Satan's Pony (12 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Satan's Pony
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As I parked in the motel lot, I heard tires crunch on gravel. A biker returning from a late-night run? A door slammed.
Bikes don't have doors.
I turned and saw Tom coming toward me.
“Hi! What …”
He grabbed my shoulder and looked into my face. For a split second we were frozen, as if in a camera frame. A strange, inarticulate sound came from his throat. He swiveled around and strode back to his truck.
As he drove off, the air around me pulsated with his unspent emotion.
I didn't move. I waited, letting my thoughts slowly come into focus. He must have followed me. That truck behind me, it must have been his! I thought I'd lost him, because he'd turned off his headlights and the sound of his motor had been drowned out by my own. And on the way back—I had been singing.
If he followed me, he must have seen Pi and me on the porch. My thoughts came fast, tumbling over one another. We must have been clearly visible in the moonlight. That kiss! And Tom had drawn his own conclusions. The wrong conclusions. I had to explain. I started to remount my bike and stopped. Who the hell did he think he was anyway, sneaking after me—spying on me? I gave my bike a savage kick and limped up to my room.
Violence. As I lay in bed, I thought about it. I'd never been a victim of violence. Until the bikers arrived and Sunny snatched me up and was carrying me off. My dad had never even spanked me. My worst punishment had been being sent to my room; and he never made me stay long. He missed me too much. He was a widower—and lonely.
I never had violent boyfriends. On the contrary, I was usually the one who hit them. Suddenly, within a week, I'd been assaulted with intent to rape and shaken until my brain rattled. But the thing that had upset me the most was the encounter with Tom, which had
not
erupted in violence. I shivered, feeling his suppressed emotion all over again.
 
 
I slept fitfully and woke often. Every time I woke, the room seemed alive with my agitated thoughts. I felt, if I opened my eyes, I would be able to see them, reach out, and touch them, like those bats in the fisherman's shack.
In the forefront was Tom. Half of me wanted to call him and explain about Pi. Tell him that kiss had been a mere brotherly expression of gratitude. Pi would have bussed anyone who had brought him cold beer, male or female. Sex had nothing to do with it. I could hear Tom's derisive laughter. Damn him. The other half of me wanted to murder Tom—for chasing after me, for spying on me.
Anxious thoughts about Sunny's murder followed. Time was flying. The police seemed no nearer a solution. And
I
sure wasn't getting anywhere. Pi couldn't hide out much longer. Either he would get fed up and take off, or Peck would find him and decide to begin extradition proceedings.
I thought of Emily Snow. What would she do? I could go ask her tomorrow. But she was old. Her advice might be tempered by age—failing sight, hearing loss, thinning bones, and memory lapses. Nah. She was still sharp—just like Dad.
Dad! Ohmygod! He'd called a couple of days ago—the same day Tom did—and I'd never called him back. So much had been
going on. I glanced at the luminous dial of the alarm clock. Three-oh-five AM. I couldn't call him now. He'd have a heart attack. What a rat I was. Damn. Damn. Damn. My guilt filled the room like the smell of boiled cabbage.
I flicked on the light and looked frantically around for some distraction. Jack's manuscript lay on my bedside table. I snatched it up. If it was good, it would take my mind off my troubles. If it was bad, it would put me to sleep. I began to read:
The Little Green Man
By Jack Olsen
 
The little green man comes in many guises. He can come like a worm in an apple or like a fire in a furnace. He can nibble at your insides over a period of months and years or burst on you, scorching you in an instant …
This is pretty good, I thought. But the day's strain had finally taken its toll. My eyelids began to droop. I let the manuscript slide to the floor.
When I woke, I was surprised to find my bedside lamp still on. I flicked it off and all the events of the night before swept over me like a string of wet laundry. I pulled the sheets over my head, unready to face the day. What would it have in store for me? More wet laundry?
Slap, slap, slap
—it hit me in the face. Bobby's release, Nick's sentencing, Sunny's funeral. I felt inadequate to deal with any one of them, let alone three. I crawled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. I postponed thinking about Tom. I couldn't handle him yet. I'd read that the way Bill Clinton survived the Lewinsky scandal was to compartmentalize. When he was dealing with the secretary of defense he thought only about defense, when dealing with his press secretary he thought only about the press, etcetera. I decided that was the only way I could get through this day. One compartment at a time.
The first challenge was to wake up. A cold shower helped (but not much). Coffee sludge got my brain working (sort of). A quick jog around the parking lot got my blood going (barely). By eight o'clock I was functioning as well as could be expected and ready for my first encounter with another human being. It came in the form of two human beings. Maggie and Paul. It was the first time I'd seen them going anywhere together for months. They were walking single file, Paul in the lead, across the parking lot toward their pickup. I
trotted over and gave Maggie an encouraging hug. I watched her climb into the truck and noticed she wasn't as agile as usual. As a physician, I knew that life's crises can take their toll on the body as well as the emotions. I felt guilty for not going with her today. I had the distinct feeling Paul would not be much help. As they drove off, I waved. Maggie waved back, but Paul ignored me.
He'd get over it,
I told myself.
Encounter number two came in the lobby. Jingles. He was in high spirits, more cheerful than I'd ever seen him. He was actually whistling. Funerals affect people in different ways. As I reached for my copy of the
Bugle
, he asked, “Are you coming?” as if he meant to a party. I looked over at Jack. It was strange to see him at this hour. He must be doing double duty because Maggie and Paul were in court. For a second I considered skipping the funeral, but only for a second.
“I'll be there,” I answered Jingles curtly. I said to Jack, “I started your story last night.”
He stiffened and looked at me expectantly.
“It's good,” I said firmly, thankful that I could be honest.
He relaxed.
Through the glass door I watched Jingles directing some bikers who were loading a beer keg onto a pickup. They must have borrowed or rented the truck just for the occasion. Bikes are not built for transporting big loads, as I'd discovered last night. The keg was followed by numerous cartons of hoagies, chips, pretzels, peanuts, and popcorn. The funeral meats? A vision of Sunny lying spread-eagle in that same parking lot rushed back to me. I turned to Jack. “Did you remember anything else from the party?”
He frowned. “Sunny had some words with that nonbiker guy.”
“Stan?”
He nodded. “He was drinking some hard stuff from a regular drinking glass—and Sunny asked what it was. ‘Bourbon,' he said. ‘Wanna trade?' Sunny asked, and offered the guy his beer. The guy made a face and said, ‘Never touch the stuff.'”
“Huh.” What did that prove? That Stan was a beer snob. I was
surprised Sunny hadn't snatched the bourbon from him. But I guess that would have been against the biker code—a breach of gentlemanly behavior. “Thanks, Jack. Keep thinking.”
Speak of the devil. As I turned I bumped into Stan. He had stopped by the desk to pick up his paper. Coffee, doughnuts, and the
Bugle
were freebees supplied to guests by the Oakview Motor Lodge. I glanced at the headline:
BAYFIELD SON AWAITS VERDICT
Poor Mag. I bit my lip.
“Do you think he'll get the max?” Jack nodded at the headline.
I shrugged. The death penalty was still intact in New Jersey but seldom used. Life in prison with no parole was probably the worst he would draw. Bad enough, if you were the culprit's mother. I felt Stan hovering behind me, pretending to read his paper. “I hope not, for Maggie's sake,” I answered Jack.
Stan cleared his throat. “You know this fellow?”
“He's the son of the people who own this motel,” I said.
“No kidding!” His eyes grew round. “Wait'll I tell Fran.” He hurried out.
Jack and I exchanged looks.
 
 
I hurried back to my room to get ready to go to the hospital. I wanted to be there in time for Bobby's release at 9:00 AM. I also wanted to apologize to him for my crankiness of the night before. As I rushed for my bike, I bumped into Mickey—the comic book artist—and had a brainstorm. “Hey, Mickey!” I grabbed his arm. “Are you busy this morning?”
“Nothin' special. Why?”
I told him.
“Sure.” He grinned. “I'll get my stuff and meet you back here in five.”
I smiled to myself. Maybe I could do one thing right today.
 
 
The boy was sitting on the bed, dressed in his shabby, ill-fitting clothes, his backpack at his side, ready to go.
“Hi, Bobby.”
He looked up warily—checking my mood before smiling. Then he caught sight of Mickey—complete with leather jacket, jeans, boots, tattoos, long hair, and earrings—and his eyes started out of his head.
“I brought a friend to meet you.”
“Hi, buddy.” Mickey rolled forward.
Overcome with bashfulness (or fear), the boy was speechless.
“Mickey is a comic book artist,” I said. “He's brought some stuff to show you.”
Mickey sat down on the bed and opened the folder he was carrying. He pulled out a sheaf of papers. When Bobby caught sight of the drawings, all shyness vanished. “Wow!” He leaned forward. “These are great.”
I left them, to attend to my other patients. When I came back an hour later, Mickey and Bobby were still sitting side by side on the bed. Mickey was drawing a superhero wrestling with a dragon. Bobby was watching, hypnotized. I hated to interrupt, but I'd glimpsed Bobby's father in the lobby, heading this way. I cleared my throat.
They glanced up.
“Your dad's on his way up, Bobby.”
The boy's expression changed from sunlight to darkness. A second later, his father stepped into the room. Mr. Shoemaker's gaze slid over Mickey and me and settled on his son. “Let's go, boy.”
Bobby jumped up and grabbed his backpack.
“Here.” Mickey tore the drawing he had been working on from his pad and handed it to the boy.
With one eye fixed anxiously on his father, Bobby unzipped a pocket of his backpack and folded the drawing carefully inside.
“Come on. I don't have all day.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Shoemaker. Before you go, I'd like a word with you.” I moved out into the corridor, gesturing for him to follow. I handed him a sheet of printed instructions for changing his son's dressings and a prescription for the antibiotic the boy was to continue taking for five more days. Then I launched into the Bicycle Safety Lecture I'd prepared. Shoemaker shuffled impatiently, glancing at the door more than once, probably hoping his son would emerge and rescue him from this harridan. When I finally let him go, he charged back into the room, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and hurried him out. Bobby had time for no more than a quick glance over his shoulder at me. I smiled and waved him on.
“Nice kid,” Mickey said.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Lousy home life, though.”
The biker shook his long mane.
A couple of student nurses passed by, staring at Mickey's tattoos. When he winked, they giggled. In the elevator I thanked him for helping me out. “It meant a lot to Bobby,” I said.
“Glad to do it. I know all about lousy home lives,” he said.
I really was grateful. The least I could do was buy him a cup of coffee. Then I thought of the impression Mickey would make on my colleagues in the cafeteria. What the hell. I was ashamed of myself. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.”
Mickey had no compunctions about appearing in the hospital cafeteria. On the contrary, he reveled in the covert stares and whispers. That was part of the bikers' credo: don't give a damn what anybody thinks. “How did you get started with comic books?” I blurted.
“Doodling in school, when I shoulda been studying.” He sounded very serious. “I had a big collection of comics at home, and in the beginning I just traced the heroes. Then I began to copy them. One day I decided to strike out on my own. I created one. His name was Devil Dan.” He blushed.
“How old were you when you sold your first drawing?”
“Eighteen.”
“Wow.” I was no longer conscious of the other people in the room.
“Big day,” he said proudly.
“When did you become a biker?”
“That same year, I became a hanger-on. Then a prospect.”
“Prospect?”
“Yeah. That's when the members decide whether you've got the balls to be a member. You can't join the club officially until you're twenty-one.”
“Do you have to pass a test?”
He snorted. “Nothing formal. But you've gotta prove you can handle yourself in a fight. Won't chicken out on the brothers. And that you're loyal.”
“Righteous?”
“That's it.”
“What about Jingles?”
“Huh?”
“Is he righteous?”
For a split second, Mickey hesitated. Then he said. “He's a member, ain't he?” He drained his cup and pushed back his chair. “I'll be going. Thanks for the cuppa.”
“Wait.” I had one more question. “What does that ‘one percent' patch mean that some of the bikers wear?”
He gave me a slow smile. “They're special.”
“How?”
He hesitated, then said, “Hell, it's no secret. They've taken a life. In some cases … more than one.”
“And they're proud of it?”
“Sure. You can bet the fuckers deserved it.” He laughed and took off.
I had barely registered Mickey's exit when his chair was filled by a colleague in a white coat.
“New boyfriend?” The young doctor grinned.
“Right, Carl.”
“Just wondered. I heard about the murder at your motel. Are you helping the police again?”
Carl knew I'd had some part in clearing up the immigrant scam. “Not really.”
“I heard the leader of that bike gang—”
“Club,” I corrected him
“—is a suspect.”
“We're all suspects, Carl. Everyone who was at the motel that night.” I pushed back from the table. “I gotta run.”
As I paid for the coffees, Detective Peck's card fell out of my wallet and I had my second brainstorm of the day. If Peck wanted me to share all my information with him, why shouldn't he share some of his info with me? Maybe he'd turned up something that could help me. I punched in his number on my cell phone.
“Peck speaking.”
“Jo Banks.”
“Any news?” He sounded eager.
“No, I'm stuck. I was hoping you could tell me something …”
Silence.
“Fair is fair. You tell me, I tell you. What about your rodenticide search? Did you turn up anything?”
More silence.
“If we're going to get to the bottom of this, we have to cooperate,” I said.
I could hear the scales clinking as he weighed my suggestion. “We found that anyone could have access to those closets while the maids were cleaning,” he said.
“You mean like guests?”
“That's right. The closets are unlocked—sometimes left wide open—until the maids put their equipment away for the day.”
“Hmm.”
“There was a box of rodenticide missing from the second floor closet.”
My floor. “Huh.”
“And by the way, if you want information, the state police are working on a plan to flush out that biker friend of yours.”
My stomach did a backward flip.
He disconnected.
I shoved my cell into my backpack and ran for my bike. So far Bill Clinton's compartmentalization technique was working. I hadn't thought about Tom once. I was surprised he hadn't called, though. Maybe I should …
No
. He had no business spying on me!
He
should call!
Do you know how adolescent you sound? Shut up
. I forced my thoughts back into the Pi compartment. If they were going to flush him out, they must have some idea where he is! I punched in his cell number. It rang five times before voice mail broke in and told me to leave a message. I debated and decided against it. He probably just went for a walk. I'd try him again later.

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