I didn’t realize where I was headed until I rolled up to Harry’s Bar. It was still open, but just barely. All the tables and booths were empty. There were a couple of regulars still hanging on to the bar, but the bartender was cleaning up around them.
“Seen any bikers tonight?” I asked him.
“No, thank god,” he grunted.
I rode on to the Blue Arrow—the one place in Bayfield where you could get coffee and a hamburger twenty-four hours a day. The waitress told me a biker had just left. “He stocked up on sandwiches and bottled water,” she said. “Seemed in a hurry.”
“Which way did he go?”
She wasn’t sure but thought he’d turned left. “Those hogs make such a racket, you can’t help but notice them.” She had probably noticed him for reasons other than the racket, but I didn’t argue the point.
I took off after him, also making a left. It was five minutes before I caught sight of a single red taillight. I had barely registered the light when it disappeared. The biker had turned right—into the wilderness of shrubs and phragmites that make up most of south Jersey. I counted slowly to twenty, not wanting to get too close, turned off my headlamp, and followed him.
Right now I didn’t need my lamp. A full moon illuminated the road and every leaf and twig. But I knew once it set and dawn drew near—It’s always darkest before the dawn—(who said that?)—a mist would rise from the marshes, like steam from a pot, and obliterate the landscape with its white blur.
In a few minutes, I sighted the red dot, and I was convinced it belonged to Pi. Although I was riding with no light, I kept my distance. I knew the moonlight would render me perfectly visible. And there was no way I could hide the noise of my motor. I hoped the noise of Pi’s own motor would drown out mine. I wondered what he would do if I caught up with him. I wasn’t afraid of him exactly, but I had a healthy respect for his brawn. As the dankness of the marsh crept under my jacket, I wondered briefly why I was out here. What made me think this guy was innocent? Because he had been my paper boy? Pretty thin. But what could have been his motive? From what I’d seen, he seemed to be fond of Sunny. I had plenty of time to think about this as I followed the red pinprick of light through the desolate marshland. The marshes weren’t really desolate, of course. The foliage on either side of me was teeming with as much life as Macy’s at Christmastime: birds, fish, amphibians, small mammals, and insects of every description. I had only to pause for one second to find out about the insects; hordes of mosquitoes would zero in on every part of me that wasn’t covered by denim or leather. And in my haste, I’d forgotten my bug spray.
As we followed the creeks, the road twisted and turned. Now and then I lost sight of Pi’s taillight. The moon was fading and darkness was closing in. I was afraid I’d have to turn on my headlamp to avoid ending up in a gully or ditch. When I’d left the Blue Arrow, I’d gotten my second wind. And in the excitement of finding my prey, my exhaustion had disappeared. But it was back again. Slumped in my seat, I felt drowsy and numb. Snap out of it! I sat up straight, inhaled the dank fishy smell of the marsh, and fixed my gaze on the little red dot bobbing ahead of me among the reeds.
CHAPTER 18
The darkness deepened as I had predicted, and the mist began to rise from the creeks and seep out of the marshes. At one point the fog became so dense I was forced to turn on my headlamp. The beam bounced back at me as if hitting concrete. I turned off the lamp. Sometimes the mist seemed to be stalking me, rising in front and behind, encircling, trapping me in a cotton wool cell. Then the road would open up suddenly, presenting a clear path ahead, and I’d tear along for a while thinking I had escaped, only to meet up with the fog again—as if it had taken a secret shortcut and was lying in wait for me.
Once, as I broke out of an especially dense patch, there was no taillight ahead. I traveled for a long stretch, probing the darkness, but it didn’t reappear. Maybe he’d turned off somewhere and I’d lost him. To make matters worse, I was lost. I turned on my lamp, but there were no familiar landmarks. Nothing but low scrub and phragmites stretching to the horizon. Without that small red beacon in front of me, my desolation was complete. Until now, I hadn’t realized what a comfort it was. The sign of another human being in this no-man’s-land. I glanced at my gas gauge. The needle was dangerously low. I pulled over and stopped. As soon as I turned off the motor, the silence overcame me. No distant rumble of Pi’s motor. There was nothing but a smothering hush. In this hour before dawn no bird chirped, no animal rustled, even the mosquitoes had left off their incessant humming. I glanced over my shoulder to see if the foul fiend was after me, ready to pounce—that black aura of failure and guilt that had forced me to leave Manhattan and come to this desolate place. Was it out there, shrouded by mist, waiting to wrap me in its damp, sour arms and drag me down into the abyss?
“Bullshit!” I grunted. “Next you’ll be seeing the Jersey Devil!” Sightings of that mythical monster—half goat, half gargoyle—were often reported by the natives in these parts. I turned on the ignition. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll run out of gas and be stuck here until daylight, when someone will come along and rescue you. The mist was dissipating already. There was a clear stretch of road ahead. I turned up the throttle and sped along. I’d just keep going until I either found a landmark or ran out of gas. Pausing at a fork in the road, I let my motor idle while I tried to decide which way to go. To my right, I thought I glimpsed part of a wharf that looked like Stow Creek Landing. Yes. And there was the creek, straight ahead. This wharf had been used by pirates and smugglers in the old days. According to legend there had been a tavern here favored by Black-beard and his cronies. Later, bars and a bawdy house had replaced the old pirate inn and it was rumored that an occasional stabbing was not uncommon. Still later, a religious man bought the property, tore everything down but the old wharf, and planted winter wheat. Recently the state had taken over the fields, turning them into a nature preserve and picnic ground.
Despite the sanitizing of this place by the government, in the dark—just before dawn—I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the ghosts of some pirates or smugglers or whores rise up and try to reclaim their turf. To keep my spirits up I let out a resounding chorus of, “Sixteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”
A figure flew out of the phragmites. Huge hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently. You know that saying, “He shook me till my teeth rattled.” Well, it’s bunk. My teeth were just fine. It was my brain that was rattling around inside my skull, like marbles in a pinball machine.
“Sta … ah … ah … ahp!” I cried.
The hands let go. Pi stared at me.
I tried to catch my breath. By some miracle I was still in my bike seat.
“Why are you following me?” In the dark, his eyes glowed red and his astonishment was so great he forgot to swear.
I raised my hands in a protective gesture, afraid he was going to start shaking me again. “The police are looking for you!”
“What d’ya mean? I didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t say you did, but you have to go back and talk to them.”
His expression hardened.
“They’ll come after you. Use your head.”
“Fuck you!” Any vestige of the love-struck Archie was gone without a trace.
“Why did you take off?” I persisted.
He stared, examining my face carefully in the first light of dawn. Finally deciding to risk it, he said, “After I left the hospital, I went for a long ride. I felt like celebrating, because Sunny was OK. He was a pain in the butt, but he was sort of a kid brother to me …” He paused and looked away. “When I got back to the motel the place was full of cops. At first I thought they’d been called in ‘cause of the party. Then I saw Sunny …” He winced. With a shock, I realized the extent of his grieving. “I went a little crazy and beat it.”
After a moment, I said, “But you planned to stay away. You bought supplies—”
�
�How do you know that?” His face was hard again.
I told him about the waitress at the diner.
“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business!”
“Because I want to help you!” To my horror, I realized I was screaming.
He stared. “Why?”
Forcing down a surge of emotion, which had come from who knows where, I shrugged and said lightly, “For all those newspapers you threw at our front porch—and missed.”
I was rewarded with a fleeting smile—a small shadow of Archie. He turned and dragged his bike from the phragmities where he had hidden it before he ambushed me.
“You’re coming back?”
He turned. “Are you crazy?”
“But—”
“I’m outta here. I’ll be in Arizona in three days. I have friends there where I can hide out.”
“The police know your license number. They’ll stop you before you get out of Jersey.”
“I’ll trash it.”
“They’ll pick you up for not having a tag.”
“I’ll think of something.” He mounted his bike.
“Wait,” I said desperately. “I have another idea.”
“If it’s anything like your others …”
“I know a place. There’s this piece of Jersey land that actually belongs to the state of Delaware. It’s a long story, but you’d be safe there. The Jersey state troopers wouldn’t be able to touch you. Trust me. You could hide out there until they find out who really killed Sunny”
“Where is it?” he said slowly.
I had his attention; I rushed on. “That’s the beauty of it. It’s right near here. About ten miles down the road. I could supply you with food and drink and keep you up-to-date on what’s going on—”
“Why would you do that?”
I wasn’t sure. A mixture of loyalty to that kid from the past who used to beat me at gin rummy and a desire to see Sunny’s real killer brought to justice? I said, “That’s my business,” and held his gaze. “Let’s go. It’s getting light.”
And it was. The sky at the horizon was turning pink. Without waiting for an answer, I pressed my start-up button. I heard him kick-start his bike. I was afraid to look back. I just kept going, willing him to follow—and praying I could find this place. I hadn’t been paying much attention when Paul had told me about it.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 19
Murder or no murder, life must go on, even at a seedy two-star motel in south Jersey. Rugs must be vacuumed; beds must be changed; towels, toilet paper, and mini soap bars must be replenished—and wastebaskets emptied. Even a no-account motel doctor must attend to her patients. After only a few hours’ sleep, I rose and went to the hospital to see Bobby. He was reading a comic book.
“Hi!” I said.
He glanced up.
“Becca’s coming today.”
He looked pleased.
I asked if his parents were coming.
A shadow crossed his face. “I guess,” he said, without enthusiasm.
I drew nearer to get a better look at the comic book. “Who’s your favorite superhero?”
He held up the magazine, cover foremost. Batman was displayed banging the heads of two ugly thugs together.
“Good choice,” I said, wishing I had the skills of Batman; there were a few heads I’d like to break that morning. I glanced at my watch. Next stop—a routine nursing home call in Bridgeton.
As I rode, I tried not to think too much about Pi. When I’d left him at dawn, it was not in the most luxurious surroundings. He was sitting in a sandy clearing, hemmed in by phragmites—that tough, light-colored, ten-to-twelve-foot reed with a top like a feather duster that grows wild in south Jersey. Nearby lay a culvert, half-buried in the sand. Its entrance was a yard wide—big enough to hide Pi and his bike, if anyone should pass by, which was an unlikely prospect. A lonelier spot was hard to imagine.
When I’d left him, he was eating his breakfast—a stale ham on rye washed down with warm beer. (He had managed to stash a six-pack in his saddlebag, along with the sandwiches and bottled water.) He was especially unhappy with the temperature of the brew. I pointed out that he was only a few yards from the bay, where he could cool it if he wanted to.
He grunted.
I told him I’d return with fresh supplies after dark. As I pulled away, I glanced back once. Sitting cross-legged in the sand, with his barrel chest and thick thighs, surrounded by phragmites, he looked like a Buddha some archaeologist had dug up and abandoned when he found it was too heavy to carry.
Although it was just a routine call, I always looked forward to seeing Emily Snow. (Her cloud of white hair made her last name especially fitting.) She had taught American history at the local high school for over thirty years and local history was her hobby. Nothing had happened in Bayfield that Emily didn’t know and wasn’t willing to tell you about since the Lenape Indians had settled there. It was from Emily I heard about the pirates and smugglers who had frequented these parts. She had also given me a lesson on phragmites. Now considered a mere nuisance weed that drove all other vegetation away, this reed had once been put to many uses by the Lenapes. They had weaved mats with it and made shafts for their arrows, just to name a couple.
Today I had a specific question for Miss Snow. After I had examined her (which didn’t take long; she was amazingly healthy for her age), I asked it.
She laughed. “So, you’ve discovered our secret. Our double identity.” She stared out the window for a moment before going on. “Yes—part of Bayfield still belongs to Delaware, and no one has ever felt it was important enough to change. Except during the Oyster Wars, of course,” she added.
“Oyster Wars?”
“Yes, indeed. Oysters were a big industry here in the nineties [I knew she meant the 1890s] and the two states fought over the beds. We finally got access to some of the best beds, but it was a hard fight. It took years.”
I pulled out my county map and spread it across her knees.
“Oh, yes.” She peered at the map, using the little magnifying glass she always kept on a string around her neck. “See here.” She pointed to a bit of land that poked into the bay. “That belongs to Delaware, but it’s next to the nuclear power plant. I’m sure no one can get near there today. Security must be wicked.” She moved her finger northward to a large green sward bordering the bay. “Now, this is mostly wilderness. Marshes and tidelands—and mosquitoes!” She laughed, glancing up at me. “If you’re thinking of exploring there, be sure to take along plenty of bug spray.”
I began to refold the map.
“So why this sudden interest in our geography, Doctor?” She fixed her penetrating gaze on me.
I shrugged. “I’ve always liked history and geography—”
“Liar.”
I blinked.
“I’ve taught enough children over the years to know when one’s fibbing.”
I was about to protest that I wasn’t a child when I realized, to someone nearly ninety I probably was.
“Besides,” she went on, “I remember you once sat right in that chair and told me you hated history and geography in school.”
“But that was because I had lousy teachers. Now … if I’d had you!”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She tapped her front tooth with her magnifying glass and eyed me suspiciously.
I sighed. “I’m sure glad you weren’t my teacher.”
She shot me a quick grin. “Years ago, that area I just showed you was used for all kinds of illicit activities—bootlegging, prostitution. Now it’s probably a haven for drug peddlers—and growers,” she said.
I thought I’d seen a marijuana field on the way there.
“New Jersey law enforcers can’t touch them—unless they extradite them. And that would be much too much trouble. The Feds could, of course, but they’ve got their hands full in Philadelphia.” She laughed. This lady not only knew her history; she also was up on current events. “Someday when land
gets really scarce and that area becomes valuable to developers, it will be a different story.”
I was tempted to confide in her. I was fond of the old lady. I respected and trusted her. I was sure my secret would be safe with her.
“There was a murder at the Oakview Motor Lodge,” I said tentatively.
“Yes, I know.” She subscribed to both the Salem and Bridgeton papers as well as The Philadelphia Inquirer. She didn’t miss much. But unlike Mrs. Lockweed, she wasn’t a gossip. She kept things to herself.
“They suspect one of the bikers who are staying there,” I said.
She looked at me speculatively. “And you don’t think he did it.”
I stared. She was sharp. I nodded.
Even though there were just the two of us in the room, she lowered her voice, “And you’re looking for a place to hide him.”
My mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”
“Because,” she said firmly, “that’s what I would do.”
“He’s already in that safe Delaware area, but he can’t stay there forever with no roof over his head. I wondered if you knew of any shelter …”
She was thoughtful. “Let me see that map again.”
I spread it out. She studied it in silence. “There used to be a fisherman’s shack right about here.” She pointed. “It’s been abandoned for years. But if it hasn’t fallen down by now, it might just do.” She took a pencil from beside her chair where she had been working a crossword puzzle and began tracing the route I should take.
When she finished, she looked so pleased with herself, I had to ask, “How do you know about this?”
She smiled. “It belonged to a man I once knew. We,” she hastily corrected herself, “he used to camp out there in the old days.”
I couldn’t stop my grin.
“Oh—you young people think you invented romance,” she said, and waved a deprecating hand. Then she turned serious. “But you’d better not waste any time. All the police need is a governor’s warrant to extradite a fugitive from another state.” I headed for the door and she went back to her crossword puzzle.
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