Satan's Pony (9 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Satan's Pony
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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.
“Wait,” she called me back. “You're a doctor. What's a five-letter word for ‘a device that keeps arteries open'?”
“Stent.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
While in Bridgeton, I decided to look up Jack and ask him if he'd noticed anything unusual the night Sunny was killed. I knew the night clerk rented an apartment on Pearl Street in a building that was even seedier than the Oakview Motor Lodge. Until now, I had only seen it from the outside. The frame house was loaded with gingerbread and would have been a fine example of Victorian architecture except for its sagging porch and peeling paint.
I hit the button next to Jack's name. After a minute a sleepy, disembodied voice jarred me. “Yeah?”
“Oh, hi, Jack. It's Jo. I'm sorry. I forgot you work nights and sleep late. Stupid of me.” I glanced at my watch. Only 9:30.
“No prob. I'll buzz you in.”
 
 
Jack's apartment surprised me. Neat and cheerful, the walls were covered with bright posters of
Star Wars
and other sci-fi films. He had a TV, a VCR, and a DVD player. A bookcase housed multiple videos and DVDs. He was obviously updating his film collection. He wore jeans and a tee, but his feet were bare. He had probably thrown on his clothes quickly while I was coming up the stairs. He pulled out a chair for me. “Want some coffee? All I have is instant,” he apologized.
“No, thanks. I'm sorry I woke you. I wanted to talk to you about last night.”
He slumped onto his futon. “I wasn't much help,” he muttered.
“Neither was I,” I said.
He was quiet, eyes cast down.
“Did you hear, they think Sunny was poisoned?”
He looked up.
“And Pi is under suspicion because he skipped out.”
“Holy shit!”
“Exactly.” I let that sink in before I went on. “What I want to know is if you saw anything suspicious last night. Like somebody fooling with Sunny's drinks …”
He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “God, everything was so crazy. I was afraid those guys were going to tear the place apart.”
“Me, too.”
He closed his eyes, thinking. After a moment he said, “I was sitting at the desk. Most of the action was outside. I could hear it—and see some of it through the glass door. Now and then one of them would burst in to grab a beer or pee. They were drinking stronger stuff, too. I saw at least one bottle of bourbon.”
I nodded.
“And there was plenty of pot floating around.”
Again I nodded.
“Finally I couldn't stand it anymore and I went outside to see what was happening.”
“I saw you.”
He looked sheepish. “And I came right back inside.”
“Smartest thing you could've done.”
“And called nine-one-one.”
“Good for you. I tried to, but I dropped my cell when Sunny grabbed me.”
“That was pretty cool, what Canby did.” He grinned. “Oh, I'm sure it wasn't cool for you. I mean, what if he'd missed?”
“Yeah, but he didn't.” I returned his grin. “Can you remember who came into the lobby?”
“I don't know many of those guys. Only Pi, and Sunny and a couple of others. They all look pretty much alike.”
“Ugly.”
“Yeah.”
I glanced around the room. “You have a nice place here. I don't suppose you have any interest in science fiction?”
He blushed. “You might call it an obsession.”
I picked up a worn paperback from the table and looked at the title.
Classic Science Fiction Stories.
“I've never read much sci-fi. Could I borrow this?”
“Help yourself. I …” He paused.
“What?”
“We science fiction buffs don't like the term
sci-fi
,” he said, half apologetically. “It's usually used by people who make fun of us.”
“Oh? Sorry. I didn't know.”
“That's OK.” He hesitated, then said in a rush, “Iwritestories.”
“No kidding.”
“I have a drawer full of rejection slips.”
“That's fabulous!” So, I was wrong again. Just like with Becca. She hadn't been running off to New York to get away from Bayfield. She'd been going to Manhattan to study the skyscrapers, in the hope of becoming an architect. And Jack wasn't escaping into sci-fi fiction; he was honing his craft by reading good sci-fi writers. I thought everyone was running away because I was. “Someone told me once that if you don't get rejection slips on a regular basis, you're not a professional writer.”
“Then I'm a
real
professional.” Jack smiled.
“Could I read one?”
“What?”
“One of your stories.”
“Oh—” He was suddenly shy. “I dunno … .”
“I'd really like to.”
He got up and went over to a battered filing cabinet in a corner
of the room. He came back with a manuscript. I read the title. “The Little Green Man.” I was already hooked. “Thanks. I'll take good care of it.”
He shrugged. Like any professional writer, he probably had several copies, on either paper or disk. “I'd better be going. If you think of anything else you saw last night, let me know.”
As he let me out, he said, “That guest—the only guy there that's not a biker?—was hanging around the lobby for a while.”
“Stan?”
“Yeah. He kept peeking out the door. I don't think he'd ever seen anything like it.”
“Who had?” I laughed.
He joined me. “But after awhile he really got into the swing of it. Was opening bottles and handing them to the guys … .”
As I walked to my bike I thought how little I'd learned about Sunny's murder and how much I'd learned about Jack.

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