Authors: Robin Hathaway

Satan's Pony (19 page)

BOOK: Satan's Pony

11.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

An evening like that
had
to be followed by a beautiful morning! And it was. Unfortunately, it was a Monday morning. A workday. Tom dropped me back at the motel. I showered and dressed. As I donned my one and only pantsuit, a familiar sound drew me to the window. The bikers were lined up in the parking lot, their colorful helmets gleaming in the sun, revving their motors, preparing to take off. Pi's “unfinished business” must have taken longer than he thought it would. He had told me they would be leaving last night. There were a couple of the boys that I would have liked to say good-bye to. Mickey and Honey. But not enough to tear down to the parking lot half-naked. If this were a B movie, I would have sailed downâhalf-clad as I wasâand whispered in Pi's ear, “Go back to school, Archie.” But it wasn't a movie and I stayed at the window. As I watched, one by one they bumped out of the lot, Pi's glossy red helmet leading the pack. When the last one had disappeared down the road, an eerie silence fell over the lot and the motel. I turned back to my room and continued dressing.

Because it was such a beautiful morning, I decided to take the long way to the hospital, using the back roads. They were lined with wildflowers this time of year. The blue asters were my favorite.
And this morning they glistened with dew. “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day!” I couldn't help singing.

A movement by the side of the road caught my eye. A muskrat or woodchuck? I turned down the throttle and scanned the ditch. Slowly a man's head appeared.

Jingles.

I barely recognized him. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. He must have been lying in the ditch all night. His face was swollen, distorted, and stained with blood. His leather vest was goneâalong with his colors. All he wore was jeans and a torn tee. I came to a full stop.

“Can I help?”

He looked up. One eye was swollen shut. There was a gash down his left cheek, oozing blood. When he recognized me, he sent a stream of foul saliva my way.

I stood my ground. “You need medical attention.” I took out my cell and started to punch in 911.

“Stop! Bitch!”
His voice was inhuman, the high-pitched squeal of a small mammalâa cat or a rabbitâin pain.

I put my cell away.

He struggled to climb out of the ditch and fell back. Involuntarily I reached out to help him. Again he spit. I drew back.

Again and again, I watched him struggle to climb out of the shallow ditch. A child could have done it easily. A healthy child. Finally he made it. He remained crouched on all fours, panting. When he had caught his breath, he raised his head and cast me a look brimming with hate.

As I watched his bent figure slouch down the road toward Bridgeton, stumbling every few steps, I felt a clinical remorse for his battered and broken body but nothing more. I punched 911 and gave them his location. He couldn't go far. They would find him. Who had done this? Pi â¦ alone? Or had each biker taken his turn? Maybe Tom was rightâthey were animals. I turned my bike and rode off in the opposite direction.

The dew had dried on the asters. They no longer glistened. But they were still blue. I decided to visit Miss Snow before going to the hospital. She would be a tonic after this depressing episode. Besides, I wanted to thank her for telling me about the fisherman's shack. It had served a purpose. In anticipation of seeing my elderly patientâand friendâI turned up the throttle.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

It's not my intention to portray bikers as devils incarnate. I know there are bikers of all varietiesâfrom hardened criminals to the Sunday rider who could be your doctor, lawyer, or next-door neighbor.

The Satan's Apostle Clubâa creation of pure fictionâlies somewhere in between. It has members who have raped and murdered and others who, although tough, are also kind and generous. But they have all passed the “righteous” test, which, in biker language, means loyalty to the point of death. They will never snitch, squeal, or rat on a brother biker, because this is the eighth “deadly sin,” and they are willing to give up their lives for any member of their club. All but one.

ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY

THE JO BANKS MYSTERIES
Scarecrow

THE DR. FENIMORE MYSTERIES
The Doctor Digs a Grave
(Malice Domestic First Novel Winner)

The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest

The Doctor Dines in Prague

Notes

This is a historic fact.

SATAN'S PONY. Copyright Â© 2004 by Robin Hathaway. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin's Press

www.minotaurbooks.com

eISBN 9781466815063

First eBook Edition : March 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hathaway Robin

Satan's pony / Robin Hathaway.â1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-33322-6

EAN 978-0312-3322-5

1. Women physiciansâFiction. 2. MotorcyclistsâCrimes againstâFiction.

3. TravelersâServices forâFiction. 4. New JerseyâFiction. I. Title.