Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  Officer #1 hesitated.

  “We might as well call,” #2 muttered.

  Officer #1 took out his cell and punched in a number. I heard him identify himself, describe his location, and repeat what I had just told him. I held my breath. Before I had to draw another, Trooper #1 got his answer. “No kidding,” he said, his face registering disbelief. He disconnected.

  “We’ll be back,” he promised, and gestured for his buddy to get in the car.

  They spun off in a spray of sand and gravel. When their taillights had disappeared, I called to Pi. “You can come out now.”

  He came out and treated me to one of his rib-crushing bear hugs, but no kiss. “You were good,” he said. “Real good. You got rid of them without letting in one skeeter.”

  I collapsed in the rocker, laughing with relief, and reached for my beer.

  “Now give me back my colors,” he ordered.

  I stripped off his vest.

  He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest.

  “Poor baby, did you miss your security blanket?” I settled back in my chair and picked up my beer again. It was warm.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor, lit another Marlboro, and asked, “How’d you like my hog?”

  I shrugged, nonchalant. “It was OK.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “How’d you like my baby?”

  He didn’t deign to answer.

  The remains of Pi’s wig lay on the floor, where he must have tossed it when he came in. I picked it up and examined it. It was the work of an artist. He had cut two sets of slender phragmites and woven them painstakingly together at the top—like the Lenapes had woven their mats over three hundred years ago. He must have soaked the reeds in the bay first, to make them pliable. When he put the wig on, the tassels hung down on either side of his face in clusters, resembling silvery locks.

  “It almost fooled you, didn’t it?” he said with a note of pride.

  I caressed the tassels gently. “You can always become a hairstylist when you get tired of biking.” I laid the wig aside.

  “Tired of biking?” He laughed and stretched. “That’ll be the same day I get tired of breathing.”

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping and puffing, recovering from the troopers’ house call.

  “Now what?” Pi said finally, crushing out his butt.

  “We have a reprieve, that’s all. Time for me to ask some more questions.” I rose. “Speaking of which, I’d better get going.” I unhooked the screen door.

  “Why don’t you get that boyfriend of yours to help?” he said. “He seemed pretty smart.” Had he forgiven Tom for lopping off Sunny’s ear? Or, in the light of subsequent events, had that insult paled in significance?

  “We’re not exactly close these days,” I confessed.

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “He saw a certain biker embracing me.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  As I opened the door, he said, “Jo.”

  “I won’t let in any damned mosquitoes,” I said irritably.

  “If you don’t come up with something in the next twenty-four hours … I’m outta here.” He was dead serious.

  “But—”

  “I can’t stick around with those fuckin’ cops breathing down my neck.”

  I glanced at my watch. A little past eight. It felt more like midnight. It had been a long day. That meant the police and I had only the rest of tonight and tomorrow to find Sunny’s murderer.

  “Sleep tight.” I said.

  CHAPTER 31

  On the way home, despite Pi’s ultimatum and the pressure to concentrate solely on Sunny’s murder, my compartmentalization technique broke down momentarily. It had served me well all day, but as I rode through the darkness, Tom crept through a crack in my brain. I had expected him to call by now. My feelings for Pi were so obviously platonic, it was hard for me to believe Tom was jealous. Maybe I’d better call him and explain after all … .

  But when I entered the lobby of the motel, all thoughts of Tom and Pi were blown away. Jack was at his post, perusing a late edition of the Bayside Bugle. Late edition? the Bugle never had more than one edition.

  BAYFIELD SON GUILTY: DEATH PENALTY

  “Ohmygod!”

  Jack lowered his paper.

  “Where is Mag?”

  “Home.”

  As I flew out of the lobby, I passed Fran and Stan on the sofa, huddled over a copy of the Bugle, lapping up every word.

  In front of the Nelson house, a long line of cars trailed up and down both sides of the road. I pulled up to the end of one line and parked. Through the lighted front window of the small ranch house I glimpsed what at first glance looked like a party—people moving to and fro, standing in clusters, eating and drinking, As I drew closer, I saw their expressions. This was no party. Every face was sober and drawn, and I knew before I entered the voices would be subdued and there would be no laughter.

  I tried the door. According to country custom, it was unlocked. I stepped inside. A few heads turned toward me and nodded greetings, but no one smiled. I recognized most of the guests—friends, neighbors, and patients, in some cases embodying all three in one.

  “Can I get you some coffee or tea, Jo?” Polly came up. Polly was Maggie’s younger sister. She taught art at the local grammar school. We had met once before, and when I discovered she loved New York, we’d really hit it off. We had even planned a trip to Manhattan together.

  “No, thanks, Polly. Where’s Mag?”

  “In back.” She lowered her voice. “Lying down.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  She shook her head.

  “And Paul?”

  “Over there.”

  I looked where she nodded. Paul was surrounded by a bunch of his farmer and fishermen friends. He had aged ten years in a day. I took a sharp breath. Standing behind Paul was Tom. He glanced up, and I know he saw me. But he looked quickly away.

  The snatches of conversation that I overheard centered on such topics as fish (“How’s the shad running?” “Fair to middlin‘”) and crops (“Start your plantin’ yet?” and “Tractor’s bein’ repaired …”) No one dared touch on the reason we were all there.

  I edged through the throng toward the back of the house. The hall was dark except for a single strand of light leaking from a half-open door.

  I knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  Barely recognizing the feeble voice, I went in.

  Maggie was curled on the bed in a fetal position, a comforter tucked around her, although the night was mild. A cup of untouched tea was cooling on the table beside her. I sat on the end of the bed and reached for her hand. It was cold and limp.

  After her initial recognition, she closed her eyes again.

  “Mag, listen. He’ll appeal. It will take years to go through the courts. The sentence might be overturned.”

  No answer.

  “He has his new faith. That’ll help him through this,” I added desperately.

  Her eyes opened.

  “He told me he didn’t care about the sentence,” I said. “All he wanted—and these are his very words—was ‘to make it up with my parents.’”

  She raised her head, fixing her gaze on me. “He said that?”

  I nodded.

  “You never told me that,” she snapped.

  Startled by her unexpected anger, I felt a twinge of guilt. In all the furor over the bikers, I’d neglected to transmit this bit of information.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “Forgot?” She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “If I’d known that, it would have made this terrible day a little easier.”

  “I’m really sorry, Mag,” I repeated.

  With a sigh, she sank back against the pillows. “Go away, Jo. Just go away.” She closed her eyes again.

  “Mag, I’m really sorry. Things were so upset with that biker’s death, and the funeral, and—”

  “Oh, you and
those bikers. I don’t know what you see in them. Besides, you talked to Nick long before that biker died.” She cast me another accusatory look. “I’d thought better of you, Jo.”

  Her words stung. She lay still, eyes closed. I watched her for a while. When her breathing became regular, I tiptoed out.

  The living room was still crowded and had grown a little noisier. I noticed that the tea and coffee cups had been replaced by paper cups, and I caught sight of a whiskey bottle being passed around. Paul was holding a paper cup and his face had regained some of its natural color. Thank god for small solaces. I scanned the room for Tom. I caught his eye. His gaze sliced through me like a knife through baloney at a cold-cut counter. The blood rose to my face and I escaped through the front door.

  As I mounted my bike, under the brilliant night sky, I paused to take stock. A few hours ago, I’d felt proud of myself—the way I’d handled those troopers. Now I felt like the lowliest worm. I glanced up at the vast universe glittering overhead and told myself: What does it matter? In a nanosecond, via astronomical time, all the players in this little drama will be dust. This usually worked.

  Not tonight.

  I fell into bed. Although exhausted, I knew the minute I turned out the light demons from the past few days would pop out and plague me. In a desperate attempt to fend them off, I reached for Jack’s manuscript. It lay on the floor where I had left it the night before.

  I began to read and found myself wanting to read more. No doubt about it. Jack had a way with words. However, sleep overtook me. I would finish it tomorrow.

  SATURDAY

  CHAPTER 32

  I woke with a panicky feeling, as if something or someone was chasing me and time was running out. Then I remembered Pi’s ultimatum. If some evidence of Sunny’s real killer wasn’t found by eight o’clock tonight, he would cop out and take off for points west and probably be caught and arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. This knowledge had barely sunk in when the phone rang. Tom? I snatched up the receiver.

  “Hi, Jo.” Becca.

  “Uh …” I grunted.

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  With an effort I remembered the last time I had seen Becca. I’d been in a bad mood. I said quickly, “No. Not at all.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m coming over.”

  “Now?” I cast a sleepy glance at my digital alarm clock. “It’s not even seven.”

  “I gotta talk to you.” Her tone was urgent. “It’s about Bobby.”

  “What about Bobby?” I was fully awake.

  “He came to school yesterday with a black eye.”

  I sat up. “You’re kidding.” A black eye meant a blow to the head. This to a kid recovering from a severe concussion. “I’ll meet you at the Blue Arrow. We’ll have pancakes—my treat!”

  I jumped out of bed and rushed through my morning ablutions.

  Between mouthfuls of blueberry pancakes, bacon, and a double order of orange juice, Becca told me all she knew about Bobby’s black eye. It was frustratingly little. He’d shown up for class on Friday morning with his left eye swollen half-shut and the skin around his eye stained varying shades of blue and purple. The homeroom teacher had called him over and they had a whispered conference. Or rather, the teacher whispered while Bobby stood silent, occasionally shaking his head. The teacher announced to the class that she had to leave for a few minutes and asked them to please behave themselves until she got back. Then she and Bobby left.

  “Shit!”

  Becca laughed. “You’ve been hangin’ out with those bikers too much.”

  “Sorry.” I flushed. “Want some more pancakes?”

  “No, thanks.” She patted her usually flat tummy, which now resembled a small bowling ball.

  “You have syrup on your chin.” I drained my second cup of coffee. I’d had no appetite for anything more solid.

  She wiped her chin. “So what are we going to do?”

  I looked away. What I’d like to do was ride over to Bobby’s house and throttle his father. But I had enough sense to know that wouldn’t solve anything and might hurt the boy further. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Let me think about it. What was the name of that teacher?”

  “Mrs. Dalton.”

  “For a start, I’ll give Mrs. Dalton a call, and we’ll go on from there.”

  Becca looked disappointed. She’d expected more immediate action. “Can’t we go beat him up?”

  I grinned. As usual, Becca and I were on the same wavelength. “I wish,” I said. “But that wouldn’t do any good. And it would get us into trouble.”

  Becca was quiet, stirring a microscopic piece of bacon in a pool of syrup with her fork. “How can a man treat his own son like that?” The honest wonder in her voice made me look up. Her pale forehead under its fringe of rusty bangs was puckered in disbelief. I reached over and rubbed her head.

  “Some people can be lousy,” I said. “But most people are nice.”

  She made an inarticulate sound—something between a retch and a groan, conveying her opinion of my answer.

  I caught myself up short. I had been lying so much lately, now I was even lying to Becca. “Sorry, Bec. There are evil people in the world. People who get a bang out of hurting others. Sadists, they’re called. This is a fact. That’s one of the reasons we have policemen and courts, and juries and jails. Some of these people can be helped. Rehabilitated. But not all.” I thought of Nick. Could he be saved? “Some are evil to the core. Nothing will change them and they have to be put in jail.”

  I signaled to the waitress for more coffee. I needed more fuel to continue my lecture. “And evil people are not always obvious. You know—dressed in black with horns and cloven feet, carrying pitchforks. Sometimes they come in the shape of a beautiful woman or a charming man, just as some beautiful flowers are poisonous … .”

  “My aunt is beautiful—so was my mother.”

  “And neither of them is or was evil. All I’m saying is—sometimes bad people come in nice packages and are very charming. The other side of the coin is—good people can put us off with their bad appearance.”

  “Like the bikers?”

  “Right. Despite their tattoos, earrings, beards, bad language, many of them are OK. Not all … .” Which reminded me, I had to wrap this up and get back to the motel. “As you grow older, have more experience, you get a sixth sense about people.”

  “Like you?” Becca grinned wickedly.

  “Yeah. But even at my advanced age, I sometimes make mistakes.” I wondered what mistakes I was making now.

  “But Bobby is such a nice kid … .” She still didn’t get it.

  “Of course he is. Some people just get a kick out of hurting people—nice people, not nice people, even their own children.” I was on a truth roll now and refused to back down—to sugarcoat this. I told her a story a judge had told me. “There was once a man who took out life insurance on his five-year-old son, then killed him, and collected. Because he got away with it, he took out a policy on his three-year-old daughter and killed her, too. But this time they caught him. The judge looked at me and said, ‘What do you do with a person like that?’ I couldn’t answer him.”

  Becca gave me a grave look. She was beginning to understand.

  Thoughts of Pi, Mag, and Tom were scratching at the door of the Bobby compartment. “I have to get back,” I said. I left a big tip and headed for the cashier.

  True to my word, as soon as I got back to my room, I called Mrs. Dalton. Becca sprawled on my bed and listened intently to my side of the conversation. Mrs. Dalton told me she had been unable to get anything out of Bobby and his parents’ phone was disconnected, “Probably because they hadn’t paid the bill,” she confided. She had reported all this to the principal yesterday. He told her he would inform the school board, who would study the matter and decide whether to turn the case over to the county authorities. Bureaucratic bullshit. I held my tongue, but it wasn’t easy. The county would send a caseworker out to see if the
boy should be placed in foster care.

  I stifled a groan. I knew all about foster care. When I was an intern at Bellevue, the caseworkers used to entertain us with horror stories. Sometimes the kids were better off with their natural parents. I listened patiently until Mrs. Dalton ran out of steam, thanked her, and hung up.

  “Now what?” Becca had read my expression and knew the conversation had not been satisfactory.

  “Now you go home and I go to work. There’s nothing more we can do till Monday, when I can talk to the county authorities.”

  “But Bobby may be dead by then!” She was outraged.

  “That’s very unlikely. This is the first time you’ve seen him with any bruises, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “We have to take some risk.”

  “Can’t we ride over and see him?”

  I thought about that and decided in the negative. I was Bobby’s physician and there were certain professional rules that had to be observed, such as not chasing after a patient—waiting until he called you. “I can’t,” I said, “but I guess you could. Just ride over and say you dropped by to see how Bobby is.”

  “OK.” Becca was eager.

  I walked her out to the parking lot. As she got on her bike, I warned, “If you see something you don’t like, Becca, don’t do anything. Call me on your cell phone. Promise?”

  She nodded. Then she tapped my arm. “There’s that guy whose wife was yelling in the room next to yours.”

  I followed her gaze and saw Stan putting a suitcase in the trunk of his car. “How did you know what he looked like?” I asked.

  “When I heard him leave, I poked my head out and saw him.”

  As we watched, Fran appeared around the side of the car wearing her usual uniform—a too-tight tank top, a pair of too-short short shorts, and sandals. She threw a tote bag into the trunk and sashayed back to the passenger seat. Seems they were checking out. Had Fran had her fill of bikers? Or had Stan? I wondered if Peck had given them permission to leave. Stan slammed the trunk lid shut and I saw their tag. UR4ME. Cute. Her brainstorm, no doubt. Was the message for her husband or any dude who happened to be on her tail?