“Okay,” she said. She brushed past him, squeezing his arm. “Good luck.”
He nodded, squaring himself up at the door.
Kay hurried to the sleeping cabin, climbing over provisions she had laid on the bed and opened the small window. She crawled through, exhaling to make herself as small as possible.
She scampered through the window and disappeared from view. Pilate turned back to the dock, where the two men were creeping towards the boat. He unlocked the door, his weapon raised to the side of his head, pointed up.
Come on, Kay. Pilate listened for her footsteps above him. After an eternity of five seconds, he heard her sneakers gently scampering on the deck. The two men didn’t appear to notice until she opened the storage locker and removed the flare gun—something rattled to the deck.
Shit. Pilate saw the shape of the two men look up, reaching for their weapons. In another second, Pilate heard a whoosh sound and saw both men’s faces illuminated by the flare overhead. Pilate banged through the door, sprinting to the deck cleats. He shoved his pistol into the back of his pants and got the stern tie-off free, then carefully tracked his way to the bow of the boat, glimpsing Kay firing the engines.
A crack of gunfire erupted just as he threw off the bowline. "Go, Kay, Go!"
“Hang on!” she shouted. Pilate felt the boat lurch. He lost his footing and rolled to the edge of the deck, his right leg hanging off. Water sprayed his leg as the boat cut precariously through the crowded dock, angling for a straight shot out of the harbor and out to sea.
“John?” Kay screamed above the roar of the engines and stray gunshots.
With no energy to shout, Pilate held on, pulling himself with considerable effort over the edge and throwing his damp leg aboard. He rolled on his back and looked at the masts of boats as they sped through the harbor.
“You okay?” Kay shouted.
He raised a thumb’s up, then clambered to his feet. Miraculously, the pistol was still with him. He walked back to the stern, then joined Kay on the boat’s tiny bridge.
"They stopped shooting," he said. "But they had a boat two slips over. I thought they were unloading, but apparently, they were doing the opposite."
She nodded. “That’s why we aren’t stopping. They were planning to get me out on the water.”
“Then actually, I’m not such a dumb ass.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re heading out.”
“Where?”
“Jamaica,” she said, turning to him. She grasped the back of his head and pulled him close, kissing him. “Just passing through?”
Chapter Eight: The Wide, Wild Sea
Alright, fine. Keep driving. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the actual road where a henchman of Ollie Olafson—yes, that Ollie Olafson—drove John Pilate off the road, nearly killing him. But our John bounced back and Ollie, Craig, and the rest of his crew are now asleep in the cold embrace of...
<><><>
Taters Malley shoved t-shirts into a duffle. "Where's my toothbrush?"
Jordan leaned against the doorjamb, raising a finger to point at his nightstand.
He looked at her, then the nightstand. "Oh, thanks."
Taters put the toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and can of shaving cream Jordan had set out for him in the bag.
"I think that's got it," he said, hands on hips, surveying their bedroom.
Jordan frowned. "Oh? What about these?" She tossed him a prescription bottle. He caught it—his cholesterol medicine. "Or these?" she tossed his nitroglycerin pills.
Wordlessly, he put them in the bag.
“You're due for bypass surgery in a week," she said, her tone flat, eyes leveled on his.
"Darlin', I know that," he said, moving closer to her. "But my friend's out there and he's in over his head—"
"When is he not?" she said. "Vernon, I like John, but he is nothing but trouble sometimes."
"You love John," he said, softly, touching her chin.
"Yes, but I don't love what he gets you into.” She looked away.
"I'll be fine," he said. "I'm just going to go see if I can talk some sense into him. I'm bringing Buster."
"Oh great, anybody else from the retirement home tagging along?"
Taters smiled "Maybe that sexy Nurse Ratched."
Jordan cracked a smirk, and then wiped it off.
“Our intel says he took off on a boat.”
“A boat? Why not yours?” she asked. “Why would he charter somebody else’s?”
“Probably because he thought it would worry me, darlin’, thus causing me heartburn,” he shrugged, dancing around telling her everything he knew.
"You think John took off with Kay to…take off with Kay? No freaking way."
"Didn't say that," Taters said. “You know Tom at KWPD? He said he was supposed to meet Kay for lunch yesterday, and she never showed. Couldn't get her on the phone. He went by her place and nobody answered. They got in and it looked like somebody had got in through a window. Furniture knocked over, her clothes and stuff all over the place."
"Shit. You think?"
"Yeah. I'd say Kay is in some deep shit and our misguided, valiant pal John is trying to rescue her.”
“He needs to grow up,” she said, arms folded. “First the Steelers get destroyed by the Chiefs, now this. You have three days," she said, her dark eyes back on his. "Three, or don't come home."
"Honey, you don't mean that—"
Her stare never wavered as his eyes implored her to relent.
"Okay, okay. Deal. We will be back in Key West in three days," he said, picking up his bag.
"Okay," she said, turning to walk downstairs with him. "You have your gun?"
"Yes, dear.”
<><><>
Buster leaned against a pole on the dock beside the TenFortyEZ, wearing Bermuda shorts, deck shoes, and a colorful island shirt as he puffed on a cigar.
"Heya," Buster said.
"Where'd you get that shirt, Magnum, P.I.'s yard sale?"
"Ooh, I would definitely wear one of Tom Selleck's shirts—"
Taters held up a hand in a "stop talking" gesture. "Thank you, no need to elaborate."
Buster laughed, wheezing a little. "All right, all right. I know that makes you a little uncomfortable."
"No, I'm cool. You don't live in Key West for any length of time and have a problem with alternative lifestyles...just don't give me visualizations, please,” Taters said, throwing his duffle on the deck.
"Fair enough," Buster said, climbing aboard. "Besides, Selleck's old. I like George Clooney nowadays."
The pair chuckled as they stowed their gear.
"Know where we're going?" Taters asked.
Buster nodded. “Tom at Key West PD said Vanderholt over at the marina told him what to look for.”
“Why?”
Buster shrugged. “Well, that’s the thing. It seems that somebody else had some eyes on the craft.”
“No shit,” Taters said. “I think our friendly neighborhood federal government had a hand in this.”
“Makes sense. And Tom—well, the feds then—think he's heading to Jamaica, mon."
"Jamaica? Not the Bahamas?"
Buster shook his head. "Nope. Though I figured that would be where he'd go."
"I guess he and Kay have business in Red Stripe country," Taters said. "I like that almost as much as I do the Modelo."
"Convenient. So, how long 'til we catch up to him?"
"Well, I’d say that bucket they’re sailing goes about half as fast as the TenFortyEZ, so assuming we match his heading, I'd say we can catch them just after they’ve disembarked at Montego Bay."
"Shit."
"Yeah," Taters said, firing up the Connie's twin Chryslers. "But you never know. John's no sailor. Neither's Kay, I reckon. Let's see what we can do."
"Aye, aye, captain," Buster said.
"You stock the cooler?"
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?" Buster said, cracking two Modelos as they embarked. By
the time they reached open water, the pair had finished off two cervezas each.
The sun was sinking fast on the horizon as Buster plinked an empty can at Taters.
"What do you think they’re after, Buster?"
Buster shrugged, then smoothed out his bushy gray mustache over his lined upper lip. "Not sure, other than Tom over at KWPD told me he heard a rumor."
"About John?"
Buster shook his head slowly.
"What?"
“About why Kay Righetti is back in town."
<><><>
Kate Pilate tossed her cell phone into the soft cushions of the couch.
"Asshole," she hissed under her breath, jamming her hands into yellow dishwashing gloves and yanking a scrub brush from a pail of pink water.
She had seen enough blood in her life to prevent her from gagging. Instead, it made her angry. She scrubbed the floor, putting her back into the leavings of a would-be murderer.
Their two-year marriage had hit the proverbial rough patch, and she couldn't figure out why. Yes, John Pilate had issues; nevertheless, he was getting help, and the pair had survived their fair share of adventures to make things interesting.
“Damn house is cursed,” she muttered, racing the brush across the floor, pink water foaming around it.
John's brief tenure as constable of Cross Township resulted in an accidental housecleaning of just about every crooked creep in the county, except for the kingpin, the wily Minnesotan Hilmer Thurman.
Thurman had gone dark since the night of the shootout at the jail. He was smart to fade out of view, as County Commissioner Jeremy Ryder was acting sheriff and looking for any excuse to arrest Thurman and make it stick.
No, that bit of drama wasn't fun for Kate, as she had to take up arms to defend her family. She couldn't be sure, but likely the blasts from her shotgun had killed a man. Maybe two. Perhaps she killed the brother of the would-be assassin who invaded their home.
But it had to be done.
Then all was quiet for a time. Taters Malley went back to Key West. Kate, Kara, baby Peter, and John settled into a calm routine after Pilate gave his badge back to Ryder. He had bad dreams and could be distant at times, but he was alright. The quiet routine of life on a farm town college campus helped them all.
That calm was decimated when the authorities caught up with Frechette. To her surprise, Pilate turned ever more inward. What started as relief that the guy who had absconded with the profits from his book was caught turned to anxiety with the civil suit. It was a nuisance suit, to be sure; one brought by an embezzler to embarrass Pilate by dragging out details of his personal life. However, it would go through while Frechette's criminal appeal continued. That could take months. And a whole lot of vodka.
John was going through a fifth every third day or so. He hid the bottles in an old barrel behind the barn, but she knew even without counting the empties. He had always “self-medicated” to a degree, but since the orgy of murders outside the jail and the lawsuit, she watched him succumbed to the urge to escape, to dull pain.
Hell, he preferred drinking to making love these days. Many a night he passed out on the sofa or the front porch swing, a hastily carved, dried-up lemon rind curled up in an empty glass nearby.
He wants to run away from a fight.
She sat up on her knees, dabbing sweat on her forehead with her forearm.
No, that’s not fair. John runs right into trouble.
When a gunman took their daughter’s class hostage, John ran into the line of fire. When Ollie Olafson and Hilmer Thurman’s punks tried to muscle him, he didn’t flinch when it counted. When pirates—oh my god, actual pirates—tried to kill him, Taters and…and that woman Kay, John dove right in after them.
Kate grunted, working at a dried crust of blood nestled in a crack.
But he runs from fights with me.
And now he was gone, diving headlong into something he probably lied to her about. He was gone, chasing whatever fresh mayhem he drummed up, and she could occupy herself cleaning up the blood stains.
“Fuck you,” she said, her words drowned out by the sound of bristles on boards.
The water ran clearer now.
Kate stripped off the gloves and tossed them into the bucket, along with the brush. She stood, her knees complaining, and strode stiffly into the kitchen. She washed her hands and poured a mug of coffee.
Kate carried the steaming mug to the front door, kicking open the screen door. She sat on the porch swing, watching the cold October wind whip the Visqueen hastily stapled over the front window Ryder had shot out.
She stared for a long time out into the cornfields surrounding their little farm, her coffee gone cold.
<><><>
"My cousins," Taters said, his eyes shining in the lamplight as the TenFortyEZ gently bobbed on the calm waters, cupping a Modelo Especial in his hands. "I visited them up north as a little boy. This wonderful little island up there in the middle a nowhere."
Buster nodded. "Good fishin'?"
"Yup, fishin' boat's where I got bit by the bug. My cousins took me out on their boat, and you might say I was hooked if you will pardon the pun," he chuckled. "It was the water and the way the boat cut through it. The guys smoking cigarettes and joshing and tending to the nets. Loved the sea from then on."
Buster sipped his beer, glancing out at the water, gesturing. "So you come by it honestly."
"I do," Tater said, tooting into the bottle with pursed lips. "But what I remember most is the potatoes. My, oh my, did they make great potatoes. I ate my weight in—"
"Taters?"
Taters chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, I ate them out of house and home, so they started calling me Taters. Mcleods. All Irish. Family called me Taters from then on out. Embarrassed me something fierce, 'cause I was in love with a gal. Even at that tender age."
Buster shrugged. "Shocking."
"Yes, she was something else, my cousin.”
“Cousin?” Buster waggled his bushy eyebrows. Taters ignored him.
“Magical. There's something magical about that place, too. Dovetail Cove. All kinds of odd up there."
"Oh?"
"Oh yeah," Taters said, reaching for the cooler. "In fact, once my ticker is healed up, and we get John Pilate settled down, I may just head back up there."
Buster smiled. "I get it," he said. "My whole time in 'Nam all I could think about was getting back to the Keys. Never want to leave. Some places are naturally restorative."
"You miss Trev pretty bad, dontcha?"
Buster shrugged. "Don't do any good." He was quiet a moment, his expression taking on a softness. "But yeah, I miss my buddy. I was the reason he came down here in the first place."
Taters’ eyes widened. "Wait, you mean you two were—"
"Huh?" Buster said, snorting. "Oh, hell no. Trev strictly loved the ladies, particularly his wife, God rest her soul. No, he just looked me up here after he got patched up with a glass eye after his discharge. Spent every penny he had on that shack he eventually left to John."
"Good guy?" Taters said. "I really didn't get to know him."
"He was one cantankerous son of a bitch, but yeah, a good guy."
The pair withdrew into themselves for a time, listening to the sounds of the waves and the hum of the engines as the TenFortyEZ made its way south.
"Take the helm a while?" Taters said. "I could use some shut-eye. Just follow the heading."
Buster winked and took the wheel. Taters walked to the back deck and took a seat in one of the fishing chairs. He looked up at the stars, casting his mind back to simpler days in Dovetail Cove.
Chapter Nine: Adrift and Afloat
John, why are you going to Monticello Cemetery? It's going to rain cats and dogs and all that place does is depress you.
Monticello Cemetery, where the aforementioned Jack Lindstrom met his death—indirectly at the hands of John Pilate. It's also where John and former Sheriff Sad Sack Scovill investigated a desecrated crypt, which hel
d the remains of the parents of the man who is now his father-in-law. Need a program, folks? Can't tell the players without a program.
<><><>
The Angry Rose cut through miasmic waters, parting the calm blue under the blushing rays of the waxing moon. The lights of Montego Bay winked and teased their proximity; the boat's fuel gauge coldly informed her that the teasing was cruel.
"Damn it," Kay said, tapping the fuel gauge with a knuckle. Why had she even come down south again? She still had a small scar on her forehead and a couple more on her legs and torso to remind her of that narrow escape from death.
“We’re nearly out of gas,” she said over her shoulder, brows knitted.
“Well crap,” Pilate said, a hint of frustrated accusation in his tone.
"Wasn't my idea to leave without topping off," she said. "I think it's a safe bet that if we get in the sea-lane, we can flag down somebody to help us with some gas."
“Think our friends will try anything when they catch up?”
“We just need enough to get into the harbor, hoist a quarantine flag, deal with customs and get to T. She’ll know what to do about this mess.”
“If you say so,” Pilate said, irritated that Kay put so much faith in a woman who created this mess in the first place. He looked up at the stars, as bright and warm as any night in Cross Township. It had not occurred to him until now that the one thing he loved about Cross was easily found in the middle of the sea.
He scanned the water behind them, looking for signs of the boat that had inevitably followed them for the last day or so. Nothing yet.
“There’s Montego,” she said. Pilate turned, the lights of Jamaica in the distance made him feel better. Not so alone.
“Oh crap,” Pilate said.
“What?”
“No passport.”
“Well, we’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it. They’ll probably make you stay on the boat.”
“Good times.”
Twenty minutes later, the engines sputtered, petering out about two miles from the harbor. She got on the radio and called for help. Running out of gas did not constitute a need for a full-blown distress call, but perhaps a friendly fisherman or the harbor patrol would hear and swing by with a gallon or two of gas.
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