Satan's Pony (7 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Satan's Pony
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Left to myself, I noted for the first time that the blood from Sunny's wound had soaked the front of my T-shirt and splattered my jeans and boots. Time to get cleaned up.
Back in my room, I washed my white tee in cold water and Clorox and scrubbed my jeans where the red stains were rapidly turning brown. My boots would have to wait until morning, when I could hose them down in the parking lot. All these efforts were probably in vain. I'd probably have to throw out everything but the boots.
While I was performing these domestic chores, I was trying to keep my fear for Tom under control. What if they'd caught up with him? What if … I hurriedly pulled on clean clothes.
 
 
The bar was dark. As I peered through the murky gloom, anxiety ballooned inside me. I didn't see him. Nothing to do but wait. I slipped into an empty booth, taking the seat facing the door, and ordered a beer. My mind filled with unwelcome images. Tom being dragged from behind the steering wheel, Tom being beaten with chains, Tom … slid into the seat across from me. He hadn't come through the door. He had come from behind.
“Where were you?” My relief burst out in irritation.
“The men's.”
“What happened?”
“A couple of them followed me, but I lost them in the swamp. I think one of them got stuck in a ditch.” Normally he would have laughed, but not tonight.
“Do you think you're safe here?” I scanned the room.
He didn't answer.
“You'd better stay away from the motel until they're gone.”
The waitress came to take our order. I asked for another beer.
With growing irritation, I watched him methodically tear matches from a matchbook, making a little pile on the table.
Harry's was a retro kind of place. It still allowed smoking throughout. Tom didn't smoke, but he always carried matches.
A
throwback to his Boy Scout days,
I thought snidely.
What's wrong with you?
I gave my head a shake. “Thanks for coming to my aid,” I said. “I was a little worried at first, but you're a good shot.”
He glanced up from the match mess he had made. “I've been a bowman for twenty years.”
Our beers came. He swept the ruined matches aside. We each took a long draft. I knew he was waiting for an explanation. And deserved one. I took a deep breath.
“It happened so fast,” I began. “I drove up on my bike and there was this party going on in the parking lot. At first it looked like sort of fun. You know, totally off the wall. Somebody handed me a beer. I guess I had two. But then something changed. They started breaking bottles and hurling trash cans, and … I thought of the Nelsons. Neither of them was there. Jack was on duty. He came out of the motel. I think he intended to tell them to stop. But when he saw what was going on, he darted back inside. That's when I decided to call nine-one-one. But Sunny grabbed me—and I dropped my phone.”
Tom's hand tightened around his mug.
“If you hadn't come—”
“You would have been fine,” he said evenly. “As soon as he put you down, you would have beaten him to a pulp. That's not the point.”
“What's the point?” I asked innocently.
“Who was that guy who picked up the earlobe?”
“Pi?” I said, too quickly.
Retrieving the matches, Tom returned to their mutilation.
I traced a design in the frost on my mug. The silence lengthened. I had to say something. “At first I thought all those guys were alike. Grotesques from some horror show—with two brain cells. But …”
He waited.
“I was wrong. I mean, there's more to them than you think. You can't stereotype them. Some are manual workers and day laborers. But one's an artist; another's an actor. Pi's a mathematician. But they have this one thing in common—that binds them together … .”
He frowned. “What's that?”
“The bike. Not just the physical Harley, but what it stands for. It's a symbol for … risk, power, brotherhood—freedom!”
“Violence. Intimidation. Destruction.
Rape!
”
I looked away. “I guess …”
The waitress took our empty mugs. Tom ordered two more beers. I stopped him. “Make mine a bourbon.” I needed more fortification
“You were telling me about Pi,” he prodded.
“He's the leader. He keeps them under control.”
“Like tonight?”
Tom rarely indulged in sarcasm. That was my forte. I ignored it.
“The guys worship him.”
“And the girls?”
“I don't know. I haven't seen—”
“One particular girl?” He fixed his own not inconsiderable gaze on me.
“Don't be ridiculous.” I took a large gulp of bourbon. When I looked up, his expression was hurt. I reached over to squeeze his hand. He pulled away.
“He was at MIT,” I said, “and dropped out.”
“Terrific. Another point in his favor.”
“But he's young and has promise. It's such a waste. Maybe—”
“You can reform him, send him back to school, and someday he'll invent a substitute for the gasoline motor or take us all to Mars.”
I didn't respond.
“You have a tendency to want to fix everything, Jo. Be careful. Pi's a big boy now. Not the little paper boy you remember.”
“You just can't believe a man and woman can be friends—with no sex—can you?” The bourbon had kicked in.
He looked surprised. “And you can?”
“Of course. I had loads of male friends in med school—”
“I'll bet you did.”
Had I heard right? “What?”
“Finish your drink. I'll take you home.”
“Don't be sore.”
He stood. “Drink up.”
I didn't want it. I was confused. What had I said? I couldn't remember. I hadn't meant to make him mad. He had rescued me. My knight in shining armor. As I stood up, my legs wobbled and I almost knocked over my chair. Shit, I was
drunk.
I had eaten and slept very little in the past twenty-four hours, and after such an emotional evening one beer and a couple of swallows of bourbon had sent me to la-la land.
Grabbing my arm, Tom dropped a tip on the table and hurried me out of the bar.
I started for my bike, but he stepped in front of me. “Give me your keys and wait here.” He rode my bike over to his truck, yanked down the tailgate, and wrestled the wooden ramp he always carried to the ground. He rolled my bike onto the flatbed. After slamming the tailgate shut, he ordered, “Get in.”
I moved toward the cab, using the side of the truck for support, and climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat.
He drove faster than usual—anxious to get rid of me? When we pulled into the parking lot, there was a state police car in front of the motel.
He's after Tom for speeding,
was my first fuzzy thought. A trooper stepped out of the car, hand raised.
Tom braked and called from the window, “What's up, Officer?” “You'll have to park somewhere else.”
Behind the flashing lights I made out two more state police cars
and a band of troopers milling around the lot, bearing flashlights. Even in my inebriated state I knew they couldn't
all
be after Tom.
“My passenger lives here,” Tom said. “Can I drop her off?”
“What's her name?”
“Jo Banks.”
“Dr. Banks?” He came closer and peered in the window.
Oh, god, I hope he doesn't make me take a Breathalyzer test. Hell, I'm not even driving.
“Yes,” I said.
“Get out. We've been looking for you.”
“Wait a minute. What's this all about?” Tom stretched his arm across my chest, preventing me from moving.
“There's been an accident. She's wanted for questioning. What's your name?”
“Canby. Tom.”
“Well, what a coincidence, Mr. Canby. You and your girlfriend are both wanted for questioning. We were told Dr. Banks was a near rape victim here tonight, and you may be charged with assault and battery for pulling some van Gogh-like stunt. You'd both better come inside.”
“Is that an order?”
“Let's put it this way.” The brim of the trooper's hat hid his eyes in shadow as he spoke. “If you don't come voluntarily now, you may be subpoenaed in the morning.”
“Who was hurt?” I leaned across Tom.
“Not hurt. Dead,” the trooper said. “A biker.”
“Which one?”
Tom looked at me.
“I don't know his real name. His buddies called him … Sunny.”
I sank back against the seat. “How did he die?” I asked more calmly.
“Can't tell you that. You'd better come inside.”
As we made our way to the motel entrance, I caught a glimpse of Sunny. His yellow hair splayed in a ragged halo against the tarmac, a wad of white bandage like an earmuff, covering his left ear, and his battered bomber boots pointing at the night sky.
Every light in the lobby was turned on and every seat taken. Not that there were many seats. One couch and two chairs. Bikers stood in clusters talking in hushed—for bikers—tones. I caught a glimpse of Maggie and Paul in their little office talking intently to a stranger. A bald man in a shabby tweed suit, he stood out among the colorful bikers and the gray troopers. The Nelsons' faces were taut and strained. Jack was huddled on a corner of the couch, trying to keep his distance from two burly bikers who had taken over the rest of it.
Coming from the dark, Tom and I stood blinking in the glare. The man in tweeds stepped forward to make an announcement: “You may all go now. But no one may leave Bayfield until further notice.”
Since most of the people either were staying at the motel or lived in Bayfield, this announcement had little impact.
“Does that mean us?” Tom asked the trooper hopefully.
He ignored him.
“Who's that man?” I asked.
“Peck—Major Crimes,” the trooper said.
As the crowd gradually thinned out, I saw Jingles slide up to Mr. Peck (Jingles never walked; he slid) and say something in his ear. Peck nodded. I had hoped to catch up with Maggie or Paul before they left, but they had disappeared right after Peck's announcement.
Jack had also vanished. Pi was nowhere in sight. Peck came toward us. Tom gripped my arm. “Let me do the talking,” he whispered.
I was happy to obey, even though I no longer felt drunk. There's nothing like finding a body on your doorstep to sober you up. Black coffee and cold showers pale in comparison. I wondered what effect—if any—it would have on my hangover the next morning.
“Who's this?” Peck asked the trooper who had us in tow.
The trooper gave our names.
“Thanks, Fred. You can go,” Peck said. “I'm Detective Peck, Major Crimes Division.” He led us over to the couch that was still occupied by two bikers—Mickey, the comic book artist, and Hash Brown, the short-order cook. “We need this space,” the detective told them. To my surprise, the bikers left without a murmur. When we were seated, Peck said, “I just have a few questions.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but we're not answering any questions without our lawyer.” Tom was polite but firm.
I didn't know we
had
a lawyer, but it sure sounded good.
“Do lawyers work night shifts in Bayfield?” Peck asked with a bemused expression.
Tom didn't answer.
The detective shrugged. “As you wish.”
Tom crossed the lobby before taking out his cell phone.
Peck and I sat in silence while Tom made his call. I was completely sober now but feared some lingering alcoholic fumes might leak Peck's way if I opened my mouth.
Tom came back. “He'll be right over,” he said.
I wanted to ask who “he” was but thought better of it. If one had a lawyer, one should know his name.
The three of us sat silently, in the now-empty lobby, waiting for the lawyer. Someone had turned off the main light switch, and the only illumination came from a standing lamp (which must have had a twenty-five-watt bulb) and a small desk lamp in the office where Jack had reappeared with a paperback. He glanced our way once. I winked at him, but he didn't respond. It would take Jack a few days to recover from tonight's events, I decided.
With an elaborate yawn, Peck reached for a tattered copy of the
Bayfield Bugle
that lay on a table nearby and began to read. I fiddled with a button on my jeans jacket, until it fell off. Tom was the only one who remained in complete repose. He was good at that. A hunter's knack acquired while waiting for the deer to come out, I supposed.
A gust of damp night air blew into the lobby, followed by a tired man in a rumpled suit. Tom leaped up. “Thanks for coming, Henry.”
“No problem.” He grinned. “What's going on?”
“This is Henry Wosky,” Tom introduced him to Peck.
Before rising to shake the lawyer's hand, Peck carefully folded the newspaper and tucked it neatly in the side of the sofa. Tom pulled up the remaining orange vinyl chair for the lawyer. Since I was supposed to know Wosky, Tom said, “And you know Dr. Banks.”
A smart lawyer, Wosky merely nodded.
When everyone was reseated (except me; since I had been seated already), Peck took the floor. “We had an unfortunate incident here tonight … .”
At last,
I thought,
we're going to find out what happened to Sunny.

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