle stick maker, I’ll say that.”
“Dammit Morgan!” she hissed. “Who?”
Scovill put both his elbows on the table, leaned his head forward and itched at his nose with both hands. In a mumble, he said “Best guess? Perry Mostek.”
“I figured.”
“You figured?” His eyes widened, incredulous. “You did not.”
“Did too. He’s been acting strangely for a while now, and I saw him at the store yesterday. He had a look on his face like I’d caught him screwing the cows.”
“Well, I have no proof, of course,” he said, stroking his beard. “But I think he’s the only logical option.”
“What do I do?”
“Tell Lenny or his new boss. And tell your husband to stay the hell away from him. I betcha they’ll find some circumstantial evidence that will at the very least get him off your back.”
“I don’t want him to just leave us alone,” she said. “If he shot at John I want him in here.” She stabbed at the table with her fingernail.
“Well then, Katie, call the new sheriff,” Scovill said. “And don’t come back to see me. It’s best for us both.”
She nodded.
Scovill got to his feet and signaled a guard. “Congrats on the baby,” he said. “Don’t worry about Grif. I’ll keep an eye on him. Tell John hello for me.”
Pilate looked at his watch—only another hour or so before he reached town. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed the digits to Trevathan’s home phone.
It rang several times before someone answered; Pilate had reconciled himself to getting the answering machine.
“Hello?” Trevathan rasped.
“Dean, hey, it’s John. How are you?”
“Oh, the toast of the Today Show, huh?”
“Ha ha. What are you doing home? Goldbricking?”
“Yeah, didn’t feel like dealing with any snot nosed teachers today,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m driving back to Cross. I’ll be there in an hour or so. Thought we could get together later.”
Trevathan paused a moment. “You talk to Kate?”
“Not today, but she’s expecting me.”
“Okay, well, call me later. Okay?”
“Okay. Hey, you all right?”
“Just call me later,” Trevathan said, stifling a cough and hanging up.
The refueling stop was quick, just as the pilot promised. The Man took the break to stretch, use the bathroom and eat a sandwich.
The pilot passed him walking back to the plane. “Be right back. Gotta use the john. It clean?”
“It’s all right. Not like anybody got hammered in there.”
The pilot kept walking, his eyebrow raised in confusion.
The Man looked at the tail numbers on the planes parked at the small municipal airport in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. They all started with the letter ’N’.
“’N’ is for no. And for nevermore. And for not going to prison.”
The Man looked at his hands a moment. His once immaculately manicured nails were chipped and split. He noticed he had lost weight, even in his hands.
“I don’t think anymore,” he said to the wind. “I react.”
He felt a lump form in his throat.
I don’t need people. People are like newspapers. When you’re done with them, you throw them away.
He took out his cell phone.
Just for fun, maybe I should make a call to Brother John.
“Where did you go, Brother John?”
“The police are looking for you all over Florida, Jack.”
“I wish them luck.” He turned into a headwind sweeping between the small hangars. The sparse, lank hairs on his head whipped into his eyes.
“Sounds windy there,” Pilate said, slowly pulling his car over to the shoulder.
“Yes, it is.”
“You out on the water? In your speedboat? More target practice?”
“Oh, I’ll never tell.”
“Jack, you’re a sick man. Turn yourself in.”
> “Jack the Ripper was a sick man. I’m not him.”
“No, but you need help. You’re hurting people. Think of your wife.”
“I have no wife. And you have no idea who I am.”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“No, you’re just a man with a pretty, pregnant wife and an imaginary friend. You’re the one who needs help.”
Click.
Pilate dropped the phone in the passenger seat.
“How the hell did he know about me?” Simon said.
Very good question, Simon. But we have matters that are more pressing now.
He glanced in the rear view mirror. He stepped on the gas of the tiny car, hell-bent to get home.
How that fool ever got a beauty like Kate Nathaniel I’ll never understand. No matter. It won’t last.
“You ready?” the pilot asked.
He nodded.
“Well, let’s go.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kate drove down US-75, pondering just what she should do next. She checked her cell phone and found no missed calls from her time visiting Scovill. She called Pilate’s cell, but it was busy. He would be home anytime now, reading her note:
Back noonish. Missed you.
xoxo. K.
She smiled in spite of herself.
Her husband was an enigma in many ways, but she had never felt so sure about anyone, even her lost love Rick, than she did about John Pilate.
He was a hopelessly lost soul when she first set eyes on him, but behind the hurt in his eyes and the wariness in his demeanor, she glimpsed a gentle hope. He possessed a sweet kindness he had learned to ration out in small amounts.
She would forgive his hinted-at transgression in Key West. She by no means excused it, but she was a realist.
He is a good man underneath it all, and he truly had been through hell.
Stop. She told herself. Stop making excuses for him.
A kick in her belly came right after the self-admonishment. She laughed. “Defending your dad, huh?”
A familiar maroon minivan passed her doing at least eighty. Kate kept an eye on the road ahead, her speed a steady fifty-five. Nothing but smooth asphalt ahead for at least a mile, a ribbon of black cutting a swath through fields of gold.
She reached for the radio power switch, unaware of an old Ford pickup hanging back about a quarter mile, tailing her Volvo wagon.
Back noonish. Missed you.
xoxo. K.
Pilate was disappointed she wasn’t home, but was cheered at the xoxo on the note. Hugs and kisses sure beat all his clothes thrown on the lawn. He went to the bathroom, then changed his clothes. He tucked the ultrasound photo and letter for his son in a dresser drawer amid his socks and underwear.
He made a couple of fried eggs over medium, wheat toast with butter and some of that cardboard turkey bacon Kate raved about.
Chewing the bacon grimly, he looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. He could wait for Kate or go over to Trevathan’s. Finishing his brunch, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and tied on his red running shoes. He scribbled a note to Kate.
Gone to the Dean’s House. Back soon.
xoxo J.
Kate rounded a hairpin turn of the highway, easing the Volvo through the sharp curve and into a straight section of road. As she crossed the small bridge over Monahan Creek, it also crossed her mind that the Volvo was a smooth ride, very safe for the baby…
Bang!
Her right front tire exploded, dragging the car off the road into the guardrail of the bridge as if it were an enormous magnet. She braked, hard, and heard the crumple of metal as the Volvo peeled back the guard rail like the skin of an orange, the nose of the car hopelessly entwined with it.
Shitpleasedon’tletanythinghurtmybabyohGodnoLordhelpus.
The air bags blew, striking her face and the side of her head like a hammer blow, saving her life at the cost of stunning her to unconsciousness.
The rear of the Volvo fishtailed into the mercifully vacant oncoming car lane as the wagon completed a screeching 180 before coming to rest, the rear of the vehicle hanging over the edge of the bridge where the rail was peeled back.
Unconscious, Kate was unaware of the man crawling out of the brush nearby, tossing a rifle into the back of his maroon minivan. He pulled out onto the highway. Slowly cruising past the wreck, he stopped, then backed his van up to the side of the wrecked Volvo. He gently applied his foot to the accelerator. With a muffled scraping sound of the Volvo’s metal against the bridge, he felt the wreck give ground. In his rear view mirror, he could see his victim’s vehicle teetering; another foot and the Volvo would fall twenty feet into the creek.
He applied more gentle pressure to the accelerator, an eye on his mirror. He flinched when he caught sight of a vehicle closing in from a little over a half mile away.
Damn. He threw the van into gear and sped away from the wreck, bounding over a hill that he hoped would shield him from view when the other vehicle crested the hill overlooking the bridge. He also hoped the vehicle would finish the job for him and accidentally send Kate Pilate to her death.
Tom stopped a mere two feet from the Volvo and hopped out of his truck.
“Holy shit!” Tom said. “That wagon’s practically hanging over the side!”
“Call EMS,” Hilmer Thurman said, stepping out of the passenger side of the truck. He walked carefully over to the passenger side of the Volvo. He hadn’t seen many Volvo wagons since he moved here. Minnesota was crawling with them, but here, not so much.
He peered inside the wagon. “Oh Lord,” he said softly. “Tom, tell ‘em to hurry the hell up!”
Pilate checked his cell phone for calls after he stopped at Trevathan’s place. Nothing. He got out of the Suzuki, walked up to the door and knocked on the screen door. Inside, Trevathan was sprawled in his La-Z-Boy, asleep.
“You awake?”
Trevathan came around, his good eye fixing on Pilate. “Hey,” he said, weakly. “Come on in.” He cleared his throat noisily. “You were ‘sposed to call first.”
“Sorry. You okay? You look sick,” Pilate said.
“So do you,” Trevathan said, glowering, then breaking into a smile. “Want some iced tea?”
“No, I’m good,” Pilate said, sitting on the couch.
Trevathan folded the footrest into the chair, situated himself and looked at Pilate. “Hot out?”
“Getting there,” Pilate said.
“So what happened in Florida?”
Pilate revealed details of the events in New York and Florida.
Trevathan grunted and reached for a file folder. “So you think Jack shot you? You really think he’s still alive, after all this?”
“Well, somebody shot me, and somebody keeps calling me.”
Trevathan whistled through his teeth. “Okay, John. I’ve got some info here about our dear departed Jack—”
The ringing of his phone cut off Trevathan.
“You want to get that?”
He waved him off. “If it’s important, they’ll call back.”
“What was I saying?” he said, coughing gently. He cleared his throat again. “Right, okay, this file is some stuff about Jack Lindstrom, pre-Cross College. It makes for interesting reading.”
The ringing continued. “Damn it, I wish the machine would pick up.” The ringing stopped and Trevathan’s machine engaged. “Good.”
Pilate opened the thick folder across his knees and scanned a document while Trevathan watched him impassively. His recorded voice gave his gruff greeting, then another man’s voice came on the machine’s speaker.
“Dr. Trevathan, this is Sheriff Welliver. I’m calling to see if you know where we can find John Pilate. His cell phone must not be picking up our calls. His car is at his home, and we broke down his door trying to find him.”
“What?” Pilate said.
“He’s not at home. It’s urgent we find him. His wife has been involved in a car accident on US-75.”
“Swe
et Jesus, no. No.”
The papers balanced on Pilate’s knees flew all over the floor as he rushed to pick up the telephone.
A sneering mug shot of a young Johnny Lindstrom fell at Trevathan’s feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Pilate and Trevathan sped up the highway to the hospital in Goss City, making the drive in half the usual time of fifteen minutes.
Pilate barely stopped the car near the emergency department entrance before leaping out and running full speed through the doors. He almost ran over Juilie Hulsey, the registered nurse who had cared for him after the shootout with Ollie Olafson. She was married to Trooper Hulsey, who had helped to save Grif’s life after the Olafsons beat him a few months ago.
“Juilie,” he said, panting, holding her shoulders. “Where is she?”
She looked in his eyes. “John, I need you to -”
“Tell me where she is!”
Her dark brown eyes were wet, her face flushed. “John, please.”
Pilate looked over her shoulder, spotting Hilmer Thurman speaking on a pay phone.
“Thurman! What the fuck are you doing here?” Pilate said, rushing him.
Tom, Thurman’s right hand man, blocked Pilate. He was remarkably gentle. “Easy, Mr. Pilate,” he said. “The boss had nothing to do with it. We was the ones who found her.”
Thurman said a few words more into the phone, then hung up just as Sheriff Welliver walked over from the nurse’s desk, separating him and Tom.
“Mr. Pilate,” the sheriff said. “I’m very sorry…”
“What the hell is going on?” He jerked away from the sheriff. He turned back to the nurse. “Juilie, is she okay? What about the baby?”
Welliver held his hands up, palms facing Pilate. “Mr. Pilate, Tom and Hilmer found your wife on the bridge over Monahan Creek. They called it in and helped stabilize her before EMS got there.”
“Is she all right?” Pilate said.
I am losing my mind.
“John? John, come with me.” It was Doc Hutton, their family physician. He looked haunted, standing there in green hospital scrubs with dark stains on his belly.
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