Pilate's Ghost

by J Alexander Greenwood

  “Hello?”

  “John? You okay? You sound funny,” a man’s voice said.

  “Buster? That you? It’s me, Trev.”

  “Trev? What the hell? You answering Pilate’s calls these days?”

  “Long story,” Trevathan said.

  “How are ya, pal?”

  “I’m okay. You? Why are you calling John?”

  “Well, you remember I was looking into this whole Jack Lindstrom thing, right?”

  “Uh huh,” Trevathan said, glancing out the window.

  “Well, a local pilot said a weird fella fitting the general description of Jack Lindstrom, but with longer hair and shitty clothes, hijacked his Cessna. Local PD is starting to think he was the same whack job who killed a guy at a rest stop here in Florida.”

  “Well I’ll be,” Trevathan said. “Where did they go - Caribbean?”

  “No, Trev. He landed at a small airfield the next county over from you.”

  “What? When?”

  “Earlier today.”

  Pilate, panting from running to the convenience store on the edge of Cross, walked straight to the refrigerated section and pulled out two bottles of water. He opened one and guzzled it as he walked back to the counter.

  “Mr. Pilate?”

  Abbey Prince stood at the counter, her hair in a ponytail, her face scrubbed of makeup. She held several packages of Twinkies and assorted snacks to her breast.

  “Abbey?”

  “How is your wife? Is she okay?” Abbey said, biting her lower lip.

  He nodded, catching his breath. “She’s going to be fine. And the baby. She’s still at the hospital in Goss City.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ran out of gas,” he said. “Left Dean Trevathan in the car about a mile back. I ran here.”

  “Bummer,” she said. “Good thing you’re wearing your runners,” she smiled, gesturing at his red running shoes. He was going to retire them soon. They were played out after training and running most of the half marathon.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding at her armload of snacks. “That’s a lot of junk food.”

  “Well, sometimes I just need to have a Ding Dong, you know?”

  Pilate looked at her, blankly.

  “I have nothing to add to that,” Simon said.

  Abbey blushed. “Do you want…a ride? Back to your car?”

  “That would be great,” Pilate said, opening his wallet. “Here, let me get you a Ding Dong. Least I can do.”

  Abbey let Pilate off at the Suzuki. Waving at Pilate and Trevathan, she turned around and headed back to Cross.

  “What was Abbey doing out at this time of night?”

  “Getting herself a Ding Dong.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” Pilate said, handing Trevathan a bottle of water, then dumping the gas can’s paltry gallon into the Suzuki’s empty tank.

  “John,” Trevathan said. “Here’s your phone. Listen, we have a situation here.”

  “Mostek?”

  “No, John. It’s even worse than Perry Mostek on the loose.”

  “What could be worse?”

  “Jack Lindstrom, back from the grave.”

  “The state police have contacted the hospital. They have a security guard keeping an eye on Kate,” Trevathan said. “But with Welliver down and the manhunt for Mostek, everything’s pretty hectic and people are stretched thin.”

  “Jack is alive. Holy shit.”

  “Nothing holy about it,” Trevathan said.

  “Well, where the hell do you think he’s heading?”

  “Cross, obviously,” he said, coughing into his fist.

  “Well, I’m not about to say ‘bring it on,’“ Pilate said.

  “Yeah, that’s not the best thing to say to your enemies,” Trevathan said. “Cowboy bullshit.”

  “Right. But instead of looking for Perry Mostek, we need to go looking for Jack.”

  He shook his head slowly after sipping the water. “John, I have a feeling he’ll come looking for you.”

  The Man prowled the deserted backstreets and dusty alleys of Cross, skulking past the President’s House on the edge of the Cross College campus without looking at it. He moved with purpose, taking care to avoid the light of street lamps or the yards ruled by rowdy dogs.

  He found his target. The house was dark. He hoisted himself over the stockade fence in the backyard. Jerking the screen door on the mudroom off its hinges, he used the butt of his pistol to break a small windowpane in the door. He reached in, straining, to unlock the deadbolt.

  The Man listened for signs of life. Hearing nothing, he entered the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and ate an entire package of lunchmeat and drained the remains of a half gallon bottle of milk.

  He went into the living room. It was cooler inside, to be sure, but he longed to turn on the air conditioner unit in the window. Deciding against it, he instead, he fell onto the recliner and situated himself so he would see car lights pulling into the drive or people walking on the front porch.

  He should have fallen asleep from been exhaustion. Instead, he sat there, patient, awake and prepared.

  After filling the tank of the Suzuki at the convenience store, Pilate and Trevathan headed for Pilate’s house.

  “John, knowing what we know now, maybe we should head to my place first,” Trevathan said. “Let’s get some firepower just in case Jack is waiting at your place.”

  “Good idea,” Pilate said.

  “Okay,” Trevathan said. He could also take a couple of his medications and find something to help the cough and chest pain he was hiding from Pilate.

  The Suzuki pulled in behind Trevathan’s truck. Trevathan unlocked the door.

  “What weapons are we getting?”

  “I figure you’ll get the Glock and I’ll take the Smith and Wesson.”

  “Just like old times,” Pilate said.

  “Yes indeed, just like old times,” a voice materialized from the darkened living room.

  “Jack?”

  “Come in, come in. And John, don’t for a minute think I won’t shoot this old fool if you try anything.”

  “Well, well, well,” Trevathan said, edging inside. “Who would have thought you’d end up at my place first. I’m honored.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You were just my warm-up before I moved on to this little bastard. Against the wall, both of you. Close the door, John.”

  Pilate complied.

  “That’s it. Thank you.”

  A floor lamp switched on, causing their eyes to contract for a second. When Pilate’s vision cleared, he laid eyes on a man who certainly could be Jack Lindstrom. A scruffy, thin and wild-eyed Lindstrom, pointing a gun at them.

  “How’s it feel, Mr. Pilate, looking at a ghost?”

  “He’s out of his mind,” Simon said.

  No shit.

  “Yeah. I got chills. I don’t get it, Jack. Why all this? Why did you do it? You would’ve been out of jail in a few years,” Pilate said.

  “I’ve been to jail. Not going back.”

  “‘Time is short for all of us, and we shouldn’t waste a second of it doing anything we don’t want to do,’ right?”

  “What?” Lindstrom said, his eye and gun leveling at Trevathan.

  “Just something some ass said to me a while back,” Trevathan said, clearing his throat.

  “And since you managed to pull off faking your own death - who was the guy you killed and put in your place, by the way?”

  “Hmm?” He scratched his chin. “Oh him. I picked him up at a local nightspot. He wanted to come home with me. Too bad he drank too much. And took all those roofies.”

  “Charming. So you killed him and put your family through hell.”

  “Shut up about that, okay?” he pointed the gun at Trevathan.

  “Okay, but why did you start contacting me? You were home free.”

  “Good, John, keep him talking. Talking is not shooting.”

  “W
ell, at first I was just going to call you once or twice to annoy and perhaps frighten you. Then it became fun. Your face when I called you on your wedding day! I was only a few feet away behind a frozen yogurt stand. Hilarious.”

  Pilate sighed. “I figured.”

  “I had kept an eye on you for a while, actually.” Lindstrom’s self-satisfied grin made Pilate want to punch his face in. “That’s how I learned of your involvement with the mess in Key West, and your dalliance with the very sexy police officer.” He clicked his tongue. “Bad boy, John. Poor Kate. She married a liar.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Trevathan shook his head.

  “Now you can see why I had to taunt you. It was all just something to alleviate the boredom. See, that’s the worst part of going underground. It’s boring. The ennui is unbearable sometimes. Then you started nosing around and I had to take it up a notch. See, John, I was going to let it all go until I heard you were writing a book.” His face became less amused and took on an angry, scowling mien.

  “So?”

  “I already lived through one media love-fest centered on you, and I wasn’t about to sit through another one as you flitted around hawking your book. The writing’s pretty good, by the way; though the stuff you wrote about me was too perfunctory. Dismissive. Pretty lame, as the kids here at Hayseed U would say. You didn’t even bother to research my past.”

  “Well I did, you sick bastard,” Trevathan said.

  “It wasn’t about you,” Pilate said. “Perhaps that’s what you’re upset about - it wasn’t about you.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Lindstrom said, aiming the gun at Pilate again. “You’re not Dr. Sandburg.”

  Pilate’s mouth gaped.

  “Oh don’t worry, he’s fine. I have no beef with him,” he laughed. “Though I did do an Ellsberg on your files. Or is it a Hunt/Liddy?”

  “This has gone on long enough,” Trevathan said.

  “I agree,” Lindstrom said.

  “So let’s just get this over with. If you want somebody’s hide, take mine. Let John go.”

  “And why would I do that?” he said, his lip curling. “I can kill you both. Right here, right now.”

  “Like you did that poor bastard at that rest stop in Florida?” Pilate said, scared, but turning angry.

  Lindstrom looked surprised. “You think I killed somebody at a rest stop?”

  “You know you did it.”

  “Maybe I did. Doesn’t matter. It’s all over now.” Lindstrom brushed stringy hairs from his comb over out of his eyes. He raised the pistol. “This will be so much easier than using a hammer. And cleaner.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Well, John, maybe it’s because you deserve it. I lost everything thanks to you. My money, my job, my reputation…”

  “Your wife,” Trevathan croaked.

  “Yeah, her too,” Lindstrom shrugged. “And it’s because you two couldn’t play your parts. You had to keep digging and causing trouble. You think you beat me. Well, you’re not beating me.”

  “No, the reason you lost everything is because you’re a liar and a thief, Jack.” Pilate said. “You were messing around in things you had no idea about. You were out of your depth.”

  “You’re pretty brave when somebody’s pointing a gun at you.”

  “He is,” Trevathan said. “How about we see how brave you are without that gun.”

  “I’m tired of this,” Lindstrom said. He squeezed the trigger.

  Trevathan crumpled, silently.

  “No!” Pilate caught Trevathan and eased him to the floor. A trickle of blood oozed from his left side.

  “Oh my,” Trevathan said, then passed out.

  Pilate looked at Lindstrom, now on his feet. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Where do you want yours?” he asked. “Head? Oh, wait. Do you want a cigarette? Filthy habit. Of course not. You quit, didn’t you? Never mind. You know, maybe we shouldn’t do yours just yet. I think we need to do this at your house. In front of your lovely wife.”

  “I’m not leaving him,” Pilate said. “And I’ll be god damned if I let you anywhere near my wife.”

  “Do you really want me to kill you now, then go over to your wife’s house and kill her and that brat of hers?”

  “Won’t he be surprised when he gets over there,” Simon said.

  Yeah, but I’ll be dead, Simon.

  “But Kate and Kara will be safe.”

  “All right, dammit,” he said.

  Lindstrom gestured with his gun. “Get up.”

  Pilate gently lay Trevathan’s head on the floor. He felt a little better seeing the wound leaking blood, instead of gushing.

  He might be okay if I can get him some help soon.

  “What’s the plan?” Simon asked.

  I’ll let you know.

  Pilate slowly got to his feet, hands above his head.

  “I never liked that man,” Lindstrom said. “He was the one guy on the faculty with the balls to stand up to me.”

  “You could at least respect that.”

  “I suppose. Too bad I don’t. Move to the front door, open it slowly when I tell you to.”

  Pilate stepped over Trevathan’s body to get to the door, grasping the handle.

  “Wait,” Lindstrom said, stepping to the front window and looking outside. “Okay.” Lindstrom stepped over Trevathan to get to the door.

  Trevathan grunted and brought his long, spindly right leg up, his boot connecting with Lindstrom’s unprotected balls. Lindstrom groaned, fell back and squeezed off a round into the floor an inch from Trevathan’s head.

  Pilate leaped on Lindstrom, his right elbow connecting with the madman’s chin, his left hand grasping for the gun in Lindstrom’s right hand. The pair hit the floor, Pilate’s weight knocking the wind out of the agonized Lindstrom.

  Lindstrom’s grip on the gun loosened as he fought for breath. Pilate couldn’t risk letting go of the gun hand. He brought his right knee up, again smashing Lindstrom’s testicles.

  Lindstrom made an oomph sound and let the gun go.

  Pilate drew himself up on Lindstrom’s chest, batting off a weak punch. Pilate pointed the gun at his head.

  “I ought to blow your rotten head off for all the misery you’ve brought,” Pilate said.

  “Please…don’t…” Lindstrom said in between gasps.

  “John,” Trevathan said, his voice barely a whisper. “Call for help.”

  Pilate climbed off Lindstrom, the gun still trained on his head. “You okay?”

  “Not really.”

  Pilate kicked Lindstrom. “On your belly. Now.”

  Lindstrom complied.

  “Don’t move. I promise I’ll shoot.”

  “Oh I know, I heard all about your handiwork on TV,” he said, his face on the rug.

  “Shut up.”

  Pilate picked up the phone and called 911, imploring them to send an ambulance and law enforcement.

  He kneeled beside Trevathan. “This has to be the busiest EMS has been in years,” he said.

  Trevathan’s eyes were closed, his breaths shallow and quick.

  “Hang on,” he said, saying a silent prayer.

  “I hope he dies right here in his own living room,” Lindstrom said, cackling, his breathing returning to normal.

  “Shut up, you psycho.”

  Story Sudik repacked the trauma kit with new trauma pads, latex gloves, gauze and tape. Her hands shook, not with fear but adrenaline.

  “You okay, kiddo?” Burl Crites asked, looking up from a clipboard of paperwork he was filling out across the table from Story.

  She nodded. “I’m okay,” she said, putting the gauze in the correct compartment, not looking up. Sheriff Welliver’s blood stained her light blue Explorer shirt and dark blue cargo pants.

  “We’re going home just as soon as I finish this damn paperwork,” he said.

  “The shift’s not over yet,” she said.

  “It is for you,” he
said, putting down his pen and sighing.

  “But…”

  “Don’t get me wrong, you did fantastic work out there. Honest to God, you saved the sheriff’s life. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am. You’re a pro.”

  Story blushed. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I cried at the hospital.”

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a pro. It means you’re a human being. I cry myself to sleep some nights, and I was in Desert Storm. And call me Burl.”

  Story bit her lower lip, zipped up the trauma bag and folded her arms. “Then you’ll understand I want to finish my shift, Burl. We have an hour left.”

  Burl started to reply when the walkie-talkie signaled another ride.

  The ambulance sirens wailed a few blocks away. Pilate opened the front door and turned on the porch light.

  The ambulance arrived and two first responders hopped out. One was a middle-aged man, the other a girl – to Pilate’s fevered eyes she looked younger than the freshmen at Cross College. They grabbed a stretcher and bounded up the porch steps, stopping short of the door when they saw Pilate with the gun.

  “Whoa, now, pardner,” Burl said. “Let’s put the gun down.”

  Story recognized the man with the gun as the guy she had seen on 60 Minutes.

  “Aren’t you…?”

  Pilate cut her off, replying directly to Burl.

  “I can’t,” Pilate said. “That guy is dangerous.”

  “Well, somebody shot somebody, right? You want us to help this man, correct?” Burl said, his eyes darting between Pilate and Trevathan, slowly positioning himself between Story and the gun.

  “That guy’s a maniac,” Lindstrom said, rising to his feet. “Watch out”

  “Don’t move, Jack!” Pilate said, raising the gun.

  Burl knocked the weapon from Pilate’s hand, sending it skittering across the floor into a corner.

  “You idiot!”

  Lindstrom looked at the gun, then Pilate. Pilate jumped for the gun. Lindstrom instead broke past the stunned first responders, shoving Story Sudik as he barreled out the door.

  Pilate scooped up the pistol. Burl cringed against his partner in the doorway. “You just let a psycho escape, you dumb ass.”