To
J.J. and Eff - Eff
Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE SATAN’S APOSTLE CLUB ROSTER
Epigraph
MONDAY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
MONDAY
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY
Notes
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply indebted to the following people for their help and encouragement with this novel:
Ruth Cavin, my editor; Laura Langlie, my agent; Bob Keisman, Julie Miller, Anne Keisman, and Jeff Brangan.
Special thanks to Professor Roderick Vosburgh of La Salle University, Sylvia Isaacson, and Michael Crescitelli for their time and expert advice.
Last, but certainly not least, my deepest thanks to Jason J. Miller for his knowledge of bikers and biking, and—for the title of this book.
THE SATAN’S APOSTLE CLUB ROSTER
PI (as in 3.14), President—mathematician and MIT dropout
STARS AND STRIPES, Sergeant-at-Arms—a Marine and most feared disciplinarian
JINGLES, Treasurer—sticky fingers, but in charge of club funds as a test
MICKEY—comic book artist
HASH BROWN—short-order cook
SAWHORSE—construction worker
HONEY—sweetest guy, unless you mention his mother
HAMMERHEAD—one-man wrecking crew
FOXHOLE—Nam veteran. Oldest member
ORPHEUS—guitar player
LIGHTNING—fastest rider
SUNNY—sex machine
O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green ey’d monster …
—IAGO, from Othello
MONDAY
CHAPTER 1
Nobody knew where they came from. All anyone wanted to know was—when were they leaving?
They’d arrived like a cloud of hornets late Sunday afternoon and taken over the parking lot and most of the motel rooms. I’d heard them come in—rowrrrrrrgh, rowrrrrrrgh, rowrrrrrrgh—one after the other. I’d jumped up from my futon, where I’d been relaxing to the strains of Miles Davis, and looked out my window at the string of bikes gleaming below me in the sun. The bikers’ helmets gleamed, too—every color of the rainbow. My first reaction was a rush of excitement; the second—a stab of irritation, as I realized that this was the end of peace and tranquillity at the Oakview Motor Lodge.
Here it was Monday morning, and the “Satan’s Apostles” (the name embroidered in red across the backs of their leather vests) showed no signs of moving on. In fact, Jack-the-Night-Clerk told me in an awed whisper, “They’ve signed up for the whole week!” It had been an unusually warm May, and the flat roads and balmy climate (seventy degrees, not a cloud in the sky) of south Jersey seemed to agree with them.
The first time I ran into one, face-to-face, was this morning. I’d shuffled down to the lobby—glassy-eyed, before my morning coffee—to pick up my copy of the Bayfield Bugle. I was reaching for it on the counter where Jack always leaves it for me when this thing came up next to my elbow and woke me quicker than six cups of coffee and a cold shower.
It was bulky, hairy, noisy, and multicolored. The bulk was muscle, bulging out of a torn T-shirt and battered jeans; the hair, body hair, springing from the arms, chest, and legs as well as long greasy locks sprouting from the head; the noise, bracelets, necklaces, and anklets of heavy metal (yeah—like the music, only more so); and the multicolors, tattoos over every visible surface—red, blue, black, purple, and green.
He was asking where he could get “a decent cuppa coffee,” implying that the motel offering wasn’t up to his standards (or anybody else’s, for that matter). Without thinking (I wasn’t awake yet, remember), and before Paul Nelson, the desk clerk and owner, could get the words out, I blurted: “The Blue Arrow.”
He turned, and I was treated to the full frontal view. Hair, tattoos, metal. “Where’s that?”
I mumbled directions to the local diner.
“Thanks.” And he clanked off into the sunset (or in this case—sunrise).
Paul looked at me. I shrugged. I’d been a motel tenant for only eight months, but long enough to take most things with a grain of salt. The thing about motel living was, everything was temporary. Nothing lasted very long. You’d just begin to get in a snit about something, and “poof,” it was gone, down the road to the next motel. That was one of the things I liked about motel life. I grabbed my paper, a cup of the motel sludge, and retreated to my apartment. By redecorating and moving in a few pieces of my own furniture, I’d raised the space where I lived from two-star motel to “half-decent apartment.”
CHAPTER 2
Slowly I began to change my clothes. From the jeans, tee, and flip-flops I’d thrown on to get the paper to something a little more presentable. I had to go to court this morning and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
I’d promised Maggie I’d go with her to the courthouse where she was scheduled to testify about her son’s “sterling qualities.” Nick was accused of a whole lot of things—smuggling, conspiracy, attempted murder, even successful murder. You name it. He was on trial with a number of other Bayfielders who were involved in an immigrant smuggling ring and sweatshop that I had helped to uncover. A problem kid and chronic drug abuser, Nick had disappeared three years ago. He’d been presumed dead by his parents, Paul and Maggie Nelson, the owners of the Oakview Motor Lodge where I live, until he turned up as the Simon Legree of an immigrant sweatshop.
The Nelsons had been kind to me when I had arrived at Bayfield eight months ago, offering me lodging and office space, not to mention their friendship. In short, I owed them. With a grimace I gave the unaccustomed panty hose a yank up my leg.
The house phone rang.
Letting the panty hose hang, I answered it.
“Jo? The car’s here. Please hurry.” Maggie’s voice, usually strong and steady, was weak and hesitant.
I finished dressing as if on a CODE BLUE and appeared in the lobby three minutes later.
“Come on.” Maggie’s face was pale, and when she grabbed my hand hers was damp and cold. I swallowed the sassy comment I had ready for the normal Maggie and tagged obediently after her to the car.
The Bridgeton courthouse is the largest building in town. In fact, it’s the only large building in town. Built in the Federal style in the 1890s, it has a cupola with a copper crown that has weathered over time from golden molasses to pistachio ice cream green. At the moment the building was under cons
truction, and according to Maggie, it had been for about five years. Things moved slowly in the county seat—in the poorest county in New Jersey. In the good old days, Maggie told me, you could stroll in and out of the courthouse without anyone hardly noticing. Now, you had to practically strip before you got one foot in the door.
After being scrutinized, patted, and searched, I asked, “Where do we go?”
Maggie took the lead. She had been coming here daily for the past three weeks and knew her way around.
The interior of the courthouse was a surprise. I had expected dark wooden floors and walls, heavy, forbidding doors, and dim lighting. Instead, the floors were shiny white marble, the walls blond wood with coral trim, and ample light flowed from skylights and a myriad of modern fixtures. The grim aspect of the majority of older courthouses had been completely erased. It would be almost a pleasure to be hauled in here for a crime.
We took a flight of marble steps to the second floor, turned down a bright corridor to the left, and stopped before a polished wooden door labeled in gold: COURTROOM 3. A woman in a fresh blue uniform stood outside, checking IDs. As I presented my card, I heard the murmur of voices on the other side of the door. I began to feel nervous myself. I had forgotten I might have to confront the couple who had captured and tortured me. The Malevolent Milacs. I had successfully blocked on them. I shivered at the memory of them. Later that month, I would have the pleasure of testifying against them—but not today.
As we entered the courtroom, several heads turned. Maggie left me in the spectator section while she pushed through a little swinging gate to join her attorney onstage, as it were. Before she left, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you.”
She looked so vulnerable and un-Maggie-like I whispered back, “You’ll do fine.”
She bit her lip.
I switched my gaze to the jury: twelve “honest” citizens, decked out in their Sunday best. Sunday was still a big deal in south Jersey and they all had some “best” stored in their closets. The five men were over fifty, with paunches and white or thinning hair. The seven women were late middle-aged, sleepy, and overweight.
There was a stir in the courtroom as a door opened to the left of the judge’s bench and a young man was ushered in. Short and stocky with long black hair, he wore an orange jumper over his gray prison garb. Shackles dragged at his ankles and he was helped to a seat by the guard who accompanied him. In the quick glimpse I had of his face, he did not resemble the photograph in Maggie’s living room. That youth had worn a surly, arrogant expression. This one smiled serenely, as if just anointed by the Heavenly Host. Maggie had told me that while he was in prison awaiting trial Nick had found the Lord, repented his sins, and claimed to be “born again.” Skeptic that I am, I had taken this with a huge grain of salt. But Maggie, although his adoptive mother, fell for the tale hook, line, and sinker.
A minute later a door opened to the right of the bench and the judge came in. He was small and wiry, with the complexion of strong tea. The name on the plaque resting on the lectern read: Torres. The lawyer for the prosecution introduced his first witness. After listening for a few minutes, I figured out that he was a leather expert testifying to the nature of the machinery used in the sweatshop where the immigrants had been forced to work. Ho, hum. I pulled a paperback from my backpack. Maggie had tried to convince me to bring a traditional handbag. I didn’t own one. She would lend me one. All of hers were huge and black, like my grandmother used to carry. We compromised. I told her I’d bring my baby backpack. Not the big one. She relented.
“Will Margaret Townsend Nelson please take the stand.” The clerk of the court’s voice rang out clearly
I sat up with a jolt and my paperback slid to the floor. I dived for it, then raised my gaze to the witness-box.
“Please stand, place your hand on the Bible, and swear: I, Margaret Townsend Nelson, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
It was very unusual to call a mother to testify on her son’s behalf. A mother’s testimony is rarely reliable and always biased. Everyone knew that. The lawyer was desperate, I guess. Maggie was his last-ditch attempt to evoke some sympathy for the defendant from the jury. I had to lean forward and strain my ears to hear Maggie, whose strident tones usually rang from one end of the motel to the other.
“You may be seated.”
Maggie slumped rather than sat. Until now, I hadn’t realized how small she was. Although the witness-box was no more than a chair enclosed by four flimsy partitions of blond wood, it seemed to swallow her.
Glancing at her son, Maggie seemed to gain strength. She sat up, lifted her chin, and looked more like the solid, capable innkeeper I was familiar with. I wished I could see Nick’s face. Paul Nelson, Nick’s father, was conspicuously absent. He, too, had not swallowed the conversion story. When Nick had been arrested, Paul and Maggie had gone to the local jail to see him, and Nick had spit on them. Since then, Paul had not returned and I had never heard him speak his son’s name again. Maggie, on the other hand, visited him daily.
The lawyer for the defense stepped up to the witness-box. He was small, dapper, and businesslike. Maggie had told me he was costing them a fortune. “Mrs. Nelson, will you give the jury a brief account of your son?” His tone was brusque.
The jury, which had resembled a bunch of drugged zombies during the leather expert’s recital, eyed the new witness with interest.
“Paul and I were never able to have any children,” Maggie began in her newly acquired soft voice, staring at her lawyer.
“Please speak up, Mrs. Nelson,” the judge ordered, but his tone was kindly, “and address your remarks to the jury.”
Maggie obediently turned her head toward the twelve people on her left and raised her voice. “Paul and I were never able to have any children of our own, and when I was forty we decided to adopt.” Her gaze slid briefly to her son. “I’ll never forget the day we brought him home. He was—”
“Mrs. Nelson, please confine your remarks to your son’s later years,” her lawyer said, “the years in which his character will have some bearing on the issues at hand.”
Whose side is he on?
“Oh … sorry.” Flustered, she asked, “At what age do you want me to start?”
“Puberty.”
She looked bewildered.
“Thirteen,” said the judge.
Maggie seemed to go into a trance, to leave the courtroom for some other, happier place.
Come on, Mag! I silently rooted for her. I might not care for her son, but I couldn’t bear to see my friend humiliated.
“He was a normal boy He went to school. He played sports. Soccer was his favorite. Rough-and-tumble. He always liked to roughhouse. Oh, not in any bad way,” she added hastily, “just like all boys do.” Her voice was gaining strength. “It was hard on him because we were older than most of his friends’ parents. We couldn’t carry on with him like the younger mothers and fathers did. Sometimes I think he resented this—and was embarrassed to have such old, fuddy-duddy parents.” She glanced at her son for affirmation. Again, I wished I could see his face. “Anyway … his favorite hobby was tinkering with cars and motors. When he was sixteen he persuaded his father to buy him a motorbike. They didn’t tell me anything about it until they brought it home. They knew I wouldn’t approve. But when I saw how happy he was with it, I didn’t object. He took such good care of it. And he always wore his helmet.”
Until he was out of sight, I thought uncharitably. The sudden realization that this same bike now belonged to me caught me up short. The Nelsons had sold it to me for a song, when they had thought their son was dead and would no longer have any use for it. (They were right about the no use part.) It was my sole means of transportation and the way I made my motel calls. I wished she would get on with it. So did the judge, apparently.
“Go on, Mrs. Nelson,” he urged her.
Maggie took a deep breath. “He was an average st
udent and graduated in the middle of his class. Graduation Day was a proud day. The boys all looked so handsome. Most of them I’d never seen wear a tie before … .”
Her lawyer glanced at his watch.
Does he have an important luncheon date?
“What did your son do after high school?” he asked.
“Well, his dad and I wanted him to go to college. We could have scraped together the money. But he wasn’t interested. He said he liked to work with his hands. So he signed up at the local vocational school. He took a course in sanitation engineering.”
Plumbing, I translated.
“And did he work as a plumber?” the lawyer translated for the jury.
“For about a year, off and on, until …” Her voice faded and she slumped in her chair again.
“Please speak up, Mrs. Nelson. Until what?”
With a great effort, she said, “Until he disappeared.”
The members of the jury blinked in unison, as if someone had pushed buttons on the backs of their necks.
“Disappeared?” the lawyer repeated, as if he didn’t know the story.
“Paul and I, and our neighbors, searched everywhere. His bike was parked at the motel, so we didn’t think he could have gone far. Finally we called the police and they reported him to Missing Persons. The FBI was even called in … .”
“Did you think he had been taken against his will?”
“Kidnapped, you mean?”
The lawyer nodded.
“Yes. We both thought so. By those awful people, and they probably hypnotized him, and—”
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