Oh yeah. John Pilate.
Clouds are pretty dark. Could be showers.
So, where were we? Oh yes, Kate took the kids to see Grif at the assisted living center. You're batchin' for a few hours and decide to make a shaker or two of martinis. My lord, man, you've been out here five minutes and another one is already down your gullet.
Lighten up, Francis.
What is that? Sprinkles? Rain? Better go inside. Look at the thunderheads. Good, let's go inside. Wait, what are you doing with your keys to that Dodge Ram Commissioner Ryder loaned you? Playing constable again?
That was thunder, John. And you have no business driving after downing two very large martinis, even in this one-horse town.
I'm afraid, Dave.
<><><>
The first drink was hail fellow well met; the drink that set things right. That drink was charming and funny and full of hope. The sun was barely thinking of setting on that first drink. It made short work of the pain in his side, aching where he was once peppered with buckshot. It was like the first two strokes inside a warm woman; feels incredible and there are still good things to come. He swirled the last swallow of his drink around in the Nick and Nora-style martini glass, an unwelcome wave of despondence washing over him. If he were honest with himself, Pilate would acknowledge that some nights the last drink became two, then three.
Pilate wasn't drunk, per se, but sure as hell wasn't sober as a judge. He wavered a little, leaning over the lantern hissing and aglow atop the old oak front door, which lay horizontally before him, part of his makeshift outdoor speakeasy. He had christened it the Frontdoor Backyard Bar last year and it had served him well until this fall.
The fall powered up the ugly lights that said go home; exposing the wood that curled from exposure to sun, snow, and rain. Pilate's well-intentioned, cheap blue hardware store tarps had done little good in preserving it. Slivers of veneer and splinters fell off every time he touched it. He was at pains to figure out how to save the ridiculous horizontal prop for his teetering body.
“What’s with you, man?” Simon asked.
I don’t know. I just don’t want it.
“Want what?” his inner voice pressed.
Anything. I just want…I just want everything to slow down.
“I think you just want to hide,” Simon said. “Mind if I smoke?”
Hide from what?
“Yourself. You never think you’re good enough, and I think you want to mess up anything and anyone who does. Poor Kate. Poor kids.”
Pilate tensed. Shut up, would you? I—
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He looked at the screen and smiled, but it reminded him that he hadn’t returned Taters’ call earlier this afternoon.
“Well, well if it isn’t the best boat captain in all the—”
“John?” Taters said, cutting him off.
“Hey man, how you doing?” Pilate said, watching the sun disappear over the barren cornfields to his west.
“Well, I been better, my seafaring pal,” Taters said, clearing his throat.
Pilate blinked. Seafaring. The code word when things were going to shit.
“Your ticker?”
Taters paused a moment. “Yeah. My ticker. Got some flutters, and more than the usual ones when I see a nice bikini.”
“What’s going to happen? More surgery?”
“Maybe. Hey, look, Jordan’s on her way home and I can’t talk long. I don’t want to worry her, but I’m a little…well, you know.”
Taters and John never thought they would actually engage in this type of spycraft, but the code word idea seemed like a good idea after their past interactions with the government. Taters, ever the honest man, was having a tough time keeping up the pretense and was trying to end the call quickly before electronic eavesdroppers caught on.
“When do you want me there?” Pilate asked his friend, pushing his full glass away on the peeling bar.
“Soon as you can,” Taters said. “We may schedule the procedure for later this week. It could be nothing, but—”
“Say no more,” Pilate said. “I’ll book a flight.”
“Okay. Call me when you get it worked out. Bringing the family?”
“Wish I could, but Kara has school, and Kate has to teach, and Pete, well Pete has to be Pete with his mama and sis.”
“That’s probably best,” Taters said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t worry them at all. You know? Just tell them it’s something else.”
“Understood.”
“Either way, I gotta go. Call me when you get arrangements made?”
“You bet, pal. And don’t worry, everything’s gonna be all right.”
“I admire your optimism,” Taters said, ending the call.
“Shit,” Pilate said. He looked at the fading sunset. “Damn damn.”
“Well, well well,” Simon said. “Looks like Uncle Sam has plans for you.”
Great.
Now he had to explain to Kate why he had to go to Key West—and it couldn’t be the truth.
“It’s for her protection,” Simon said. “Think of the kids.”
I’ll tell her tomorrow.
“Coward.”
Shit. He stretched, unsteady and stiff, feeling his back muscles protest.
He snatched up the lantern and swayed like John Wayne walking the streets of Rio Bravo as he crossed the thirty yards of backyard to the kitchen screen door.
“Now where were we before your buddy the sea dog interrupted us?” Simon asked, exhaling mental cigarette smoke.
Shut up.
He estimated it had to be nearly ten-thirty, but the light was still on in the living room. The kids were always in bed by eight, no matter their protestations, so he assumed Kate must have fallen asleep on the couch, her face bathed in the light of the corn stove.
He walked gingerly into the kitchen, setting the vanquished lantern and his empty glass on the counter, inhaling deep and steadying himself.
Guess I’m telling her tonight. I should drink some water.
He turned to the faucet, filled a cup and downed it. A couple of aspirin might be a good idea, too, but that could wait. No need to rattle that bottle and wake that rebuke tonight. He inhaled deeply again and walked as steadily as he could into the living room.
He was surprised Kate wasn't asleep on the couch. Instead, she sat upright, her face cool and immobile as the statue in the quad. Oddly, sitting beside her was Cusack, their Irish friend who owned the local bed and breakfast.
"What is this, an intervention?" Pilate said, forcing a snort.
"Sure as fuck is," a man's voice said from the shadows of the staircase.
Pilate squinted at the shadow. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm sorry, John," Cusack said. "He made me bring 'im here."
"Shut up, you Mick fuck," the man said, punctuated with the unmistakable sound of a shell shucking into a shotgun chamber.
Pilate slowly raised his hands, noticeably trembling. "N-now, just a minute, friend—"
"I ain't your friend, and you best understand your bitch and buddy here have about a minute to live. Less if you move."
"Leave them out of it."
"Like you did my brother?"
"Brother?"
"He was one of the guys you three turned into a pile of dog food outside the jail last year."
Kate winced, her eyes shone watery panic in the dim light of the room.
"Yeah, bitch. I know what you did last summer, or whatever," the man chuckled mirthlessly. "Momma said they had to have a closed coffin. Face looked like a fucking plate of Hamburger Helper."
"Look, your brother, whoever he is...was part of a mob trying to kill us—" Kate said.
"Shut up, bitch. I woulda been here sooner, but I just got out," he contorted his face strangely, "and I am here to chew bubble gum and kill people. I will add that I am fresh out of bubble gum." He laughed at his poorly cribbed joke, which he had evidently rehearsed.
Pilat
e could tell he wasn’t half as badass as he acted.
“He’s scared. Determined, but scared, John,” Simon said.
Pilate’s mind raced back to another call he forgot to return. So that's why Morgan Scovill called me from prison the other day. To warn me. Pilate silently cursed himself for forgetting to follow up on the call—too preoccupied with that asshole Mann’s deposition.
He sized up his options. At this range, the shotgun would obliterate Kate and Cusack with one shot before Pilate could cover two steps.
"Even if you were sober as a judge," said Simon, Pilate's interior friend and tormenter. "Which you most certainly are not."
Pilate tensed up, his eyes darting to Kate's, her eyes red and frantic. She silently implored him to do something, anything, to protect their children sleeping upstairs.
Got no choice but to rush the guy and take the blast.
"So, Mister Bookwriter, why don't we get this over with. Have a seat there with your pretty wife and buddy and we'll end all our problems."
"Can't we talk about this?"
"We just did," the man stepped out of the shadows. In the soft light of the living room, he was thin, gangly and ugly.
The foul air of a meth veteran hung about him. He wore the hideous badge of poorly inked prison neck tattoos under an old jean jacket. He looked like a zombie version of Reverend Jim from that old TV show Taxi.
“It's meth head Reverend Jim," Simon whispered.
Meth head Reverend Jim's hands were unsteady holding Kate's twelve gauge, his finger caressing the trigger.
"Who was your brother?" Pilate said.
His head jerked up at Pilate. "Huh?"
"Your brother. Who was he? His name?"
"You didn't know him. You just killed him," he said, his lips curling back to reveal yellow stumps of ruined teeth. “He was just tryin’ to provide for his family. Now quit stalling and git your ass on that sofa." He gestured with the shotgun barrel.
"Alright," Pilate said. "Just take it easy."
"John," Kate said, her voice trembling.
"Do not mention the kids upstairs," Simon hissed in Pilate's brain. "If he doesn't know about them, he won't hurt them."
Simon, he knows we have kids. What’s to stop him from going upstairs after he blows us all away? He's going to kill us all.
“Shit.”
As if on cue, a child's voice carried down from the top of the stairs. "Daddy? Mommy? What's going—"
Jim looked up, swinging the shotgun towards Kara’s voice. Unsteady, Pilate leaped across the room, desperate to intercept the man before he got a bead on his daughter.
"Run, Kara!" Kate screamed, launching herself from the sofa.
Pilate came within two feet of the man, who cursed and swung back, facing the now-standing Kate and Cusack. He missed.
Pilate landed at the foot of the stairs, hitting his head, hard. He rolled over, trying to rise to his feet. Glass from the picture window behind Kate and Cusack shattered revealing the unmistakable, rangy shape of Jeremy Ryder after he fired one shot through it.
Pilate glimpsed Ryder's angular face bathed in the porch light, one eye squinting from behind his smoking six-shooter.
The wind rushed out of Pilate as the body of the meth head collapsed atop him. Blackness overtook Pilate, the collective shrieks of the farmhouse fading with his vision.
<><><>
"John," a laconic drawl of familiarity awakened him. "John, you all right?"
Pilate opened his eyes. "Kate! Kara—"
"They're fine."
“Pete?” Pilate tried to stand up, though he was woozy as hell. "Gotta stop that guy—"
"John, listen to me," hands grasped his shoulders and shook him, "Look at me. John, look at me. It's Ryder. Everyone's okay."
Pilate fixed his vision on flinty grey eyes.
"Hey, it's Robocop Cowboy," Simon said.
“Aye, John, we're all grand," Cusack said from over County Commissioner Ryder's shoulder. "Kate's outside on the porch with the kids."
"We called EMS," Ryder said, his eyes flicking to the body covered by Kate's afghan on the floor. "Well, the meat wagon, in this case."
“What happened?"
"I was on the porch for the last couple minutes of your discussion with that piece of shit," Ryder shrugged, dabbing at a bloodstain on his ostrich boot with his handkerchief and some spit. "When your daughter distracted him and you took that clumsy dive, I put a .44 slug in his left eye socket. Tough shot, too, what with Kate trying to hop up and kick his ass.”
"Oh," Pilate said.
"Sorry for the mess," Ryder said, his eyes sidelong at the blood splatter. He gestured at Pilate. “I think you’re gonna want to burn that shirt. And your rug. And maybe repaint the whole room,” he said, looking around them.
“Or just move," Pilate said, sitting up with a groan. "How did you know?"
"Got a call from a CI," he said, looking back at Pilate.
Pilate stared at him uncomprehendingly, his hand tenderly touching his temple.
"Confidential Informant. Told me this shitbird was getting out and wanted some payback from you, me, your wife and our Celtic friend here. Think he was saving me for last.”
"Morgan Scovill. He called.”
Ryder nodded, clicking his tongue. “We might need to speak on his behalf at the next parole hearing."
"Yeah. Definitely,” Pilate sighed. “I gotta see my family."
"They're right outside. You need to get looked at when EMS gets here," Ryder said, a siren wailing in the distance. “Won’t be long now.”
Pilate nodded. “Thanks.”
“No charge.” Ryder made a face and looked at his boots. “Though these boots ain’t cheap. Gonna be a bitch if I can’t get the blood out.”
"Young Peter is asking ‘where Daddy.' And you're all staying at my place tonight," Cusack said, leaning in. "I have a cask of something good for us waiting. I think we need a wee dram."
"Or two,” Pilate said.
"Feck it. Ten."
Chapter Four: House and Home
Well, alrighty then. I'm apparently along for the ride. Can you see me in the rearview mirror? No? Just your buckshot-scarred face. You used to be able to see me in the mirror. Right behind you.
Welcome to the Cross Township Casual Horrors Ride. Please, only three people per Doom Buggy, thank you. No flash photography if you know what's good for you.
<><><>
“He needs me, Kate,” Pilate said.
"Really? And we don’t? You do recall there’s a criminal’s brains all over the living room, right? We were all nearly killed last night.”
“Well, can’t you stay with Cusack while I’m gone? Just a couple of days?”
“John, Taters will understand. If he finds out you left us to come see him in the hospital after all this, he’ll never forgive you.” Kate wiped down the kitchen counter, her eyes avoiding his.
“Kate,” Pilate took her by the shoulders. “Please look at me. Ryder will keep a security detail on you at Cusack’s. There’s not going to be a problem.”
“John, that’s the thing. There’s always a problem, isn’t there?”
“What the hell does that mean?” He released her.
“You’re just running away,” she said. “There’s a problem here and—”
“That guy is dead,” he said. “There is no reason to believe there’s more to come. You’re safe.”
“I wasn’t talking about another killer looking for retribution or whatever,” she said.
"You've been trying to leave Cross since the day you got here." She turned away from him and sprayed Windex on the counter. She started working on a stain with a sponge.
"Yes. Yes, I have. And if it weren't for you and the kids—"
"Oh, don't you dare put this on us," she said, turning back to him.
"Fine. Fuck it. But I can't stay here anymore. Not now. I've got a friend in trouble and you're giving me a guilt trip? Besides, you know it's best I get aw
ay from you all. You'll be safer. You think that guy with the shotgun was bad? Hilmer Thurman is still on the loose, and he'll want payback for what I did as constable just as bad. Sooner or later. I'll just get you guys hurt if I stay."
“What? Are you hearing what you’re spewing? You just said we were safe if you leave because there’s nobody left to hurt us, and now you’re saying we’re not safe?”
Pilate felt the rage circulating through his body. “You’re not listening, Kate. You know what I mean. I love you guys.”
"You keep telling yourself that," she said. "You selfish shit. You want out? Do you want to get away from us? You want to be single again? Then go. Get the fuck out. But don't tell me you're trying to save our lives, or see your sick friend, or some such bullshit." Her face reddened, defiant eyes glistening with tears.
"Kate, you know, all I have brought you is—"
She wiped her eyes with a fist. "You brought me such joy. We were happy. Now all you do is mope around and act miserable. So go. You get a pass. Go to Key West. I’ll clean up the mess here,” she knocked the Windex bottle into the sink. “Go do whatever you need to do to get your shit together."
"Look, your majesty, I don't need your fucking permission," he said.
"No, but you apparently need something I can't give you."
He reached for her. She pulled away. "Pack your shit, John. Tell the kids you have to go work on your book or see Taters. Tell them you'll be back if that's the truth."
"Don't say that. I love the kids. Peter and Kara are my kids."
“No, John. They’re ours. And they will miss you," Kate said, biting her lip and hugging herself.
"Will you?" Pilate asked, his voice wavering.
"So, you going or what?" she asked, looking at the floor beneath her boots.
"Yes."
"Then do it, before the kids get home,” she made a beeline for the living room, calling over her shoulder, "Go, you selfish bastard. Just go."
Chapter Five: Hello Old Friend
On your right you will see the homes of some of Cross Township's leading citizens, including Mrs. Drum, whose lawn apparently attracts people with the urge to defecate.
Speaking of defecation, the clinically insane failure of a human being that is Harley Cordwainer, aka King Shit, is on his front porch right now, clad only in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. He's apparently cursing the thunderheads. Well, we're in for a treat, folks, as he just flipped us the bird. Cordwainer's bird! Wave back, everyone!
Pilate's Rose Page 3