Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  “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.

  CHAPTER 15

  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 l
obby, 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.

  CHAPTER 16

  I was pondering the use of the word incident to describe the sudden death of a young man when Peck addressed me: “Dr. Banks, I’d like you to give me a full account of what happened here before you left tonight.”

  Tom sent me a wary glance. I guess he was afraid I was still drunk. But, as Rick said in Casablanca, “that was all over long ago.” I’d never felt more sober. I gave a clear and concise account of the biker party as I remembered it—from the time I arrived until Sunny left for the hospital. The detective took rapid notes, interrupting me only once—to ask the nature of my relationship to Pi. Sensing Tom’s interest in my answer as well as Peck’s, I chose my words carefully. “Just an acquaintance. He arrived three days ago. On a whim one afternoon, he rehabbed my bike. We had a few beers afterward. That was it. Oh … and he came to my office—briefly.”

  Tom shot me a look.

  “He wanted to consult me about a rash. I diagnosed a mild case of poison ivy and gave him some calamine lotion.”

  “And where is he now?”

  I blinked. He’s missing? “I have no idea. Have you checked his room?”

  He nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Around eight o’clock. Here, in the parking lot. When he left on his bike I thought he was going to the hospital to see Sunny.”

  “According to my reports …” he took a sheaf of notes from his pocket and consulted them before continuing, “he only stopped at the hospital briefly and no one has seen him since. Do you know what his relationship to Sunny was?”

  A scene flashed through my mind. Sunny being tossed out of this very lobby—by Pi. Humiliated in front of all his biker brothers. But I also remembered the Dutch Uncle tone with which Pi had given Sunny a lecture and his obvious concern when Sunny was injured. I shook my head. “All these bikers are very close. They have a deep bond—more than friendship. More like family.” I could feel the cold wave of skepticism emanating from Tom on my left. As Peck considered my answer, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. “How did Sunny die, Mr. Peck? We need to know …” I glanced at Tom, “ … if his death had anything to do with his earlier injury”

  “My clients have a right to this information,” Henry Wosky said, backing me up.

  “The trouble is—” the detective replied, and scratched his head. “I can’t answer you. We don’t know. He was treated at the hospital, a surgeon reattached his earlobe, and he was sent home, or rather, back here. They gave him some painkillers to help him sleep and everyone thought he’d gone to bed. But around midnight a couple of bikers pulled into the parking lot and almost ran over him. He was lying flat out on the asphalt. They tried to revive him—without success. Then they called nine-one-one. But the paramedic’s efforts failed, too. Finally the state police were called and our ME pronounced him …” he paused, “ … dead.”

  Death, it seems, gives even a detective pause.

  “There were no marks on his body other than the earlier wound inflicted by you.” Peck sent Tom a wry look. “They’ve taken him to the morgue and are doing an autopsy right now. But we won’t know anything conclusive until morning.”

  Tom and I exchanged glances.

  “Are my clients murder suspects?” Wosky asked.

  The detective, taking pity on us, said, “Judging from the ME’s cursory examination, the victim’s death was caused by something other than his previous injury.”

  Together we expelled our tightly held breaths.

  “What led him to this conclusion?” Wosky asked.

  “A number of things. The nature of his pallor, the clammy touch of his skin, the dilation of his pupils, and especially … an odor around his mouth.”

  “Garlic?” I asked.

  He looked at me keenly. “What makes you say that?”

  “When I was applying pressure to his wound, our faces were very close and the garlicky odor was overpowering. I remember wondering what he’d had for dinner.”

  “This is important …” Peck said.

  We waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

  “Since when is garlic a poison, Mr. Peck?” asked Wosky.

  “Not garlic,” he said softly. “Arsenic. One of the symptoms of acute arsenic poisoning is a strong odor resembling garlic.”

  The rest of Peck’s questions concentrated on our whereabouts after we had left the motel and when we returned. A quick phone call verified that we had been at Harry’s the whole time. The bartender and several customers who knew us vouched for us. Peck’s interest in Tom’s whereabouts before the parking lot party was not great, I noticed. I had the impression that his suspicions were centered on people directly connected to the motel. Guests and employees. He stuffed his notes back in his pocket and let us go. As we were leaving, he called us back. “If you run into that Pi fellow, let me know. I’m anxious to talk to him.” He gave Tom his card.

  While Tom was thanking Wosky for coming out so late, I gathered my courage and went after the detective. “Why are you so interested in Pi, Mr. Peck?” I asked. “Poison is the last weapon a biker would use on another biker. They’re violent, not sneaky.”

  He looked at me with interest. “You have a point, doctor,” he said. “But you see, Pi is the only one who fled the scene. And he has a prison record.”

  So that was the “trouble” Dad had referred to that had caused Archie to drop out of school. What had he done, I wondered, to warrant imprisonment?

  “But don’t worry, we’re not picking on your friend.” He smiled. “We’re pursuing other leads as well.”

  I wondered how Peck had learned about Pi’s record so quickly. An image of Jingles whispering to Peck in the lobby earlier came back to me.

  When Tom and I stepped out of the motel, there was no trace of Sunny. Only one state trooper remained to guard the crime scene. He sat at the wheel of his car, dozing. A light wind caused the yellow crime tape to ripple.

  After unloading my bike, we leaned against Tom’s pickup, neither of us speaking. But this time the silence wasn’t awkward. Something had been resolved between us back in the motel. The magnitude of recent events had revealed our differences for what they were—petty. He bent and kissed me. I returned his kiss.

  “I don’t like leaving you here,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to come back to my place?”

  I hesitated—tempted. I didn’t relish returning to my empty room. Sissy. “I shook my head.”Thanks. I’d better not. I have to be at the hospital early.”

  We kissed again a
nd he drove off.

  CHAPTER 17

  Although exhausted, I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring into the dark, my thoughts churning like wet laundry in a washing machine. First there was Tom. I was relieved that he didn’t seem to be a serious suspect and happy that we had become reconciled. It was sweet of him to ask me back to his place. Very un-PC, but sweet nonetheless.

  And then there was Pi. He seemed to be the detective’s number one suspect. Pi—a poisoner? The thought of any biker stooping to poison was ludicrous. It wasn’t their style. They were boisterous, violent, in-your-face. Not sneaky. But where was he? Why would he take off like that? And who would want to kill Sunny? Granted, Sunny was a womanizer, a lecher even, but he had a certain boyish charm.

  Under all these outerwear thoughts lay the underwear thoughts. How were Maggie and Paul holding up? Didn’t they have enough problems without a homicide landing in their lap? And what about Jack? Poor, vulnerable, easygoing Jack, escaping each night from godknowswhat into his sci-fi fantasy world via paperbacks. I’d always wanted to find out more about that kid, but somehow I never got around to it.

  There was one bright spot in this gray load of laundry. Bobby and Becca. A pair of colorful socks spinning together in the revolving dryer. Becca had visited Bobby at the hospital. And tomorrow, she told me, she was taking him some reflectors and a headlight for his bike that she had bought with her own allowance.

  Another soggy thought: I still hadn’t read the riot act to Bobby’s parents about their son’s bad biking habits. Sigh. No use. Sleep was out of the question. I slipped out of bed and began to dress in the dark.

  At first I thought I was just going for a ride. I did that sometimes when I couldn’t sleep. When I’d first come to Bayfield, Sophie’s death had haunted me every night—the minute my work was done and I was alone with my thoughts. I used to take long fast rides until the wind whipped the dark thoughts from my mind and my body grew so tired I’d fall into bed like a lump of cement and lose consciousness. But tonight the cause was different.