Pilate's Cross
Page 20
“I see,” Pilate said.
“Your mother said you’ve been taking antidepressants, but we know you haven’t. How long have you been off your meds?”
“Too long, I think.”
Hutton scratched out a prescription. “I have some samples.” He handed Pilate the prescription. “Hang on. I’ll get some for you.”
Pilate went to the bathroom, urinated, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Simon appeared at his shoulder. “Finally, a wise decision, John,” Simon said.
“I wish I could say I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Oh, you will.” He folded his arms. “Not right away, mind you…” All of Simon’s body faded away except for his smile, a dysthymic Cheshire cat. “…but you will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Two days later, Pilate was recuperating at home, Kate serving as his vigilant nursemaid.
She brought him the latest Cross Courier. It was chockfull of stories about the killings, the conspiracy, the heroic stranger in town who broke it wide open, and even the connection to the Bernard murders.
According to the paper, Grif had been arrested for conspiracy in the death of an unidentified boy in 1963. Divers found traces of the boy’s skeletal remains, partially buried in the mud at the bottom of the Missouri, still chained inside the hulk of the stolen Chevy.
Craig Olafson’s accomplice, Steve, was caught speeding out of the county in a stolen car by none other than Trooper Hulsey. Steve was high on meth and gave up without a fight.
Scovill was still in the hospital. The county attorney signaled that he would probably proffer charges soon. Cleared of all wrongdoing, Deputy Lenny was now acting sheriff.
A banner headline read “LINDSTROM OUT.” He had been removed as Cross College president; an interim president would be named any day. Lindstrom wasn’t under arrest, but the county attorney, the FBI, and the state police were questioning him. In a photo below the headline, Lindstrom’s wife stoically endured the flash of cameras as the pair left the sheriff’s office.
“I guess Kara won’t be taking any piano lessons this year,” Kate said.
Pilate nodded and noted that Cross College Foundation Director Dick Shefler was also being questioned for what the newspaper referred to as “suspicious activities not in keeping with his fiduciary responsibilities.”
“And I guess Dick won’t be running for governor anytime soon,” Pilate said, smirking.
“Grif is selling the mortuary,” Kate said, removing Pilate’s old shoulder bandage. “He thinks he’s going to jail, and he wants me and Kara to have her inheritance,” Kate said as she applied Neosporin and fresh gauze to Pilate’s shoulder. “There’s a big chain that’s been trying to buy him out for years.”
“What will you do then, moneybags?”
Kate finished rolling the bandage around his arm and shoulder, secured it with tape, and helped Pilate lean back on the couch. She kissed his mouth, her hand gently tracing the bandage on his cheek. She pulled away from Pilate, looking into his eyes. “It all depends on what you want to do,” she said.
Pilate blinked twice, surprised to discover that he felt peaceful and calm for the first time in years. Perhaps it’s the Percocet. “Kate, I have to tell you some things about me first, but before I do, I want you to know that nothing would make me happier than to—”
His sentence was interrupted by the telephone ringing. “Hold that thought,” she said. “Hello?”
Kate listened a moment. “Abbey, he’s fine.”
Kate stayed with Pilate for several days, helping get him up and down from the couch to the bathroom or his bed.
When Kate was at work, Abbey Prince helped out, and she insisted on bringing starchy casseroles every other day. The first time Kate left the pair alone, Abbey spent a few minutes chatting, then kissed Pilate’s cheek and thanked him for “being so brave and inspirational.” She smelled of lilacs.
Kate met Pilate’s parents when they came up to see him for a couple of days; as his mother had put it, they wanted to “make sure our Johnny is all right.” Pilate had to practically beg them not to come any sooner, as they were apoplectic from the hospital call the night of the shooting. Kate liked them, though, and Pilate was pretty sure they approved of her as well. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking Kate.
Riley Pierson and other students checked on him every few days. Riley said he was writing a speech about his new hero, Mr. Pilate.
Pilate asked him what he thought of Abbey Prince. “She’s wicked hot.”
On the sixth day, Pilate managed to get up and down on his own. Weary of being the recovering gunshot victim, he decided to be constructive and wash the dishes.
Kate came in from work, kissed his cheek, and leaned against the cabinet next to him. “So,” she said, “are you planning on sticking around for a while?”
“Sure. Where else would I go? Interim President Trevathan says my job is safe, all the bad guys are dead and buried or in jail, and there’s a really sexy adjunct instructor I want to get to know better.”
“I hear she has a spectacular ass,” Kate said.
“Well, yeah. That too,” Pilate said. “I think I love her.”
“Is that you talking or these?” Kate said, holding one of the dozen or so bottles of antidepressant samples Dr. Hutton had given him.
“It’s me,” he said, “with just a little help from my friends.”
“But you’re taking these pills,” she said. “I mean, I know you need them, but maybe they’re clouding your judgment a little, especially since you just started taking them again.”
Pilate shrugged, filling the kitchen sink with dirty dishes. “Doesn’t matter. I have strict orders to take them.”
“From the doc?”
“Yeah…and someone else.” “Who? Your Mom?”
“No. Let’s just say that Simon says.” She looked confused.
Pilate turned on the warm and cold water.
Kate smiled and pointed at the answering machine, its red light blinking. “Samantha keeps calling you,” Kate said. “She’s left a dozen messages on the machine since the news broke.”
“I know. I’m not calling her,” Pilate said, looking at the water flowing from the tap. “She’ll figure it out. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled, winked, and put his hands under the warm water of the tap. “Rest assured, John Pilate has washed his hands of the whole thing.”
EPILOGUE
Their bulky bodies crammed into ornate caskets, Ollie and Craig Olafson were buried in Monticello Cemetery, not far from the Nathaniel family tomb they had desecrated. Family members shed tears as gaudy wreaths leaned crookedly on their stands in the snow.
In Vetsville, the body of Derek Krall was unceremoniously shoved into a new crematory, the only one functioning in the area since Nathaniel’s had been put up for sale. Jets of flame consumed the flimsy cardboard coffin and his body, releasing his soul.
Finding no takers for disposition of Krall’s ashes, the funeral director slid the warm cardboard box of cremains onto the shelf in a storage room and pulled the chain on the naked light bulb.
THE END
John Pilate returns in
PILATE’S KEY
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