Pilate's Ghost

by J Alexander Greenwood

  As if on cue, the ambulance sped off down the street.

  “Oh come on, man!” Pilate picked up Trevathan’s keys and handed them to Story, who clambered to her feet, uninjured by Lindstrom’s shove. “Here’s the keys to his truck. Get him to the hospital.”

  Pilate stepped outside, tucking the gun in his waistband. “And call the state police,” he shouted. “Get Trooper Hulsey on the line and tell him John Pilate is going after Jack Lindstrom. He should be considered armed and out of his fucking mind.”

  “Lindstrom? The president of the college?” Story sputtered. “Whoa.”

  “Story, make the call. I’ll take care of this guy,” Burl said, leaning over Trevathan.

  Pilate ran to the Suzuki, started it and whipped out of the driveway.

  “Tell me it’s always this exciting,” Story said, passing a pressure bandage to Burl.

  “I hope to hell not,” Burl grunted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ambulances are fast when they need to be, but Pilate managed to catch up to it as Lindstrom careened down the narrow streets and alleys of Cross, the blue and red lights illuminating the houses he passed like Christmas in September.

  “This is not going to end well,” Simon said.

  Does it ever?

  Lindstrom barreled past a house in the midst of a party. Several students were on the lawn, clad in shorts, t-shirts, bikini tops; smoking and drinking from their ubiquitous red plastic Solo cups. The students cheered until Lindstrom’s ambulance clipped the side wing mirrors off three cars.

  Pilate gunned the Suzuki’s tiny engine, catching up to Lindstrom’s hulking vehicle.

  Nowhere to go, Jack. I can keep this up all night.

  Lindstrom swerved past the college campus, then headed back to the tiny downtown Cross area.

  “What’s he doing? That’s not the way to the highway,” Simon wondered.

  Pilate let off the gas a little, giving the lunatic some room.

  Unless he plans to stop for a drink at the tavern, he’s either going to the river or…

  Lindstrom steered the ambulance to the gravel and dirt road leading to the hilltop Monticello Cemetery. An access road from the hilltop indirectly linked back with US-75.

  “Clever, Jack, but I’ve seen that movie, too,” Pilate buckled his seatbelt.

  He kept his distance, remembering the nasty wreck he’d previously survived on this same road, courtesy of the late Ollie Olafson.

  Pilate considered his options. There was no way the Suzuki was any match for the ambulance over the long haul; the almost medievally cramped byways of Cross were one thing, the open highway quite another. He likely couldn’t even squeeze the ambulance off the road; there just wasn’t enough room. The cemetery would slow Jack down, as he would have to slow down to navigate the maze of small, tight dirt roads – little more than glorified paths - before he connected to the road leading to the highway.

  Lindstrom blew through the flimsy gate erected to block cars from entering the cemetery after sundown. The gate crumpled into the front of the ambulance, then fell to the side. The ambulance brake lights illuminated.

  “Slowing down a bit,” Pilate said. “Good.”

  “John, what are you up to?” Simon asked.

  Lindstrom flipped on the high beams, searching for the best route through the cemetery to the access road. Tombstones, markers and trees made crossing directly over the plots seem an impossible plan.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, turning the ambulance towards the path leading out of the cemetery.

  The ambulance’s high rear end smacked the limbs of low hanging trees, bushes and brush clawed at its sides, as if the cemetery were trying to hold him there. He slowed to thirty-five miles an hour. That was pushing it in these close quarters.

  Glancing in his side view mirror on the driver’s side, he saw Pilate’s tiny red car easily maneuvering behind him.

  “Shit!”

  There were only a few more turns before Lindstrom would hit the access road, leading him down the hill and onto State US-75. Once there, he could open the ambulance up to top speed and leave Pilate and his go-cart in the dust.

  He turned on his high beams, sending a shaft of light into Lindstrom’s eyes.

  I guess there’s really only one thing I can do.

  “John? What are you doing, John?”

  Pilate broke from his pursuit and cut through a plot. He dodged two large headstones and rumbled over a small marker. He over steered on the dead grass and slid the car’s passenger side into a small granite bench.

  “That’s going to hurt when the rental car people see it.”

  It’s okay. I got the supplemental insurance.

  Pilate jammed his foot to the floor, accelerating past a cenotaph and a small stand of new trees, the shock absorbers protesting as he rode roughshod over the small flat markers that dotted the plot. The ambulance kept to the path; another thirty seconds or so and he would reach the access road.

  Lindstrom saw Pilate’s car veer off in his side view mirror.

  Ha! Must’ve blown a tire.

  Lindstrom scanned the horizon and saw another flimsy metal gate ineffectually blocking the way to the access road. Like the first gate, the heavy, powerful ambulance would have no trouble breaking through.

  He steered for the gate, accelerating. He glimpsed the red lights of the new cell phone tower at the top of the hill.

  Huh. That’s new.

  Pilate was no genius at geometry, but figured it was likely he would, barring an unexpected headstone collision, intersect with the ambulance before it hit the gate. Also being a poor student of physics, he was unsure whether the compact car would have sufficient mass to deflect or slow down the ambulance, let alone stop it.

  Lindstrom glanced out the passenger side window. The lights of Cross College twinkled below like a model train village. He thought he could make out the flagpole light in front of the President’s House, his former home. Lindstrom extended his middle finger to the window, failing to notice the oncoming mini-juggernaut of Pilate’s quixotic charge.

  Pilate gripped the steering wheel, his entire body tensing as he mashed his right foot on the accelerator. Less than fifteen feet from intersecting with the ambulance, the car hit a small marker, raised just a foot or so from the ground.

  The Suzuki became airborne, smacking its nose into the driver’s side of the ambulance, smashing the driver’s side window and door. The little car bounced off the ambulance, turned 180 degrees and came to rest against a cluster of tall markers.

  The ambulance veered off the path, crashing into an ancient oak tree. The vehicle’s red and blue strobe lights flashed against the cemetery stones.

  Lindstrom never knew what hit him. The steering wheel broke off in his hands as the blow forced him into the passenger seat.

  Pilate didn’t lose consciousness, though the airbag had smacked him hard. He and his wife would have matching facial contusions.

  He groaned and turned off the Suzuki’s engine. The ambulance lights flashed in his eyes. He pawed around the wrecked car’s interior, searching for the pistol. Reaching, he felt the stitches Taters had given him rip even more as he picked up the gun and opened his door. It protested with a loud metallic moan.

  He climbed out carefully, willing himself to shake off an odd euphoria of shock and adrenaline. Pilate felt something warm on his left leg and looked down. A piece of the car’s plastic interior had broken off and gashed his left calf, which had not yet fully healed from his half-marathon attempt. He yanked the plastic from the wound. Blood flowed easily down his leg, onto his red shoe.

  He staggered over to the ambulance.

  The driver’s door was crumpled. His three-cylinder Japanese torpedo had done it. He gripped the gun, warily peering in the ambulance’s cab.

  Lindstrom’s lower body partially rested in the driver’s seat, but his torso and upper body were prone on the passenger seat, face down. He hadn’t hit the windshield, which was lucky
for him since he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. There was little blood.

  “Lindstrom?” Pilate said, his voice surprisingly timid.

  “John, I think Jack’s toast.”

  Pilate moved around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Jack?”

  A low moan.

  “Hang on there, Jack. You don’t look too bad. Help will be on the way soon.”

  “Wha—youmeananambulance?” he said, barely intelligible. Then he laughed. Jack Lindstrom, likely bleeding out internally, was laughing.

  “Well, there’s help coming, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t patronize,” he said, gasping, every syllable an effort. “Fool.”

  “Jack, let me turn your head so you can breathe better,” John threw the gun on the ground and reached in, gently turning the man’s head to the side. Lindstrom’s eyes squeezed shut, wincing.

  “Don’t,” he bawled. “Don’t touch me.”

  Pilate raised an eyebrow. “Jack, I already did it.”

  His eyes fluttered open. “Dintfeelit.” His eyes widened, trying to focus on Pilate’s face. “Paralyzed me. Dintya?”

  Pilate looked at him, blankly.

  “Useless now,” a trickle of blood leaked from Lindstrom’s lips. “Useless.”

  Pilate stood there a moment, then reached past Lindstrom to pick up the radio mic. He tested the switch a couple of times, then spoke.

  “Emergency, emergency. This is John Pilate. The stolen ambulance is at Monticello Cemetery in Cross. Please send help immediately.”

  “Boy Scout,” Lindstrom said.

  “Emergency. Emergency. We’re at Monticello. I have Jack Lindstrom here.”

  “John, this is Hulsey, I’m en route. You okay?”

  “Yes trooper, I’m okay, but Jack isn’t.”

  “Ten-four. I’m less than 4 minutes away.”

  “John?” Lindstrom said. “Do me favor,” he said, his words distinct and clear.

  “Not likely,” Pilate said.

  “You still got my gun?”

  He nodded.

  “Kill me.”

  “Sorry Jack, not my job.”

  “Worth a shot. Heh. Well, I hope you know that’s strike three.” Lindstrom chuckled mildly, gurgling but unable to cough. “Nothing…worse…than being helpless…to one’s enemies.”

  Pilate could only watch, his hollow stomach turning.

  Lindstrom breathed in heavy gasps, wheezing. “Going now. No more time.”

  His eyes fluttered closed, then open again, focused on Pilate’s until their light flickered out.

  Pilate stood, mouth agape. He couldn’t find it in himself to close the dead man’s eyes.

  He walked around to the back of the ambulance and sat on the bumper, arms crossed over his chest. Sirens pealed through the air. He watched the lights of Trooper Hulsey’s cruiser and two other rescue vehicles winding their way through the streets of Cross.

  John Pilate looked up into the benignly indifferent gaze of the stars.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Two days after Lindstrom’s death, Monique emailed the New York Post article about Pilate’s last battle with the “madman” Jack Lindstrom. Written by Pilate’s old pal Mr. Lamb, it covered the story, including excerpts from Pilate’s previous interview where he denied knowing if Lindstrom was still alive. Lamb’s central thrust was there was a blood feud between the two men, and that Pilate had lied about it.

  “Lamb’s trying to make it look like you and Lindstrom were stalking each other for months,” she wrote. “Lame and difficult to prove. In fact, it just adds to your mystique and hypes up book sales. Good news is, there’s nothing in there about your little fling.”

  Instead, Lamb’s parting shot implied impropriety on Pilate’s part in the second to last paragraph:

  Reports of Mr. Pilate’s previous unethical activities and connections to criminal elements in Key West are unsubstantiated at this time.

  Pilate wrote a reply and thanked Monique, telling her he was canceling the rest of the media tour.

  “I think we’ll get our share of coverage for the book, now,” he typed.

  She emailed back a photo of herself, winking.

  The baby had dark black hair and screamed as if it were on fire.

  Pilate watched, transfixed as the nurses carried his son from the operating table, where a caesarian was performed, to a small table.

  His screaming son was weighed, drops inserted in his eyes, the slick fluids of birth toweled off his pink skin.

  Pilate stood there in his green gown, wearing a surgical mask. He looked over at Kate. The doctors chatted amiably as they sewed her up. Her face, protected from the view by a strategically placed sheet, glowed.

  He gave her a dorky thumbs-up. She smiled back, weakly.

  Pilate winced as the nurse jabbed at the newborn’s heel, drawing blood. “Can I,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the baby’s screams. “Can I touch him?”

  The nurse smiled. “Of course.”

  He reached out and put his hand on his son’s belly and felt the energy of his outrage as he lay there, furious at being dragged from his warm cocoon into the cold light.

  “Hi pal,” Pilate said.

  Simon, for once, was speechless.

  Two days later, Pilate, Kate, Kara and the baby drove home.

  An unusually wet, warm October and November gave Cross Township’s falling leaves a palette of reds, browns, yellows and a particularly fiery orange. Great heaps of the colorful leaves blew across the road in the car’s wake. It had been a beautiful autumn.

  Though his son’s Thanksgiving Day birth had robbed them all of a day of turkey and overeating, he had made them truly thankful.

  “What did Marta say?” Kate asked, sitting in the backseat with Kara and the baby. Kara stared at the baby as it lay in the car seat, dozing.

  “She said today would be best,” he said, his voice low and quiet.

  “Okay, let’s head over there.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Pilate’s cell phone rang. “Getting service? A miracle.”

  “Not answering it. Driving. Both hands on the wheel,” Pilate said.

  Kara reached forward and picked it up off the console between the front seats and handed it to Kate.

  “Thank you. I guess,” she said. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Kate? This is Angie. Just wanted to tell you the book hit number one on the non-fiction chart for the third straight week!”

  “Oh, marvelous,” Kate said. “John, your book stayed at number one for the third week.”

  “Hooray,” he said, eyes darting over the horizon, looking for anything he might need to evade in the roadway.

  “Well, I just thought you’d like to know,” Angie said.

  “Great. We look forward to our first royalty check,” Kate said, arching her eyebrow and watching Pilate’s face as he smiled in the rearview mirror.

  “You betcha,” Angie said. “So, how’s everything going?”

  “Well, we had a baby two days ago,” Kate said.

  “Oh, yes, of course! Wow, how is that baby?”

  “He’s fine,” Kate said.

  “Well that’s great…sorry I haven’t called yet, I’ll send a gift bask—”

  “Oh Angie, our cell service is…bad…the…towers…”

  Pilate snickered.

  Kate turned off the phone. “I can’t stand her. Fake, self-absorbed, two-faced, New York bit…” she looked at Kara. “…beautiful person.”

  Marta let them in the door at Trevathan’s house.

  “How is he?” Pilate whispered.

  “In a lot of pain. But he won’t take the heavy meds until he sees you all,” she said.

  “He wants to keep a clear head, I know.”

  Marta touched his arm. “John, once he starts down that road in his palliative care, he probably won’t be himself. This may be it.”

  “It?” Pilate said, searching her tired, lined face for explanation.
/>   “Goodbye.”

  Pilate brought Kate, Kara and the baby into Trevathan’s bedroom. He was sitting up in a hospital bed, a stack of books and bottles of medication cluttering his nightstand. A CD of George Jones tunes played in the background. Trevathan stirred, opening his eyes and smiled at the visitors.

  “Oh, the Pilate family is here,” he said, his voice rasping as he raised a hand in greeting. A nasal cannula fed him oxygen.

  “Hi,” Kara said. “We brought you a present.”

  Kate came forward. “Here it is,” and she gently handed the bundle of baby to Trevathan.

  “Oh my,” Trevathan whispered. “Handsome little guy. Nothing like his father.”

  Pilate smiled.

  “Dr. Peter Trevathan, meet Peter Nathaniel Pilate,” Kate said.

  Trevathan looked at her, then Pilate. “No! Really?”

  “His name is just like yours!” Kara said, jumping up and down.

  “Oh my,” he said. “I…uh,” he sniffed. “I’m speechless.”

  “First time for everything,” Pilate said.

  That night, Kate and Pilate sat outside, rocking the baby in the porch swing.

  “Mom and Dad want to come up in a couple weeks,” Pilate said.

  “Good.”

  “I think Mom’s happy I finally had my own baby, especially since I had a kiddo with you.”

  Kate snickered.

  “It’s getting cold out here,” Pilate said. “I think our warm fall is turning into a cold winter. We need to go in.”

  “Pete’s bundled up tight,” she said. “We’ve been cooped up enough. Let’s give it another minute or two.”

  “Trevathan was so touched,” Pilate said. “Peter Pilate. Hmm. That’s really kind of a porn star name, isn’t it?”

  “Shut it.” Kate dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “He is such a dear man. I hate that this is happening. It’s not fair.”