Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  Ears throbbing, I watched the Harley disappear between the banks of phragmites.

  Tom didn’t come with hat in hand. (I don’t think he owned one.) But he did call. With no preamble, he asked me to a dance. “Wear a skirt,” he told me. “And not one of those itty-bitty things that cling like Saran Wrap. A long, full skirt that flows and swirls with the music.”

  “And where am I going to find a skirt like that?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  I was so happy to hear from him, I decided to try to please him. I looked around my motel room for something I could convert into a long skirt. I knew my closet had nothing to offer. I wandered into the bathroom. The shower curtain was kind of cute. Little yellow ducks swimming in a blue sea. It had come with the territory. I had been meaning to replace it but never got around to it. After giving it a shake, I decided it was too heavy and would probably be as hot as hell.

  In my Manhattan days, an invitation to a dance would have meant a quick trip to Sak’s or Bloomies—and returning at least three hundred bucks poorer.

  Back in the main room, I passed my linen closet—a fancy name for the cubbyhole in the wall that held my ragged sheets and towels. I flipped through the towels—faded yellow, blue, and salmon with stringy edges, sporting an occasional hole the size of a half dollar. I pulled out a threadbare beach towel. You could still make out a shadow of Snoopy dancing on it. With it wrapped around my waist, the effect was more that of a sarong than a ball gown. Dorothy Lamour I am not.

  Under the towels lay one of my two sets of sheets. (The other set was on my futon.) White, with a pattern of turquoise butterflies, it might do. I had a turquoise top that I wore only on special occasions. Weddings, funerals (not biker funerals). I began pulling together my ensemble. I figured if I poked holes along the edge of the sheet with my surgical scissors and pulled a drawstring through it, it could return to its sheet role after the ball without suffering too much damage. Sandals would have to take the place of glass slippers. I made a vow to be home by midnight, before I turned into a pumpkin—or worse: a squash or turnip. I grabbed the sheet, the scissors, and set to work.

  Half an hour later everything was ready except the drawstring. I rummaged through my catch-all drawer, the one reserved for thumbtacks, old wine corks, Scotch tape—ah yes, and a ball of twine. Becca and I had bought it one windy day when we had decided to fly a kite. The kite had ended up tangled in some telephone wires, à la Charlie Brown, but we’d gotten a lot of exercise. Bayfield was probably one of the last places on earth that had telephone wires above ground. It was also one of the last places where kids still flew kites, rode bikes, and played baseball on their own, without being organized, supervised, and criticized by an overzealous parent group. What’s with you? You don’t even have kids.

  When I was dressed and stood before the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door, I had to admit I looked quite fetching. A pair of hoop earrings would complete the picture. With a farewell pirouette to my reflection (which almost sent me sprawling), I went to hunt up those earrings.

  CHAPTER 40

  When Tom had called, he told me instead of meeting me at Harry’s as usual, he would pick me up—in his pickup. “This is going to be a real date,” he said.

  I felt silly standing around the lobby all gussied up, especially with some bikers still milling around. Hash Brown asked, “Gotta big date?” And Honey bid me, “Have a hot time!” I sat curled up on the sofa, trying to hide behind a copy of the Bugle, which I’d already read from cover to cover. I kept an ear cocked for Tom’s horn, but he came into the lobby in person, wearing real trousers, a white shirt, and a pair of brown oxfords. I almost fainted. His expression told me he was just as shocked by my appearance. It was the first time we had seen each other in anything but jeans and tees.

  He held out his arm. I took it, feeling as awkward as a teenager going to her first prom. I kept my head down as we crossed the parking lot, hoping a stray biker wouldn’t spot me. Once in the pickup, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What’s the matter?” He looked at me, his key halfway to the ignition.

  “Nothing.” I felt a blush begin,

  “Not used to dressing up, huh? Well, neither am I.” He poked a finger inside his collar, to give himself more breathing room.

  I laughed. “This was your idea,” I reminded him.

  “Damned right. You can’t go to the Starlight Room dressed like a farmhand.”

  It was my turn to look at him.

  “Remember me telling you I was making a surprise for you?”

  I stretched my mind back a few aeons, to that night when we had shopped together at the supermarket. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, it’s finished—and tonight’s the night.”

  “Hmm,” I smiled, getting the message—our recent differences were off-limits, at least for tonight.

  I was surprised when Tom drove into his own driveway. I was familiar with his simple farmhouse. Nothing new about that. Could the surprise be that there was no surprise? I kept quiet and let him help me down from the truck, feeling as if I were in a play, acting the part of an ingenue, on her first date.

  Once inside, I saw the wooden kitchen table that he had made, set with a cloth, wineglasses, and candles. The scent of something delicious wafted from the oven. What was it? I sniffed.

  “Roast chicken and corn bread,” he answered my unasked question.

  “Umm.”

  “Sit down.” He pulled out my chair and poured a sparkling wine.

  Holy Moly, I could get used to this.

  Over dinner, we caught up on each other’s past. Even though we had been apart only four days, there was a lot of ground to cover. I told him about the biker funeral, being chased by troopers, my visit to Wildwood, Pi’s incarceration, and Stan’s confession. Tom told me about Nick’s sentencing (he had gone to the courthouse), the post-mortem party at the Nelsons’, and his visit with Nick. He had gone to see him after the sentencing, for old times’ sake.

  “What did you think of that ‘born again’ bunk?” I asked.

  He looked at me so long, I began to feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “Did it ever occur to you, Dr. Banks, that there’s a whole universe out there that you may know nothing about?” He rose. “Which brings me to my surprise.” He took my hand and led me up the crooked wooden stairs to his loft. I had been there before, a large, spare room with windows on all four sides, overlooking fields in every direction. Tonight the fields were dark, but during the day, in spring and summer, the room was like a ship’s cabin and the green fields like ocean waves, shimmering in the sun. As I emerged from the dark stairwell into the loft, something felt different. There was a greater feeling of space than even before. I looked up and drew a quick breath. Where once there had been a solid roof, now there was open sky. The stars crowded one another—pushing, pulsing, shooting, showering, going about their busy, brilliant lives in the dark sky. I saw the Big and Little Dippers, Orion, and the Ram, outlined as clearly as on a page in an astronomy book. And there was no moon tonight to drown them out. (Had he planned it that way?) Bending my head back, I spun around, trying to take in the whole sky at once. From somewhere music began to play. Melodies from long ago. Dance music that my father used to listen to on our old record player. Benny Goodman, Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey. Tom took me in his arms and we danced.

  But this music wasn’t from records. Over Tom’s shoulder, I tracked its source to a small radio tucked into a bookshelf. The program was on every Sunday night, he told me. It was called The Starlight Room. From 8:00 PM till midnight, they played tunes from the thirties and forties, the heyday of the famous dance bands. The MC was a charming old codger who knew the history of these bands, the bandleaders, and the composers of the tunes. Every now and then, he would interrupt the music and give us some of his knowledge in a quiet, unassuming voice. We used these interludes to pause and catch our breath.

  During one of these intermissions, Tom demonstrated the
skylight roof. He had removed the old wooden roof and replaced it with thermal glass that you could slide open or shut, depending on the weather. “Like the sunroof in a car,” he explained. He had even included a screen to keep the mosquitoes out. Tonight, because it was mild, he had opened the roof all the way and it seemed, if you stood on tiptoe, you could literally touch the stars.

  During another break, he pushed me away and examined me through narrowed lids. “I’ve been meaning to tell you what a lovely skirt you’re wearing. How did you come up with it on such short notice?”

  I told him.

  He laughed and drew me close.

  Sometime during the evening, when I was mellow with music and wine, I asked, “Why did you follow me that night?”

  “I was worried about you. I was afraid you were in over your head.”

  “Protecting me?” An accusatory note crept into my voice.

  “Ah,” he said, and smiled, “press the right button and out pops the outraged feminist. Yes, Jo, I wanted to look after you, the way I would look after anyone I care about—man, woman, or child. Not because I thought you were the ‘weaker sex.’ As you have often told me, sex and friendship are two different things. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

  After a pause, I said, “You were really wrought up that night in the parking lot. I was … a little afraid of you.”

  He closed his eyes, as if trying to recall that distant moment When he spoke his tone was playful. “You needn’t of feared me. My Momma always told me, ‘Women are special. You can love ’em and leave ‘em. But never strike them.’”

  “She was ahead of her time.”

  After a pause, I asked, “Would you have called me, if Pi hadn’t explained things?” I didn’t really want to know.

  He looked me straight in the eye. “No,” he said.

  “Why did you believe him?”

  “Whatever Pi’s faults, dishonesty isn’t one of them.” He placed his hand gently over my mouth. “Enough, Jo. Let’s enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  The music had started up again and he spun me around the room.

  At midnight, as the MC was signing off, I had an epiphany. That freedom the bikers were always talking about? Tom had it—and never talked about it. He lived by himself, in a house he had built with his own hands. He worked for himself, beholden to no one. And he did this with no support from any organization, club, or buddy system and with no visible crutches—bikes, colors, codes, or patches. He was really independent. A one-man show—a free agent. Like the frontiersmen of long ago.

  Come to think of it … so was I.

  “What are you thinking about?” Tom came up behind me and stroked the back of my neck.

  I turned, ready to tell him. But the last number of the evening had begun. He pulled me to him and we did a slow dance, joined as if we were one.

  “You know what I like about this place?” he murmured.

  “No. What?”

  “Nobody ever cuts in.”

  We danced and danced, long after the Starlight Room had signed off and the only music was Tom humming in my ear. When my feet gave out, I danced with my bare feet resting on top of his bare feet. When his feet gave out, we dragged his mattress up from the porch and fell asleep under the fading stars and the patchwork quilt his great-great grandmother had made.

  As the first light of dawn filtered through the open roof, I woke feeling rested and content. Tom woke and turned my face toward his. We kissed, as if for the first time.

  MONDAY

  EPILOGUE

  An evening like that had to be followed by a beautiful morning! And it was. Unfortunately, it was a Monday morning. A workday. Tom dropped me back at the motel. I showered and dressed. As I donned my one and only pantsuit, a familiar sound drew me to the window. The bikers were lined up in the parking lot, their colorful helmets gleaming in the sun, revving their motors, preparing to take off. Pi’s “unfinished business” must have taken longer than he thought it would. He had told me they would be leaving last night. There were a couple of the boys that I would have liked to say good-bye to. Mickey and Honey. But not enough to tear down to the parking lot half-naked. If this were a B movie, I would have sailed down—half-clad as I was—and whispered in Pi’s ear, “Go back to school, Archie.” But it wasn’t a movie and I stayed at the window. As I watched, one by one they bumped out of the lot, Pi’s glossy red helmet leading the pack. When the last one had disappeared down the road, an eerie silence fell over the lot and the motel. I turned back to my room and continued dressing.

  Because it was such a beautiful morning, I decided to take the long way to the hospital, using the back roads. They were lined with wildflowers this time of year. The blue asters were my favorite. And this morning they glistened with dew. “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day!” I couldn’t help singing.

  A movement by the side of the road caught my eye. A muskrat or woodchuck? I turned down the throttle and scanned the ditch. Slowly a man’s head appeared.

  Jingles.

  I barely recognized him. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. He must have been lying in the ditch all night. His face was swollen, distorted, and stained with blood. His leather vest was gone—along with his colors. All he wore was jeans and a torn tee. I came to a full stop.

  “Can I help?”

  He looked up. One eye was swollen shut. There was a gash down his left cheek, oozing blood. When he recognized me, he sent a stream of foul saliva my way.

  I stood my ground. “You need medical attention.” I took out my cell and started to punch in 911.

  “Stop! Bitch!” His voice was inhuman, the high-pitched squeal of a small mammal—a cat or a rabbit—in pain.

  I put my cell away.

  He struggled to climb out of the ditch and fell back. Involuntarily I reached out to help him. Again he spit. I drew back.

  Again and again, I watched him struggle to climb out of the shallow ditch. A child could have done it easily. A healthy child. Finally he made it. He remained crouched on all fours, panting. When he had caught his breath, he raised his head and cast me a look brimming with hate.

  As I watched his bent figure slouch down the road toward Bridgeton, stumbling every few steps, I felt a clinical remorse for his battered and broken body but nothing more. I punched 911 and gave them his location. He couldn’t go far. They would find him. Who had done this? Pi … alone? Or had each biker taken his turn? Maybe Tom was right—they were animals. I turned my bike and rode off in the opposite direction.

  The dew had dried on the asters. They no longer glistened. But they were still blue. I decided to visit Miss Snow before going to the hospital. She would be a tonic after this depressing episode. Besides, I wanted to thank her for telling me about the fisherman’s shack. It had served a purpose. In anticipation of seeing my elderly patient—and friend—I turned up the throttle.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It’s not my intention to portray bikers as devils incarnate. I know there are bikers of all varieties—from hardened criminals to the Sunday rider who could be your doctor, lawyer, or next-door neighbor.

  The Satan’s Apostle Club—a creation of pure fiction—lies somewhere in between. It has members who have raped and murdered and others who, although tough, are also kind and generous. But they have all passed the “righteous” test, which, in biker language, means loyalty to the point of death. They will never snitch, squeal, or rat on a brother biker, because this is the eighth “deadly sin,” and they are willing to give up their lives for any member of their club. All but one.

  ALSO BY ROBIN HATHAWAY

  THE JO BANKS MYSTERIES

  Scarecrow

  THE DR. FENIMORE MYSTERIES

  The Doctor Digs a Grave

  (Malice Domestic First Novel Winner)

  The Doctor Makes a Dollhouse Call

  The Doctor and the Dead Man’s Chest

  The Doctor Dines in Prague

  Notes

  1 This is
a historic fact.

  SATAN’S PONY. Copyright © 2004 by Robin Hathaway. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  eISBN 9781466815063

  First eBook Edition : March 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hathaway Robin

  Satan’s pony / Robin Hathaway.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-33322-6

  EAN 978-0312-3322-5

  1. Women physicians—Fiction. 2. Motorcyclists—Crimes against—Fiction.

  3. Travelers—Services for—Fiction. 4. New Jersey—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A7475S25 2004

  813’.54—dc22

  2004046800

  First Edition: October 2004