Satan's Pony (14 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Satan's Pony
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My triumph was short-lived. They were on me in a split second. They didn't touch me. I'll give them that. But they were in my face, their anger tangible, like hot flashes. They had not enjoyed the ride over ruts and gullies, fields and ditches, at ninety miles an hour, rattling around in their car like a pair of dice in a cup. Patrol cars are not bikes. They demanded to know what I was doing riding Pi's bike. Why I was wearing his helmet and colors. Where he was. And … that I take them to him.
I sat, as if soldered to the bike seat, facing the creek.
“We can arrest you for bike theft,” Trooper #1 said.
“And for aiding and abetting a murder suspect,” said Trooper #2.
That did it. I gave a horselaugh. “On what evidence?”
“Leaving the scene of a crime,” said #1.
“Bullshit. He never knew there
was
a crime!” I cried.
Their expressions were a mix of pity and incredulity Trooper #2 said, “Come on, Doc; you're a bright girl. You know better than that.”
I felt my own anger thudding in my ears. I refused to speak again.
“You'd better come back with us to headquarters,” #1 said. “You lead, we'll follow—unless you want to take us to Pi, that is.”
I remained mute.
“To headquarters, then. And keep that speedometer under fifty,” he warned.
There were two of them and they were armed. I pressed the kick-start, turned the bike around, and paused a few yards ahead of the patrol car. When they were inside, they beeped their horn. I set off at thirty-five miles an hour, deciding to have a little more fun with them. They beeped angrily at my pace. I slowed to twenty-five. Trooper #1 leaned on the horn. I went back to thirty-five. Finally, tired of playing games, I sped up to fifty.
Dusk had settled; blue shadows had gathered; the air had cooled. Phragmites rose on either side giving the illusion that we were traveling down a corridor between two solid walls. But I knew they weren't solid; phrags were light, hollow reeds—easily bendable. Breakable. I spied a spot where they had been bent and broken by some farm vehicle in the recent past. On impulse, I accelerated and made a sharp right turn. I tore through the wall of stalks as if it were tissue paper and raced across a field toward a grove of trees. Decelerating, I wriggled the hog between the trees and came out on the other side, ending up on Snakeskin Road, a road I knew well. A glance over my shoulder revealed an empty landscape. Home free. I made another right and headed for the fisherman's shack and the state of Delaware.
 
 
When I ground to a halt in front of the shack, it was almost dark. I could barely make out Pi's bulk draped over a wicker chair on the porch. The red tip of a cigarette glowed in one hand and I was sure he was cradling a beer in the other.
“You look comfy,” I said, fuming.
“I patched the screens,” he said proudly. Bug-protected and supplied with beer—he was serene.
“They're coming for you, Pi. They followed me. I gave them the slip, but it won't be long before they pick up my trail.”
“Shit, man, I thought you said this was a safe house,” he said, but he still seemed unperturbed.
“It is. But we have to explain that to them.”
“You explain it. I'm just an innocent bystander.”
I dismounted and glanced around. “Where's Linus?”
“Back of the house.”
I pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
“Shut the fuckin' door! You're lettin' the mosquitoes in!”
“Sorree!”
It was the first real sign of alarm he'd shown all day. I shut the door and hooked it.
“Wanna beer?”
“Sure.” I slumped into a wicker rocker. All my bones ached. The Harley is a fast ride, but not always a smooth one. He handed me a cold can. “How come it's still cold?”
“I dunked it in the bay,” he said, as if
he'd
thought of it.
“Will wonders never cease? When did you fix the screens?”
“This morning, before the funeral.”
He puffed and I rocked in companionable silence—a brother and sister team, taking a break together.
I sat up.
“What's the matter?”
“Hush.” I heard the throb of a car approaching. “Get inside!” I ordered.
He had barely disappeared inside the house when headlight beams illuminated the porch and me, as if I were on stage. I resisted the urge to go into my song and dance routine.
The car stopped and two officers leaped out, guns drawn. Déjà vu. Assheads. But they scared me. I went and stood at the screen door.
“You're under arrest!” Officer #1 shouted.
“You can't arrest me,” I said, carefully enunciating every syllable. “I'm out of your jurisdiction.”
Their faces, lit from below by the headlights they had left on, resembled Halloween masks. “And I'm The Jolly Green Giant,” Officer #1 sneered.
“Check your map, Officer. You're no longer in Jersey. This is Delaware.” I held my ground.
He turned to his buddy for support, but Officer #2 looked disconcerted.
“If you don't have a map, I can give you one,” I offered. Then
remembered that it was tucked in my saddlebag. As they continued to hesitate, I gained confidence and added, “Or maybe you should call headquarters and check my information out.”
Officer #1 started toward me.
I glanced at the pathetic hook that held the screen door shut and swallowed. Forcing a tone of authority, I let them have my final shot: “You'd better check this out before you make fools of yourselves with your superior officers.”
Officer #1 hesitated.
“We might as well call,” #2 muttered.
Officer #1 took out his cell and punched in a number. I heard him identify himself, describe his location, and repeat what I had just told him. I held my breath. Before I had to draw another, Trooper #1 got his answer. “No kidding,” he said, his face registering disbelief. He disconnected.
“We'll be back,” he promised, and gestured for his buddy to get in the car.
They spun off in a spray of sand and gravel. When their taillights had disappeared, I called to Pi. “You can come out now.”
He came out and treated me to one of his rib-crushing bear hugs, but no kiss. “You were good,” he said. “Real good. You got rid of them without letting in one skeeter.”
I collapsed in the rocker, laughing with relief, and reached for my beer.
“Now give me back my colors,” he ordered.
I stripped off his vest.
He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest.
“Poor baby, did you miss your security blanket?” I settled back in my chair and picked up my beer again. It was warm.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, lit another Marlboro, and asked, “How'd you like my hog?”
I shrugged, nonchalant. “It was OK.”
“You're full of shit.”
“How'd you like my baby?”
He didn't deign to answer.
The remains of Pi's wig lay on the floor, where he must have tossed it when he came in. I picked it up and examined it. It was the work of an artist. He had cut two sets of slender phragmites and woven them painstakingly together at the top—like the Lenapes had woven their mats over three hundred years ago. He must have soaked the reeds in the bay first, to make them pliable. When he put the wig on, the tassels hung down on either side of his face in clusters, resembling silvery locks.
“It almost fooled you, didn't it?” he said with a note of pride.
I caressed the tassels gently. “You can always become a hairstylist when you get tired of biking.” I laid the wig aside.
“Tired of biking?” He laughed and stretched. “That'll be the same day I get tired of breathing.”
We sat in silence for a while, sipping and puffing, recovering from the troopers' house call.
“Now what?” Pi said finally, crushing out his butt.
“We have a reprieve, that's all. Time for me to ask some more questions.” I rose. “Speaking of which, I'd better get going.” I unhooked the screen door.
“Why don't you get that boyfriend of yours to help?” he said. “He seemed pretty smart.” Had he forgiven Tom for lopping off Sunny's ear? Or, in the light of subsequent events, had that insult paled in significance?
“We're not exactly close these days,” I confessed.
“What d'ya mean?”
“He saw a certain biker embracing me.”
“Oh, shit.”
As I opened the door, he said, “Jo.”
“I won't let in any damned mosquitoes,” I said irritably.
“If you don't come up with something in the next twenty-four hours … I'm outta here.” He was dead serious.
“But—”
“I can't stick around with those fuckin' cops breathing down my neck.”
I glanced at my watch. A little past eight. It felt more like midnight. It had been a long day. That meant the police and I had only the rest of tonight and tomorrow to find Sunny's murderer.
“Sleep tight.” I said.
On the way home, despite Pi's ultimatum and the pressure to concentrate solely on Sunny's murder, my compartmentalization technique broke down momentarily. It had served me well all day, but as I rode through the darkness, Tom crept through a crack in my brain. I had expected him to call by now. My feelings for Pi were so obviously platonic, it was hard for me to believe Tom was jealous. Maybe I'd better call him and explain after all … .
But when I entered the lobby of the motel, all thoughts of Tom and Pi were blown away. Jack was at his post, perusing a late edition of the
Bayside Bugle.
Late edition? the
Bugle
never had more than one edition.
BAYFIELD SON GUILTY: DEATH PENALTY
“Ohmygod!”
Jack lowered his paper.
“Where is Mag?”
“Home.”
As I flew out of the lobby, I passed Fran and Stan on the sofa, huddled over a copy of the
Bugle,
lapping up every word.
 
 
In front of the Nelson house, a long line of cars trailed up and down both sides of the road. I pulled up to the end of one line and parked. Through the lighted front window of the small ranch house I glimpsed what at first glance looked like a party—people moving to and fro, standing in clusters, eating and drinking, As I drew closer, I saw their expressions. This was no party. Every face was sober and drawn, and I knew before I entered the voices would be subdued and there would be no laughter.
I tried the door. According to country custom, it was unlocked. I stepped inside. A few heads turned toward me and nodded greetings, but no one smiled. I recognized most of the guests—friends, neighbors, and patients, in some cases embodying all three in one.
“Can I get you some coffee or tea, Jo?” Polly came up. Polly was Maggie's younger sister. She taught art at the local grammar school. We had met once before, and when I discovered she loved New York, we'd really hit it off. We had even planned a trip to Manhattan together.
“No, thanks, Polly. Where's Mag?”
“In back.” She lowered her voice. “Lying down.”
“How's she taking it?”
She shook her head.
“And Paul?”
“Over there.”
I looked where she nodded. Paul was surrounded by a bunch of his farmer and fishermen friends. He had aged ten years in a day. I took a sharp breath. Standing behind Paul was Tom. He glanced up, and I know he saw me. But he looked quickly away.
The snatches of conversation that I overheard centered on such topics as fish (“How's the shad running?” “Fair to middlin‘”) and crops (“Start your plantin' yet?” and “Tractor's bein' repaired …”) No one dared touch on the reason we were all there.
I edged through the throng toward the back of the house. The hall was dark except for a single strand of light leaking from a half-open door.
I knocked.
“Who is it?”
Barely recognizing the feeble voice, I went in.
Maggie was curled on the bed in a fetal position, a comforter tucked around her, although the night was mild. A cup of untouched tea was cooling on the table beside her. I sat on the end of the bed and reached for her hand. It was cold and limp.
After her initial recognition, she closed her eyes again.
“Mag, listen. He'll appeal. It will take years to go through the courts. The sentence might be overturned.”
No answer.
“He has his new faith. That'll help him through this,” I added desperately.
Her eyes opened.
“He told me he didn't care about the sentence,” I said. “All he wanted—and these are his very words—was ‘to make it up with my parents.'”
She raised her head, fixing her gaze on me. “He said that?”
I nodded.
“You never told me that,” she snapped.
Startled by her unexpected anger, I felt a twinge of guilt. In all the furor over the bikers, I'd neglected to transmit this bit of information.
“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”
“Forgot?” She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “If I'd known that, it would have made this terrible day a little easier.”
“I'm really sorry, Mag,” I repeated.
With a sigh, she sank back against the pillows. “Go away, Jo. Just go away.” She closed her eyes again.
“Mag, I'm really sorry. Things were so upset with that biker's death, and the funeral, and—”
“Oh, you and those bikers. I don't know what you see in them. Besides, you talked to Nick long before that biker died.” She cast me another accusatory look. “I'd thought better of you, Jo.”
Her words stung. She lay still, eyes closed. I watched her for a while. When her breathing became regular, I tiptoed out.
The living room was still crowded and had grown a little noisier.
I noticed that the tea and coffee cups had been replaced by paper cups, and I caught sight of a whiskey bottle being passed around. Paul was holding a paper cup and his face had regained some of its natural color. Thank god for small solaces. I scanned the room for Tom. I caught his eye. His gaze sliced through me like a knife through baloney at a cold-cut counter. The blood rose to my face and I escaped through the front door.
As I mounted my bike, under the brilliant night sky, I paused to take stock. A few hours ago, I'd felt proud of myself—the way I'd handled those troopers. Now I felt like the lowliest worm. I glanced up at the vast universe glittering overhead and told myself:
What does it matter? In a nanosecond, via astronomical time, all the players in this little drama will be dust
. This usually worked.
Not tonight.
 
 
I fell into bed. Although exhausted, I knew the minute I turned out the light demons from the past few days would pop out and plague me. In a desperate attempt to fend them off, I reached for Jack's manuscript. It lay on the floor where I had left it the night before.
I began to read and found myself wanting to read more. No doubt about it. Jack had a way with words. However, sleep overtook me. I would finish it tomorrow.

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