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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Satan's Pony
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I woke with a panicky feeling, as if something or someone was chasing me and time was running out. Then I remembered Pi's ultimatum. If some evidence of Sunny's real killer wasn't found by eight o'clock tonight, he would cop out and take off for points west and probably be caught and arrested for a crime he didn't commit. This knowledge had barely sunk in when the phone rang. Tom? I snatched up the receiver.
“Hi, Jo.” Becca.
“Uh …” I grunted.
“Are you still mad at me?”
With an effort I remembered the last time I had seen Becca. I'd been in a bad mood. I said quickly, “No. Not at all.”
“Good, 'cause I'm coming over.”
“Now?” I cast a sleepy glance at my digital alarm clock. “It's not even seven.”
“I gotta talk to you.” Her tone was urgent. “It's about Bobby.”
“What about Bobby?” I was fully awake.
“He came to school yesterday with a black eye.”
I sat up. “You're kidding.” A black eye meant a blow to the head. This to a kid recovering from a severe concussion. “I'll meet you at the Blue Arrow. We'll have pancakes—my treat!”
I jumped out of bed and rushed through my morning ablutions.
 
 
Between mouthfuls of blueberry pancakes, bacon, and a double order of orange juice, Becca told me all she knew about Bobby's black eye. It was frustratingly little. He'd shown up for class on Friday morning with his left eye swollen half-shut and the skin around his eye stained varying shades of blue and purple. The homeroom teacher had called him over and they had a whispered conference. Or rather, the teacher whispered while Bobby stood silent, occasionally shaking his head. The teacher announced to the class that she had to leave for a few minutes and asked them to please behave themselves until she got back. Then she and Bobby left.
“Shit!”
Becca laughed. “You've been hangin' out with those bikers too much.”
“Sorry.” I flushed. “Want some more pancakes?”
“No, thanks.” She patted her usually flat tummy, which now resembled a small bowling ball.
“You have syrup on your chin.” I drained my second cup of coffee. I'd had no appetite for anything more solid.
She wiped her chin. “So what are we going to do?”
I looked away. What I'd like to do was ride over to Bobby's house and throttle his father. But I had enough sense to know that wouldn't solve anything and might hurt the boy further. “I don't know,” I said slowly. “Let me think about it. What was the name of that teacher?”
“Mrs. Dalton.”
“For a start, I'll give Mrs. Dalton a call, and we'll go on from there.”
Becca looked disappointed. She'd expected more immediate action. “Can't we go beat him up?”
I grinned. As usual, Becca and I were on the same wavelength. “I wish,” I said. “But that wouldn't do any good. And it would get us into trouble.”
Becca was quiet, stirring a microscopic piece of bacon in a pool
of syrup with her fork. “How can a man treat his own son like that?” The honest wonder in her voice made me look up. Her pale forehead under its fringe of rusty bangs was puckered in disbelief. I reached over and rubbed her head.
“Some people can be lousy,” I said. “But most people are nice.”
She made an inarticulate sound—something between a retch and a groan, conveying her opinion of my answer.
I caught myself up short. I had been lying so much lately, now I was even lying to Becca. “Sorry, Bec. There
are
evil people in the world. People who get a bang out of hurting others. Sadists, they're called. This is a fact. That's one of the reasons we have policemen and courts, and juries and jails. Some of these people can be helped. Rehabilitated. But not all.” I thought of Nick. Could he be saved? “Some are evil to the core. Nothing will change them and they have to be put in jail.”
I signaled to the waitress for more coffee. I needed more fuel to continue my lecture. “And evil people are not always obvious. You know—dressed in black with horns and cloven feet, carrying pitchforks. Sometimes they come in the shape of a beautiful woman or a charming man, just as some beautiful flowers are poisonous … .”
“My aunt is beautiful—so was my mother.”
“And neither of them is or was evil. All I'm saying is—sometimes bad people come in nice packages and are very charming. The other side of the coin is—good people can put us off with their bad appearance.”
“Like the bikers?”
“Right. Despite their tattoos, earrings, beards, bad language, many of them are OK. Not all … .” Which reminded me, I had to wrap this up and get back to the motel. “As you grow older, have more experience, you get a sixth sense about people.”
“Like you?” Becca grinned wickedly.
“Yeah. But even at my advanced age, I sometimes make mistakes.” I wondered what mistakes I was making now.
“But Bobby is such a nice kid … .” She still didn't get it.
“Of course he is. Some people just get a kick out of hurting
people—nice people, not nice people, even their own children.” I was on a truth roll now and refused to back down—to sugarcoat this. I told her a story a judge had told me. “There was once a man who took out life insurance on his five-year-old son, then killed him, and collected. Because he got away with it, he took out a policy on his three-year-old daughter and killed her, too. But this time they caught him. The judge looked at me and said, ‘What do you do with a person like that?' I couldn't answer him.”
Becca gave me a grave look. She was beginning to understand.
Thoughts of Pi, Mag, and Tom were scratching at the door of the Bobby compartment. “I have to get back,” I said. I left a big tip and headed for the cashier.
 
 
True to my word, as soon as I got back to my room, I called Mrs. Dalton. Becca sprawled on my bed and listened intently to my side of the conversation. Mrs. Dalton told me she had been unable to get anything out of Bobby and his parents' phone was disconnected, “Probably because they hadn't paid the bill,” she confided. She had reported all this to the principal yesterday. He told her he would inform the school board, who would study the matter and decide whether to turn the case over to the county authorities.
Bureaucratic bullshit.
I held my tongue, but it wasn't easy. The county would send a caseworker out to see if the boy should be placed in foster care.
I stifled a groan. I knew all about foster care. When I was an intern at Bellevue, the caseworkers used to entertain us with horror stories. Sometimes the kids were better off with their natural parents. I listened patiently until Mrs. Dalton ran out of steam, thanked her, and hung up.
“Now what?” Becca had read my expression and knew the conversation had not been satisfactory.
“Now you go home and I go to work. There's nothing more we can do till Monday, when I can talk to the county authorities.”
“But Bobby may be dead by then!” She was outraged.
“That's very unlikely. This is the first time you've seen him with
any bruises, isn't it?”
She nodded.
“We have to take some risk.”
“Can't we ride over and see him?”
I thought about that and decided in the negative. I was Bobby's physician and there were certain professional rules that had to be observed, such as not chasing after a patient—waiting until he called you. “
I
can't,” I said, “but I guess you could. Just ride over and say you dropped by to see how Bobby is.”
“OK.” Becca was eager.
I walked her out to the parking lot. As she got on her bike, I warned, “If you see something you don't like, Becca,
don't do anything.
Call me on your cell phone. Promise?”
She nodded. Then she tapped my arm. “There's that guy whose wife was yelling in the room next to yours.”
I followed her gaze and saw Stan putting a suitcase in the trunk of his car. “How did you know what he looked like?” I asked.
“When I heard him leave, I poked my head out and saw him.”
As we watched, Fran appeared around the side of the car wearing her usual uniform—a too-tight tank top, a pair of too-short short shorts, and sandals. She threw a tote bag into the trunk and sashayed back to the passenger seat. Seems they were checking out. Had Fran had her fill of bikers? Or had Stan? I wondered if Peck had given them permission to leave. Stan slammed the trunk lid shut and I saw their tag. UR4ME. Cute. Her brainstorm, no doubt. Was the message for her husband or any dude who happened to be on her tail?
Becca pedaled away with a wave as Stan edged his car out of the lot.
The bikers loitered in the lobby and parking lot, pacing and snarling like caged animals. How much longer would Peck be able to keep them here? I wondered. Paul was at the front desk reading the paper. The headline was smaller today but still prominent:
NELSON FILES APPEAL
“How's Mag?” I asked.
He lowered the paper and shook his head.
“What about you?” I ventured. This was the first time I'd spoken to him since our tiff.
To my relief, he gave a shaky smile. “I'll live.”
“Is there
anything
I can do?” I asked.
“Go see her.”
“She wasn't too happy to see me last night.” I told him what Nick had said about wanting to make it up to his parents and how I'd forgotten to tell Maggie.
He shrugged. “Take her something,” he said finally. “Some fruit. A pie. Anything. She won't eat it, but she'll appreciate it. And maybe she'll talk to you. She needs to talk.”
I was amazed at the transformation in this man. Now it was he
who was showing concern for Maggie, giving advice to me. I nodded, stowing my paper under my arm.
“You take care of yourself,” I advised earnestly. “Be sure to eat properly and get enough sleep.”
“Thanks, Doctor.” His smile was a little less shaky.
In the hall outside my room, Marie was vacuuming. When she saw me she turned off the machine. “They're gone!” she said gleefully, nodding at the room next to mine.
“I know. I saw them leave.”
“But it'll probably take me all day to clean that pigsty.” A frown replaced her smile.
“Well, once it's done it's done,” I said unhelpfully.
“Any leads on that dead biker?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Maybe it was an outsider.”
I stared.
“I mean, not one of the bikers staying here. There were a lot of people at that party. Who knows where they came from.”
“You're right.” I slipped my key in my lock. (They still used real keys at the Oakview Motor Lodge.) “Thanks, Marie.”
Once inside, I slumped on the bed, my head in my hands.
What's wrong with me?
Marie's simple suggestion made more sense than anything I'd come up with for days. Maybe it was an outsider. One of those chicks they'd brought in from Wildwood for example. Maybe one of them had a history with Sunny. How could I find out?
Talk to the bikers, Dork!
But would they talk to me?
Sure they will.
They're as anxious to get this thing solved as you are, so they can get the hell out of here. I got up and made myself some sludge, i.e., instant coffee mixed with warm tap water. If you drink it quickly, it's not bad and it does the trick. I felt the effects of the caffeine almost instantly. Recharged, I set out in search of bikers.
As I passed Stan and Fran's former domicile, the door was open and I heard Marie cleaning and cussing inside. She had set two overflowing trash baskets out in the hall. Dirty Kleenex, soiled paper
towels, a squeezed-out toothpaste tube. Why was other people's trash so much more gross than your own? And bourbon bottles. Six empties lined up against the wall.
When I trudged into the lobby there wasn't a biker in sight. Best laid plans and all that.
“They went for a run,” Paul said.
I grunted. Waiting was the hardest part. I almost regretted not having Saturday office hours. Even seeing Mrs. Lockweed would be better than facing these empty hours.
“Why don't you go see Mag?” Paul prodded again. “I'm stuck here till five and she's all alone.”
“Good idea,” I said, not knowing if it was or not. But it was an opportunity to atone for my recent neglect.
At a roadside stand near the motel, I bought a bunch of fresh asparagus and some wild flowers. It was nice to see these stands displaying goods again. All winter they had stood bleak and bare. Asparagus was the first to show up in May. June brought the strawberries. Then the vegetables started to trickle in. Peas and string beans first, then the lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots. And finally in August, the big blast: Jersey corn and tomatoes. My mouth watered just thinking about them.
The flowers would look better in a vase, I decided. (Or was I just putting off this visit?) Whatever. I stopped in the lobby and headed for the cupboard under the front desk. This cupboard was a catchall for odds and ends; the sign-in book, extra keys, phone books, and a
vase or two for those occasional times when Maggie felt inspired to put flowers on the desk. No one was on duty. Paul must have stepped out for a minute. I rummaged inside, feeling in the dark, until I touched something smooth. I pulled it out. Not a vase, but a beer bottle. I was about to toss it, when something stopped me. Giving the bottle a second glance, I noticed it wasn't dusty and there was still an inch of liquid in the bottom. Holding it gingerly by the neck, I saw some sediment floating in the liquid. I don't know what possessed me. Maybe that shot of caffeine. But I set the bottle carefully on the desk, reached for my cell, and called Peck.
When he recognized my voice, he said angrily, “You led my boys on a merry chase!”
“And you broke your promise,” I snapped. “‘No police at the funeral,' you said.”
“Well … I had my reasons.”
I held my tongue only because I was about to ask for a favor. I told him about the beer bottle and asked if he'd check it for prints. His opinion of my hunch was close to zero, but he told me to bring the bottle into the lab.
“Better test the contents, too,” I said. “There's a small liquid residue.”
“Sure, Doc. Whatever you say. Anything else we can do for you? How about a round-trip ticket to Disney World?”
“I'm not Mickey Mousing you!” I snapped.
He actually laughed.
“How long will it take for a report?” I was thinking of Pi's ultimatum.
“They should have it before closing. The lab shuts down at five. But don't get your hopes up.”
I wrapped the bottle carefully in a paper towel, tucked it upright in my saddlebag to protect the contents, and broke the speed limit riding to Bridgeton. Fortunately none of my trooper buddies were around. As I came out of the police lab, I heard the courthouse clock striking eleven. Only nine hours before Pi took off and ruined his life for good. I sped back to the motel, hoping some bikers might have returned and
I could ask them about those other outsiders, before I went to see Maggie. It would be a mistake to pin all my hopes on one beer bottle.
There wasn't a single bike or biker in the parking lot. Before retrieving my asparagus and flowers in the lobby, I called Pi to make sure he hadn't flown the coop.
“Yeah?” He sounded edgy.
“How're you doing?”
“Not good.”
“What's the trouble.”
“I need a beer run.”
“I'll bring you some.”
“When?”
I glanced at my watch. “In about an hour.” I wanted to see Maggie first.
“I may not last that long.”
“You shouldn't drink before noon.”
“Up yours!”
“Come on, Pi. I'm working my butt off for you, and that's all you have to say?”
“No. Be sure it's cold.”
I bought two six-packs at Harry's, stashed them in my saddlebags, and lumbered clumsily toward Delaware, cursing Pi all the way. Was he really worth all this? Unfortunately riding alone stimulates introspection; especially if you're forced to ride slowly. And the last thing I wanted was to open those mental compartments, those Pandora's boxes, and let out all my troubles—Tom, Maggie, Bobby, Pi. I focused on the road ahead and tried to keep my mind a blank. Into that blankness sailed a small figure on a bicycle. A familiar figure. I ground to a halt. Dragging her feet, Becca skidded to a stop.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. We were only a stone's throw from the fisherman's shack—Pi's hideaway.
“I went to see Bobby.”
“He lives around here?” I was surprised.
She nodded. “Right over there.” She pointed to a nest of trees. I couldn't see any dwelling. “We saw your friend.”
I gasped.
“Yeah. He was great.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were horsin' around in this clearing and he was taking a sunbath. He asked Bobby where he got his shiner. Bobby didn't say anything, but I told him his dad did it. And you know what he said?”
“No.” I held my breath.
“He said, ‘I'd like to meet this gentleman.'” Becca did a good imitation of Pi doing his gentleman act.
“And?”
“And—” Becca's eyes sparkled, “we introduced him, and Pi told him if he ever laid a hand on Bobby again he'd come back and beat the shit out of him.”
I let my breath out. “So Bobby doesn't live in Jersey? He lives in Delaware?”
“Yeah. Bobby says it works out real well because his dad doesn't have to pay Jersey taxes and the Delaware revenuers can't find him.”
“You won't tell anyone you saw Pi?” I asked anxiously.
“No way. Pi made us swear to secrecy. We wrote our names in blood.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He nicked our fingers with his penknife and made us sign our initials on this scrap of paper. And he said if we broke our word he'd send the Jersey Devil after us. Then he made this ugly face like he was the Jersey Devil and told us to scram.”
I had trouble controlling my laughter. Meanwhile the beer on the back of my bike was growing warm. “Well, what are you waiting for? Scram!” I started my motor.
With a grin, she peddled off.
 
 
“Special Delivery!” I sang through the screen door. Pi emerged from the shack, scratching his crotch. I wondered when he'd last had a
bath. His face was a deep crimson. Too much sunbathing, I guessed. “Sorry, I didn't bring any suntan lotion.”
“Just give me the liquid.”
I carried the two dripping six-packs up the steps and dumped them on the porch. Only after he had ripped open the first carton, popped a can, and satisfied his thirst did he speak. “Met some friends of yours.”
“So I hear.”
“What a turd.” His term for Mr. Shoemaker. “You should see that place. Filth. Garbage. Flies. Dirty, naked kids and half-starved dogs running around.”
As if
he
were the king of sanitation.
“And you know what they were eatin'?”
I shook my head.
“Muskrat!”
“Sure. That's a delicacy in these parts. They hold a muskrat dinner every fall at the firehouse.”
“This was breakfast!” He made a retching noise.
When he had finally run out of indignation, I asked him about Sunny's love life. “Were any of his disgruntled ex-girlfriends at that party?”
“So …” He grinned. “You think poison is a woman's weapon?”
“No way,” I said bristling.
He seemed to ponder my question. “There was one old lady—Wendy. Well-hung Wendy we used to call her.”
“How original.” I was still smarting from the poison crack.
“We looked her up in Wildwood, and brought her and a bunch of her pals back to the party. She hung around for a while, but she left early. Probably when she saw that Sunny had eyes only for you.”
I grimaced.
“Why don't you go talk to her?” he said. “She sure had a motive. But I'd have thought she'd poison you, not Sunny.” He grinned.
Just what I needed—a round-trip to Wildwood—at least an hour and a half away from Bayfield. “I'll think about it.”
“Hey, I thought this was a matter of life 'n death?”
I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. I told him about the beer bottle.
He was unimpressed.
“They promised they'd have the results today.”
“What time?”
“Five o'clock.”
He took a deep swig from his can. “I guess these …” he said, gesturing at the six-packs, “will last me till five.”
“Till eight,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah. Eight. I don't wanna leave before dark.”
“I'll keep you informed.” I trundled off, feeling heavier than when I'd arrived, even though I'd left the six-packs behind.
By the time I got to Maggie's it was past one o'clock. Unlike last night, the road in front of the Nelson house was deserted and the curtains were drawn over the front window. I tried the door. Open. I stepped inside and called softly, “Mag?”
No answer.
I tiptoed through the empty living room, down the hall to her bedroom. The room was a mess. Bed unmade. Half-empty cups and tumblers scattered on the bureau and bedside table. Her bathrobe lay in a heap on the floor. But no Mag.
I went back to the hall and called again, louder this time.
“In here,” a faint voice filtered toward me from the end of the hall.
I entered another, very different bedroom. A boy's room. Posters of rock stars on the walls. Race-car models lining both windowsills and the bureau. The bureau was painted black, and the mirror above it was covered with stickers of comic book heroes. Batman, Spider-man, et cetera. The single bookcase was stocked with CDs and videos. (DVDs had not been around when Nick left home.) The only books were a few tattered children's volumes stashed on the bottom shelf. A double bed filled most of the room, covered with a
black bedspread depicting bikers on motorcycles in yellow and red. I thought how Nick would have fit in just fine with the present tenants of the Oakview Motor Lodge.
Maggie was sitting in a rocking chair next to a window that looked out on a broad field. She didn't turn but continued to stare out the window.
“I brought you something.”
“Put it there.” Without turning she indicated the bureau with a languid wave.
I placed my gifts on the scratched black surface and asked, “May I sit down?”
She shrugged. I sat on the edge of the bed. There was a long silence. What to say? How to begin? I didn't have to. She began.
“He used to lock himself in here with his TV and his CD player. I never knew what he was watching or what he was listening to.” She rocked gently, methodically. “Maybe if I'd paid more attention. Pried a little. Made him tell me …”
“No, Mag. You were a fine mother. Teenagers need their space, their privacy. They hate to be spied on or told what to do.”
She rocked a little faster.
After a while, I asked timidly, “Can you see him?”
“Tomorrow. Sunday is visiting day.”
I moved around the bed and sat on the side closer to her.
She looked at me for the first time. “Have they found out who killed that biker?”
“Not yet. But we may have a lead.” I told her about the beer bottle.
“Not much to go on.”
I nodded, feeling empty and low. “There's an old girlfriend who came to the party who might have had a motive …”
But Maggie had lost interest. Her gaze was back on the field. “I used to sit in this chair and read to him.
Peter Rabbit, The Wizard of
Oz
… And he loved the Bible stories. ‘Noah's Ark,' ‘David and Goliath.” His favorite was ‘Jonah and the Whale.' He thought it would be cool to be inside a wha—” She broke suddenly. Her
shoulders heaved and a sob erupted from deep inside her body, like some wild animal cry. I threw my arms around her, locking her in a hug like one of Pi's viselike bear hugs. I didn't speak, I just squeezed her, fearing if I let go, she would fly apart—into a thousand pieces.
BOOK: Satan's Pony
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