Pilate had to get to the radio, but it was upstairs with the visitor, and he dreaded the thought of another gunfight. He was sure his luck couldn’t possibly hold for a second time, and the person or persons upstairs were no doubt much better at that sort of thing than a middle-aged librarian with a dirty old gun.
“Stinkin’ thinkin’,” Simon said.
Pilate shivered nervously, shook it off, and moved past the mutilated corpses to the stairs.
Slowly, agonizing over every creak of the stairs and every slip his oily boots made, Pilate climbed to the top. He crouched down two steps below and peered under the door. He saw no feet, so whoever was up there was probably in Grif’s office.
Pilate pushed the door partially open. He saw nothing but the filing cabinets and coffee maker. As stealthily as his oil-covered climbing boots would allow, Pilate crossed the small room and stood by the door leading to the mortuary’s waiting rooms and offices.
He thought of how self-assured and easy the hero types made such a quest look on TV, and he realized there was a reason that was fiction.
Pilate pondered his options: Once he left that room, he could go into the casket showroom, the small chapel, or the big sitting area. If there was somebody in Grif’s office, they probably wouldn’t see him slip into the casket showroom. Pilate figured he could hide behind one of the casket displays until the opportune moment to make a move.
Pilate thought a second, wondering how he might determine what that opportune moment was. He supposed they would leave Grif’s office at one point or another and then he could get to the radio.
He sprung out of the room, sped across the hallway, and ducked into the casket showroom. The lights were off, but a snow- covered skylight above gave some dim light. Pilate went behind a skirted casket with an open, embroidered lid. He didn’t pause to read it, but he could have sworn it featured the logo of the Cross College Cougars.
Behind the casket, Pilate caught his breath and shrugged out of Trevathan’s coat. He put the two Glock clips in his hip pocket. He sat as still as he could, listening and trying to stop trembling.
Pilate heard very little for at least fifteen minutes. His legs began to spasm with exhaustion, his stomach roiled, and his head pounded. Panic was creeping in again—the overwhelming dread that he was going to die alone and in pain in a mortuary—and the thought assailed his fragile nerves. He knew his nerve would give out before his worn-out body would, and that time was fast approaching. I’m so…tired.
Pilate said a silent prayer, grasped the Glock in his trembling right hand, and stood up, peering at the hallway from behind the casket lid. He inched away from the casket toward the door. A foot or so away from the doorway, he heard the unmistakable sound of keys turning in the lock of the glass front door. He ran back behind the casket, crouching with the Glock ready to fire.
Pilate heard the sounds of the outer door opening and closing. “Morgan, what are you doing here? You find that guy and Kate?”
“Ollie, this has to end. It’s gotten out of control,” Sheriff Scovill said.
“Morgan, you know damn well that if I go down, your daddy’s reputation’ll be ruined forever…and yours along with it.”
“This isn’t about Dad. This is about you and me,” Scovill said. “It’s about you killing that boy all those years ago. It’s about what I think you did to Rick Nathaniel just so you could get rich, you bastard.”
“Now, Morgan, put that gun away,” Ollie said in a soothing tone. “Rick Nathaniel was a pain in the ass, just like his grandfather. If you’re arresting me, you’re arresting me. I’ll go.”
Peering around the lid of the casket, Pilate saw Ollie Olafson’s son creeping past the casket showroom doorway, shotgun in hand. Five feet more, and he would have a clear shot at the sheriff.
Craig Olafson looked down and saw Pilate’s footprints, the oil he had tracked from downstairs a telltale sign of Pilate’s hiding place.
Ollie continued to stall Scovill. “Look, I’m going to make at least two million on this deal. Morg, I can cut you in for half a mill.”
“Just get on your knees and put your hands on your head,” Scovill said. “I’ve lived with knowing what happened in ’63 for a long time. It’s time for me and you to face the music. Now get down like I said,” Scovill said.
Pilate darted from behind the casket out of the showroom. His oily boots slipped on the linoleum hallway, though, and he fell hard on his shoulder with an “Oomph.”
Craig, shocked by the spectacle, wheeled around and pointed the shotgun at Pilate.
“Scovill!“ Pilate rolled up on his good left knee and pointed the Glock at Craig.
Craig fired at Pilate.
Knocked back like a linebacker had hit him, Pilate felt dozens of tiny stings in his left arm, chest, and face. He squeezed the Glock trigger instinctively, but the hapless bullet disappeared into the ceiling.
“Freeze, you son of a bitch!“ Scovill said as he wheeled and fired. He put a bullet in Craig’s fat head; a corona of blood and brain matter sprayed the hallway and Pilate’s pants.
Ollie spat a guttural curse at Scovill and pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband. He fired, hitting Scovill in his right side. Scovill’s gun flew out of his hand and skittered to the floor, some five feet away.
Scovill crumpled on the spot, grasping his side, a dark stain forming on his coat. He looked surprised, his squinty eye open as wide as Pilate had ever seen it.
Pilate felt stabbing pains all over his shoulder and chest, as if someone was sitting on him. He could barely catch his breath, and he knew he was quickly fading into shock.
“Up!“ Simon bellowed in his head.
Pilate’s eyelids flickered like a kid fighting to stay awake late on Christmas Eve. Through sheer force of will, he opened them wide and pointed the Glock at Ollie with a shaking left hand.
Ollie stood over Scovill, his eyes wet with tears. “You killed my boy,” he whimpered. “Goddamn you.”
Scovill was fading, holding his side with one hand, weakly holding another in front of him in a pathetic attempt to ward off Ollie’s next bullet. The question was whether he would pass out or be shot first.
Pilate leveled the Glock at Ollie and said weakly, “Stop.”
Ollie barely glanced at him. “Fuck you,” he said and aimed the gun at Scovill’s head.
Pilate squeezed the trigger repeatedly.
The first two shots missed Ollie, who started to run back into Grif’s office. The third shot caught the corrupt mayor in the neck. Ollie dropped his gun as both his hands went to his wound. Pilate fired again, hitting Ollie in the groin. The big man gasped, spat up blood, and fell to the floor.
Scovill clicked his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie and said in a quavering voice: “We’ve got an 11-99…11-99! Officer down! Officer down! Shots fired, Nathaniel Mortuary, repeat officer down, shots fired…11…goddamn it! Get an ambulance over here now.”
Pilate’s eyelids fluttered again. The Glock fell from his hand, making a solid clunk as it hit the floor. He tried to open his eyes but only managed one last glimpse of the carnage around him before he was swallowed by darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Lucky for you it was birdshot in Craig’s gun,” Dr. Hutton said, standing at the foot of his hospital bed.
“Funny. I don’t feel lucky,” Pilate croaked.
“You should. Aside from having trouble getting through metal detectors the rest of your life, the birdshot missed your vital parts. The wounds from the birdshot we removed from your face should heal okay,” Hutton said, squeezing his foot gently. “Don’t worry. You’ll still be pretty.”
Pilate managed a painful grin.
“You have a couple of visitors,” he said as he walked out. Kate and Kara burst into the small hospital room.
Kate took his hand in hers. “John, Doc Hutton says you’re going to be all right.”
“I know,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“Mr. Pilate, I ma
de you a get well card,” Kara said, handing him a construction paper and glitter creation adorned with hearts and stars.
“I love it,” he said. “Thank you, Kara.” “I made Grandpa one too,” she said. “Good, good.”
“He liked it,” she said.
“Grif’s awake?” Pilate asked Kate.
She nodded. “Yes, and he is talking to the FBI right now.
They have some questions for you too…when you’re ready.” “Yup. How’s Scovill?”
“Recovering from surgery. They removed the kidney Ollie shot a hole in,” Kate said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He’s going to be all right, but he has a lot to answer for.”
“I know, but he did the right thing in the end,” Pilate said. “That has to count for something.”
“Trooper Hulsey said Scovill told him you saved his life, that you…” She paused a moment and turned to look at her daughter. “Kara, would you go tell the nice nurse at the desk outside that Mr. Pilate needs some ice?”
“Okay, Mommy,” Kara said, skipping out of the room. “Scovill said you shot Ollie,” she said.
“Is he…?” He couldn’t bear to say the word.
“He bled to death from the neck wound before the ambulance could get there,” she said. “I can’t say I feel sad about that. Did you shoot Krall too?”
“No. He had a crappy old gun, and it blew up in his face.” Pilate rubbed his eyes a moment. “I have such a headache. Is Krall okay?”
“No, John. I think after you left him, Craig’s friend Steve finished him off.”
He let out a low whistle between his teeth.
“They found him with a bullet in his head. They dumped his body in a snow drift behind the library.”
“Bastards.”
“Trooper Hulsey said they’re looking for Steve. They’ll find him. He’s not all that bright, and usually on the pipe.”
They sat still for a moment.
“Trevathan’s out in the hall. He wants to say hi,” she said. “He stayed up all night with that gun in his lap. Nobody showed up, but he never once let his guard down. As soon as it was light, he got his truck shoveled out and drove us to the mortuary. By then it was crawling with cops. Looks like Ollie and Craig were going to look harder for the ledger, then burn down the mortuary again.”
“Kate, I think they may have killed Rick,” Pilate said. “I know,” she said softly.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, John. You helped bring some justice for Rick,” she said. “That means so much to me.”
Pilate squeezed her hand again. “Why don’t you tell Trevathan to come in?” Pilate said. “I want to thank him.”
Trevathan shuffled in the room; he looked exhausted but managed a smile.
“Thanks, Doc,” Pilate said.
“No problem,” Trevathan said. “Where’s my gun?”
“What about Lindstrom?” Pilate said and smiled.
“The FBI has some questions about his involvement in all this, John,” he said, sitting in the chair by Pilate’s bed. “I’m thinking conspiracy charges at the very least.”
“Sounds good to me,” Pilate said.
“The news media is crawling all over this. I suspect they’ll start looking at his business transactions and other such activities pretty damn closely.” Trevathan smiled with what could only be deemed immense satisfaction. “Looks like the Lindstrom Renaissance is over. But shit, this country college was never meant to be Harvard on the Missouri.”
“Doc?”
“Yeah?”
“Am I still fired?”
The next morning, Pilate had his hospital breakfast of cardboard scrambled eggs, yogurt, toast, and bad coffee that was in desperate need of sugar. He eased out of the bed, slid into a robe, and went in search of sugar. He waved at the duty nurses. “Can I get some sugar?”
The nurses laughed.
“I meant for my coffee,” he said, smiling painfully. The birdshot wounds in his face ached.
The nurses suggested he go down the hall to their break room. Pilate gingerly padded down the hospital hallway, trying to suppress the urge to look into the rooms of other patients as he walked by. He couldn’t help himself though. One room was darkened, and there was an empty chair next to a bed with a man on a ventilator. One room was filled with people, crowded around a beloved family member, Pilate guessed.
He was not only happy to be out of his hospital bed, but to be alive at all. Every breath he drew was painful due to his wounds, and his knee and ankle throbbed, but he also felt a strange euphoria. Must be the pain meds.
In the nurses’ break room, dug through a million pink packets of artificial sweetener, and finally found three packets of the real stuff. He slipped them into the pocket of his robe and left the break room, but instead of going back the way he came, he went down the hall in the other direction.
Sitting outside a patient room was a sloppy man in an ill- fitting uniform, reading a Cross Courier.
“Hi,” Pilate said.
The deputy lowered the newspaper and looked at Pilate impassively.
“I suppose, uh…that you have orders not to let anyone in there, eh, Lenny?” Pilate said, glancing at the front-page photo of himself being loaded onto an ambulance.
Lenny stood up, looked at the door, then back at Pilate. He made a go-ahead gesture, then opened the door for Pilate.
“Thanks, Lenny. I won’t be long.”
Pilate went inside and walked up to the bed that contained the soon-to-be-ex-sheriff.
Morgan Scovill was asleep. A monitor beeped softly beside his bed.
Pilate stood there a moment, unsure of what to do. He decided not to disturb Scovill and turned to leave.
“Where you going?” Scovill croaked. Pilate didn’t turn around.
“I was trying to get out of here before you release one of those deadly farts of yours,” Pilate said.
“I got so many holes in me I’d probably fart out the wrong place,” Scovill said. “Lenny let you in?”
“Yeah, chatty as ever.” Pilate walked over beside Scovill. “You okay, Sheriff?”
“I’ve been better,” he rasped. “Can you give me some ice?”
Pilate scooped some ice out of a plastic cup with a special straw and put some on Scovill’s lips.
He crunched the ice and swallowed thirstily. “Want more?”
Scovill signaled that he did not.
“Sheriff, I’m sorry all this happened the way it did,” Pilate said.
“Don’t be. It had to come out eventually,” he said. “I’d been turnin’ a blind eye to Ollie’s shit for way too long. I was covering my dad’s ass, but it still wasn’t right of me.”
Pilate nodded. “Is that why you kept me in the loop? Were you hoping I’d somehow figure something out and force you to do the right thing?”
Scovill rolled his eyes. “Mr. Pilate, you arrogant shit. Cut the psychological bull. I kept you around because I couldn’t trust anyone else in this inbred town. You’re objective and maybe even intelligent, in spite of your smart-ass tendencies. I just figured you might be someone who could help me.”
“Got it. Sorry I held out on you toward the end,” Pilate said.
“You had to. You had no idea if you could trust me,” Scovill rasped.
“Nah. I knew you were okay,” Pilate said. “Sheriff, I have to know something.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know about Rick? That Ollie killed him?”
“Swear to God I had no idea. I suspected later, but at the time, I really thought it was a wreck. You gotta believe me on that, Pilate. Rick was a friend.”
“They’re going to investigate that big time.”
“I did a lot of things wrong, but I never killed anybody,” he said, “and I couldn’t find any proof that Rick had been murdered. I never profited from any of this. I just couldn’t bear to let them say things about my dad.”
“I know.”
The pair was silent for a mom
ent, the beeping of the monitor filling the void.
“Mr. Pilate, I’m not gonna bullshit you though. For a minute or two…I could’ve…I could’ve been on the wrong side of this thing,” Scovill said softly, turning his head away from Pilate.
“But you didn’t go that way. You did the right thing, in spite of your loyalty to your dad.”
“Yeah,” he said. He cleared his throat noisily. “My wonderful dad. You know, he did a lot of miserable shit in his life, but he was very good to Mom and me. He was a good dad, just not a good sheriff.”
Pilate looked at his hands, noticing he still had some blood caked in his fingernails.
“Well, you better get back to bed before one of those nurses catches you here.”
“Sheriff, I’ll speak on your behalf to the judge, the papers, everybody,” Pilate said.
“Thanks, Mr. Pilate. Maybe they’ll go easy on me if an expert burglar and conspiracy-bustin’ speech teacher is willing to stand up for me.”
Pilate laughed. “You never know.” He only managed to walk halfway to the door before Scovill’s tired voice called once more.
“John?”
Pilate turned and looked at Scovill.
A single tear tracked from Scovill’s squinty eye. “You’re a good man—a lousy shot with a Glock, but a good man.” He extended a hand a few inches above the sheets, an I.V. tube hanging limply from his wrist.
“Want to know something, Sheriff?” Pilate said. “What’s that?”
“You are too.” Pilate shook Scovill’s hand. “Take care of Kate and Kara.”
Pilate winked at Scovill and nodded.
By the time Pilate got back to his room with the sugar, the coffee was cold.
The next morning, Pilate got the final onceover from Doc Hutton. “You’re coming along pretty well, John,” the doctor said, writing on his chart.
“Thanks. I feel better, I think.”
Hutton looked up from his chart. “Anything you want to talk about?”
Pilate looked at him quizzically.
“Your mother told me on the phone. They’re your closest kin, and the college had their number in your employment records. When we brought you in, we called your folks to get your blood type, medications, etcetera.”
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