Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  Becca pedaled away with a wave as Stan edged his car out of the lot.

  CHAPTER 33

  The bikers loitered in the lobby and parking lot, pacing and snarling like caged animals. How much longer would Peck be able to keep them here? I wondered. Paul was at the front desk reading the paper. The headline was smaller today but still prominent:

  NELSON FILES APPEAL

  “How’s Mag?” I asked.

  He lowered the paper and shook his head.

  “What about you?” I ventured. This was the first time I’d spoken to him since our tiff.

  To my relief, he gave a shaky smile. “I’ll live.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

  “Go see her.”

  “She wasn’t too happy to see me last night.” I told him what Nick had said about wanting to make it up to his parents and how I’d forgotten to tell Maggie.

  He shrugged. “Take her something,” he said finally. “Some fruit. A pie. Anything. She won’t eat it, but she’ll appreciate it. And maybe she’ll talk to you. She needs to talk.”

  I was amazed at the transformation in this man. Now it was he who was showing concern for Maggie, giving advice to me. I nodded, stowing my paper under my arm.

  “You take care of yourself,” I advised earnestly. “Be sure to eat properly and get enough sleep.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.” His smile was a little less shaky.

  In the hall outside my room, Marie was vacuuming. When she saw me she turned off the machine. “They’re gone!” she said gleefully, nodding at the room next to mine.

  “I know. I saw them leave.”

  “But it’ll probably take me all day to clean that pigsty.” A frown replaced her smile.

  “Well, once it’s done it’s done,” I said unhelpfully.

  “Any leads on that dead biker?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe it was an outsider.”

  I stared.

  “I mean, not one of the bikers staying here. There were a lot of people at that party. Who knows where they came from.”

  “You’re right.” I slipped my key in my lock. (They still used real keys at the Oakview Motor Lodge.) “Thanks, Marie.”

  Once inside, I slumped on the bed, my head in my hands. What’s wrong with me? Marie’s simple suggestion made more sense than anything I’d come up with for days. Maybe it was an outsider. One of those chicks they’d brought in from Wildwood for example. Maybe one of them had a history with Sunny. How could I find out? Talk to the bikers, Dork! But would they talk to me? Sure they will. They’re as anxious to get this thing solved as you are, so they can get the hell out of here. I got up and made myself some sludge, i.e., instant coffee mixed with warm tap water. If you drink it quickly, it’s not bad and it does the trick. I felt the effects of the caffeine almost instantly. Recharged, I set out in search of bikers.

  As I passed Stan and Fran’s former domicile, the door was open and I heard Marie cleaning and cussing inside. She had set two overflowing trash baskets out in the hall. Dirty Kleenex, soiled paper towels, a squeezed-out toothpaste tube. Why was other people’s trash so much more gross than your own? And bourbon bottles. Six empties lined up against the wall.

  CHAPTER 34

  When I trudged into the lobby there wasn’t a biker in sight. Best laid plans and all that.

  “They went for a run,” Paul said.

  I grunted. Waiting was the hardest part. I almost regretted not having Saturday office hours. Even seeing Mrs. Lockweed would be better than facing these empty hours.

  “Why don’t you go see Mag?” Paul prodded again. “I’m stuck here till five and she’s all alone.”

  “Good idea,” I said, not knowing if it was or not. But it was an opportunity to atone for my recent neglect.

  At a roadside stand near the motel, I bought a bunch of fresh asparagus and some wild flowers. It was nice to see these stands displaying goods again. All winter they had stood bleak and bare. Asparagus was the first to show up in May. June brought the strawberries. Then the vegetables started to trickle in. Peas and string beans first, then the lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots. And finally in August, the big blast: Jersey corn and tomatoes. My mouth watered just thinking about them.

  The flowers would look better in a vase, I decided. (Or was I just putting off this visit?) Whatever. I stopped in the lobby and headed for the cupboard under the front desk. This cupboard was a catchall for odds and ends; the sign-in book, extra keys, phone books, and a vase or two for those occasional times when Maggie felt inspired to put flowers on the desk. No one was on duty. Paul must have stepped out for a minute. I rummaged inside, feeling in the dark, until I touched something smooth. I pulled it out. Not a vase, but a beer bottle. I was about to toss it, when something stopped me. Giving the bottle a second glance, I noticed it wasn’t dusty and there was still an inch of liquid in the bottom. Holding it gingerly by the neck, I saw some sediment floating in the liquid. I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe that shot of caffeine. But I set the bottle carefully on the desk, reached for my cell, and called Peck.

  When he recognized my voice, he said angrily, “You led my boys on a merry chase!”

  “And you broke your promise,” I snapped. “‘No police at the funeral,’ you said.”

  “Well … I had my reasons.”

  I held my tongue only because I was about to ask for a favor. I told him about the beer bottle and asked if he’d check it for prints. His opinion of my hunch was close to zero, but he told me to bring the bottle into the lab.

  “Better test the contents, too,” I said. “There’s a small liquid residue.”

  “Sure, Doc. Whatever you say. Anything else we can do for you? How about a round-trip ticket to Disney World?”

  “I’m not Mickey Mousing you!” I snapped.

  He actually laughed.

  “How long will it take for a report?” I was thinking of Pi’s ultimatum.

  “They should have it before closing. The lab shuts down at five. But don’t get your hopes up.”

  I wrapped the bottle carefully in a paper towel, tucked it upright in my saddlebag to protect the contents, and broke the speed limit riding to Bridgeton. Fortunately none of my trooper buddies were around. As I came out of the police lab, I heard the courthouse clock striking eleven. Only nine hours before Pi took off and ruined his life for good. I sped back to the motel, hoping some bikers might have returned and I could ask them about those other outsiders, before I went to see Maggie. It would be a mistake to pin all my hopes on one beer bottle.

  There wasn’t a single bike or biker in the parking lot. Before retrieving my asparagus and flowers in the lobby, I called Pi to make sure he hadn’t flown the coop.

  “Yeah?” He sounded edgy.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Not good.”

  “What’s the trouble.”

  “I need a beer run.”

  “I’ll bring you some.”

  “When?”

  I glanced at my watch. “In about an hour.” I wanted to see Maggie first.

  “I may not last that long.”

  “You shouldn’t drink before noon.”

  “Up yours!”

  “Come on, Pi. I’m working my butt off for you, and that’s all you have to say?”

  “No. Be sure it’s cold.”

  I bought two six-packs at Harry’s, stashed them in my saddlebags, and lumbered clumsily toward Delaware, cursing Pi all the way. Was he really worth all this? Unfortunately riding alone stimulates introspection; especially if you’re forced to ride slowly. And the last thing I wanted was to open those mental compartments, those Pandora’s boxes, and let out all my troubles—Tom, Maggie, Bobby, Pi. I focused on the road ahead and tried to keep my mind a blank. Into that blankness sailed a small figure on a bicycle. A familiar figure. I ground to a halt. Dragging her feet, Becca skidded to a stop.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. We were only a stone’s t
hrow from the fisherman’s shack—Pi’s hideaway.

  “I went to see Bobby.”

  “He lives around here?” I was surprised.

  She nodded. “Right over there.” She pointed to a nest of trees. I couldn’t see any dwelling. “We saw your friend.”

  I gasped.

  “Yeah. He was great.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were horsin’ around in this clearing and he was taking a sunbath. He asked Bobby where he got his shiner. Bobby didn’t say anything, but I told him his dad did it. And you know what he said?”

  “No.” I held my breath.

  “He said, ‘I’d like to meet this gentleman.’” Becca did a good imitation of Pi doing his gentleman act.

  “And?”

  “And—” Becca’s eyes sparkled, “we introduced him, and Pi told him if he ever laid a hand on Bobby again he’d come back and beat the shit out of him.”

  I let my breath out. “So Bobby doesn’t live in Jersey? He lives in Delaware?”

  “Yeah. Bobby says it works out real well because his dad doesn’t have to pay Jersey taxes and the Delaware revenuers can’t find him.”

  “You won’t tell anyone you saw Pi?” I asked anxiously.

  “No way. Pi made us swear to secrecy. We wrote our names in blood.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He nicked our fingers with his penknife and made us sign our initials on this scrap of paper. And he said if we broke our word he’d send the Jersey Devil after us. Then he made this ugly face like he was the Jersey Devil and told us to scram.”

  I had trouble controlling my laughter. Meanwhile the beer on the back of my bike was growing warm. “Well, what are you waiting for? Scram!” I started my motor.

  With a grin, she peddled off.

  “Special Delivery!” I sang through the screen door. Pi emerged from the shack, scratching his crotch. I wondered when he’d last had a bath. His face was a deep crimson. Too much sunbathing, I guessed. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any suntan lotion.”

  “Just give me the liquid.”

  I carried the two dripping six-packs up the steps and dumped them on the porch. Only after he had ripped open the first carton, popped a can, and satisfied his thirst did he speak. “Met some friends of yours.”

  “So I hear.”

  “What a turd.” His term for Mr. Shoemaker. “You should see that place. Filth. Garbage. Flies. Dirty, naked kids and half-starved dogs running around.”

  As if he were the king of sanitation.

  “And you know what they were eatin’?”

  I shook my head.

  “Muskrat!”

  “Sure. That’s a delicacy in these parts. They hold a muskrat dinner every fall at the firehouse.”

  “This was breakfast!” He made a retching noise.

  When he had finally run out of indignation, I asked him about Sunny’s love life. “Were any of his disgruntled ex-girlfriends at that party?”

  “So …” He grinned. “You think poison is a woman’s weapon?”

  “No way,” I said bristling.

  He seemed to ponder my question. “There was one old lady—Wendy. Well-hung Wendy we used to call her.”

  “How original.” I was still smarting from the poison crack.

  “We looked her up in Wildwood, and brought her and a bunch of her pals back to the party. She hung around for a while, but she left early. Probably when she saw that Sunny had eyes only for you.”

  I grimaced.

  “Why don’t you go talk to her?” he said. “She sure had a motive. But I’d have thought she’d poison you, not Sunny.” He grinned.

  Just what I needed—a round-trip to Wildwood—at least an hour and a half away from Bayfield. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Hey, I thought this was a matter of life ’n death?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. I told him about the beer bottle.

  He was unimpressed.

  “They promised they’d have the results today.”

  “What time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  He took a deep swig from his can. “I guess these …” he said, gesturing at the six-packs, “will last me till five.”

  “Till eight,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah. Eight. I don’t wanna leave before dark.”

  “I’ll keep you informed.” I trundled off, feeling heavier than when I’d arrived, even though I’d left the six-packs behind.

  By the time I got to Maggie’s it was past one o’clock. Unlike last night, the road in front of the Nelson house was deserted and the curtains were drawn over the front window. I tried the door. Open. I stepped inside and called softly, “Mag?”

  No answer.

  I tiptoed through the empty living room, down the hall to her bedroom. The room was a mess. Bed unmade. Half-empty cups and tumblers scattered on the bureau and bedside table. Her bathrobe lay in a heap on the floor. But no Mag.

  I went back to the hall and called again, louder this time.

  “In here,” a faint voice filtered toward me from the end of the hall.

  I entered another, very different bedroom. A boy’s room. Posters of rock stars on the walls. Race-car models lining both windowsills and the bureau. The bureau was painted black, and the mirror above it was covered with stickers of comic book heroes. Batman, Spider-man, et cetera. The single bookcase was stocked with CDs and videos. (DVDs had not been around when Nick left home.) The only books were a few tattered children’s volumes stashed on the bottom shelf. A double bed filled most of the room, covered with a black bedspread depicting bikers on motorcycles in yellow and red. I thought how Nick would have fit in just fine with the present tenants of the Oakview Motor Lodge.

  Maggie was sitting in a rocking chair next to a window that looked out on a broad field. She didn’t turn but continued to stare out the window.

  “I brought you something.”

  “Put it there.” Without turning she indicated the bureau with a languid wave.

  I placed my gifts on the scratched black surface and asked, “May I sit down?”

  She shrugged. I sat on the edge of the bed. There was a long silence. What to say? How to begin? I didn’t have to. She began.

  “He used to lock himself in here with his TV and his CD player. I never knew what he was watching or what he was listening to.” She rocked gently, methodically. “Maybe if I’d paid more attention. Pried a little. Made him tell me …”

  “No, Mag. You were a fine mother. Teenagers need their space, their privacy. They hate to be spied on or told what to do.”

  She rocked a little faster.

  After a while, I asked timidly, “Can you see him?”

  “Tomorrow. Sunday is visiting day.”

  I moved around the bed and sat on the side closer to her.

  She looked at me for the first time. “Have they found out who killed that biker?”

  “Not yet. But we may have a lead.” I told her about the beer bottle.

  “Not much to go on.”

  I nodded, feeling empty and low. “There’s an old girlfriend who came to the party who might have had a motive …”

  But Maggie had lost interest. Her gaze was back on the field. “I used to sit in this chair and read to him. Peter Rabbit, The Wizard of Oz … And he loved the Bible stories. ‘Noah’s Ark,’ ‘David and Goliath.” His favorite was ‘Jonah and the Whale.’ He thought it would be cool to be inside a wha—” She broke suddenly. Her shoulders heaved and a sob erupted from deep inside her body, like some wild animal cry. I threw my arms around her, locking her in a hug like one of Pi’s viselike bear hugs. I didn’t speak, I just squeezed her, fearing if I let go, she would fly apart—into a thousand pieces.

  Her sobs came in great heaving gasps and seemed to go on forever, but it was probably less than a minute. Gradually they subsided in a series of gulps and sighs. Slowly she pulled away and wiped her wet face on her sleeve. “You really have a grip.” She rubbe
d her arms where I had held them.

  “Sorry.” I said.

  To my surprise, she smiled. “I’m sorry, too, Jo,” she said, “for the way I lashed out at you last night. I shouldn’t—”

  “No, Mag. You were right. I should have told you what Nick said. I was all caught up in my own selfish affairs.”

  We sat for a while, staring at the field of new green corn. A soft breeze smelling of May flowers came in the window, stirring the curtains. For a brief moment I think we felt at peace.

  CHAPTER 35

  When I left Maggie, it was only two-thirty. It was all I could do to keep from calling the lab, Peck, Pi—somebody! I needed answers. I was paralyzed, frustrated by not being able to take action. When I got back to my room, I called Dad. As usual he was thrilled to hear from me and, as usual, I kicked myself for not calling him more often. I wanted to tell him about Archie, but I held back. He’d only worry—and at age seventy, he didn’t need that. We chatted awhile. He told me he had a new customer. A bulb and seed company. Their hundred-page, semiannual catalog would keep a roof over his head a little while longer, he said with a chuckle. I was happy. Dad without work was like a hot dog without mustard. Maybe he could put off retirement for another few years. I did tell him about Nick, because he had met the Nelsons. He was deeply distressed and promised to write to them.

  When I hung up, I felt better. Maybe I would go to Wildwood. I called Pi for Wendy’s number. She was staying at a cheap motel with a bunch of other old ladies. Comfort by the Sea, he thought it was called.

  I burned rubber and made the trip in an hour and fifteen minutes. One thing about south Jersey roads—there was nobody on them. Traffic jams were as scarce as hens’ teeth. When I found the motel, I was informed by one stoned old lady that “they’re all at the beach.”

  Great. Wildwood was well known for its miles of beaches. And I didn’t even know what Wendy looked like. The girl gave me a generic description. “Blond, nose ring, bikini … blue—I think …”