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Authors: Robin Hathaway

Sleight of Hand

BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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To
my grandmother
Lydia F. McCloy
My special thanks to the following people for making this book possible:
Ruth Cavin, my editor; Laura Langlie, my agent; Robert Keis-man, M.D., my husband; E. James Kohl, M.D.; Katherine Gordon-Clark, Ph.D.; Bill Miller; Anne, Scott, Julie, Jason, Luke, and Maddie—just for being there.
It was a beautiful October morning and I was heading for the hospital on my motorcycle to make my early rounds. The road stretched out in front of me, smooth and empty, begging me to turn up the throttle. The speedometer had barely touched seventy when I noticed that the sweep of road ahead, usually deserted, was clogged. I decelerated back to forty.
State police cars lined both sides of the road and troopers milled around, crossing and recrossing. A small cluster of spectators ogled something by the side of the road.
A deer was my first thought. But why would a deer attract so much attention? Deer accidents were a dime a dozen in these parts. Cutting my motor, I trolled over to an officer and asked, “What's up?”
“Move on!” He tried to wave me through, taking time to cast a disdainful glance at my secondhand Honda.
I trundled over to the pack of people by the side of the road and repeated my question. A disheveled blonde wearing a sweatshirt with the slogan COWTOWN RODEO looked up. “Dead man,” she said succinctly.
I decided not to linger. I'd had my fill of dead men for one year. A band of bikers had invaded my motel a few months ago and one
of them had been murdered in the parking lot. I had even been a suspect for a while. I wasn't anxious to get involved in another crime scene. I caught myself up short. Crime scene? Why not a simple hit-and-run? “What happened?” I asked the blonde.
She looked up again, her eyes glazed with excitement. “Two bullet holes in the back of the head.”
A burly man in a plaid shirt and stained overalls turned to me. “I found him,” he said proudly. “I live right across the road.” He waved at a small frame house that was almost hidden from view by the huge American flag hanging from the porch.
Congratulations, I thought. But I said, “No one you know, I hope.”
He shook his head. “A stranger.” Did I detect a note of disappointment? “No ID yet,” he added in his best
Law & Order
tone.
An unmarked car pulled up and a man I knew only too well got out. Detective Hiram Peck. He had been in charge of the biker case. Time to move on. A trooper with the same idea came over and began shooing us away. The little knot of rubberneckers scattered and I turned up the throttle. I could learn all I wanted to know at the hospital when they brought the body into the morgue.
By Tuesday, the scuttlebutt around the hospital was that the body of the dead man was a “gangsta” from Philly. The only disturbing thing was, the mob's usual dumping ground was the Pine Barrens—a wild and desolate area fifty miles north of Bayfield. Why had they taken a detour this time? That was the question. No one had the answer. But the general consensus was, we hoped they wouldn't make a habit of it.
I was not overly concerned. It had nothing to do with me. In fact, I was so little concerned, I decided after rounds to take the morning off and go for a bike ride. Bike, as in bicycle, not motorcycle. (That was the last book.)
I had bought the bicycle a few weeks ago at a yard sale. The yard sale is to country people what the mall is to suburbanites—a source of endless amusement to relieve the tedium of Saturday mornings. Dawn has barely raised its sleepy head before the broken furniture and toys, odd bits of china and glassware, buttonless coats and threadbare trousers are spread out on the front lawn, neatly labeled with illegible price tags, laboriously scrawled by the kids with their Magic Markers the night before. Manhattan doesn't offer such diversions. The street fair is as close as it comes, and that isn't really the same.
I was often the first one there. If you don't go early, you might as well stay home, because the one or two useful or valuable items will be long gone.
It was at such a sale that I had bought my bike. I will never give up my motorcycle, mind you. But it's primarily a workhorse, good for transportation—for visiting patients and getting to the hospital when speed is your main objective. But my bicycle is different. I mount it only for pleasure, when I'm in the mood for a leisurely ride down backcountry roads to enjoy the flora and fauna.
My Honda, on the other hand, scares the fauna—and gives whiplash to the flora. But not my bicycle. My bicycle causes barely a ripple in the grass as I glide by. And, in return, the birds stay put on their perches, the small mammals take time to glance at me with their bright black eyes, and the wildflowers nod a gentle greeting.
My bicycle is blue and silver. Its wheels are strong but not too heavy. Attached to the handlebars is a light straw basket, roomy enough to carry my lunch, a bouquet of wildflowers, or the Sunday
Times.
Oh yeah, I still subscribe to the
Times
—the one link to my former Manhattan life. The day I give that up, you'll know I've become a bona fide country bumpkin.
My concern about the abandoned body had decreased so much that I barely glanced at the site as I pedaled past. My mind was on the
Times
I was about to pick up at the post office. It takes a day and a half for the paper to get to Bayfield, and the Sunday edition is too fat to fit in my motel mailbox, so I always pick it up myself on Tuesdays. An excuse for a bike ride in balmy weather—like today. Also a chance to exchange a few words with Lucy, the postmistress, and keep abreast of the local gossip.
Full of such mundane thoughts, I was about half a mile past the body site when I heard a strange sound. I wouldn't have heard it if I had been on my Honda. Actually, the sound itself wasn't strange. It was as familiar to me as the lullabies my mother used to sing before she passed away (euphemism in these parts for
died
). But it was an
odd sound to hear in this location. One doesn't often hear the
chug chug
of a printing press coming from a barn.
I dragged my feet in the dust until I came to a dead stop—and listened. There was no mistaking the methodical, rhythmic beat that had lulled me to sleep during those years after my mother's death, when my dad worked late into the night to meet his deadlines. The printer's job is always due yesterday. As I stood there, eyes half-closed, listening, I could almost smell the ink and the paper. I had to see what kind of press this farmer had. It sounded like a Multi (a Multilith), which is what we'd owned—a cheap workhorse that churned out the print jobs day after day, night after night with a fair regularity. But nothing like the Heidelberg—that sleek German instrument that spat out pages without a hitch until the job was done. My dad could never afford one of those.
I left my bike by the side of the road—the risk was minimal in this sleepy part of rural New Jersey—and picked my way between the yellow soybean plants to the barn. As I drew closer, the sound grew louder, and I was sure it was a Multi. I recognized that bumpy, battered beat—so different from the smooth hum of the Heidelberg. The difference was like the difference between a Honda and a Harley.
I stepped from the warm sun into the cool barn and blinked in the dim light. Gradually, my eyes adjusted and I saw him. His back was to me. He was tinkering with something at the head of the press, where the rollers are mounted. I could hear the chink of metal against metal so familiar in any print shop. I stayed where I was. I knew better than to startle him. Printing machinery can be treacherous if your attention wanders. I had my share of scars to prove it, from the days when I'd worked in my dad's shop as his printer's devil. This term goes back to the Middle Ages, when the printer's apprentice was always covered with black ink and looked like a devil. But in my day, printers' ink came in many hues, and after a day's work I was daubed with most of them and looked more like a clown
than a devil. One day, a sheet of paper fell into the press and was snatched up by the rollers. Afraid it would jam the machine and spoil the run, I grabbed for it. My finger was caught between the rollers. The press stopped, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and my screech brought Dad running. I still have an ugly bump on the first knuckle of my right index finger, spoiling the natural symmetry of my hand forever.
When the printer-farmer (or farmer-printer) took a step back from the press, I cleared my throat. “Excuse me …”
He turned sharply and squinted at me. I must have been no more than a dark silhouette in the open doorway.
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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