Satan's Pony Read Online Free Page A

Something I had in common with those bozos back at the motel.
    Another thing we had in common—I loved to ride. And I especially loved to ride at night. Next to flying in an open cockpit, this must be the closest you can get to becoming one with the universe—fusing with the wind and stars. As the soft air caressed me and the stars sparkled above me, I wished for the second time that I wasn’t on call. I wished I could ride all night.
    Up ahead, the red lights of an emergency vehicle whirled. Parked nearby was a state police car and another car. I pulled over and reached for my medical kit.
    â€œDr. Banks here,” I told the first medic. He was bending over a small mound by the side of the road.
    He looked up with an expression of deep relief. “He’s bad, Doc. We were afraid to move him.”
    I knelt by the small figure lying on his side, eyes closed. A bicycle lay on its side a few yards away. The red lights revolved, washing the boy’s face with crimson, over and over. He looked about twelve. I bent, listening for a heartbeat and feeling for a pulse at the same time. There was a faint beat, and a fainter pulse. The kid was unconscious. Severe concussion, I diagnosed. I said, “We’ve got to get him to the hospital. Move him, but take it easy. I’ll follow behind.”
    The two medics went carefully to work. The whole time I was examining the boy, I had heard a male voice raving on the other side of the road, “I didn’t see him. He didn’t have any lights. I didn’t see him … .”
    My heart went out to the poor bastard. One of my greatest fears was that I might hit a child while driving at night. How could you ever forgive yourself? Even if it wasn’t your fault.

    Â 
    Â 
    A CT scan revealed a subdural hematoma—a collection of blood between the layers of the thick protective coverings of the brain. A neurosurgeon was brought from Wilmington by helicopter, removed the fluid between the dura and the skull, and went back to Wilmington. The boy remained unconscious. There was nothing to do now but wait. The parents had been brought in by a neighbor; they were too boozy to drive. They’d been drinking and playing poker on the back porch. Had no idea their boy had gone for a ride …
    Why not?
    â€¦ but they were ready to sue the driver who sat hunched at the other end of the waiting room, his head in his hands. Around 2:00 AM I took him a cup of coffee. “You should go home. You can’t do any good here.”
    â€œI wasn’t going fast. Honest to God. It was dark. I didn’t see him! ”
    The parents were staring at us. “You should go,” I said again. “I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
    He stumbled to his feet, sloshing coffee on the floor.
    â€œWhere can I reach you?”
    He fumbled for a pen and paper and scribbled his phone number.
    â€œTry to get some sleep.” Sure. And turn into a pumpkin while you’re at it.
    I hung around all night, checking with the nurse for vital signs. Not very professional. But losing a child is hard on any doctor, and especially hard on me. Although this case was not similar in any way to the one that had led me to Bayfield, and certainly not my fault, the feelings about Sophie came rushing back.
    The boy—his name was Bobby Shoemaker—was still unconscious at 6:00 AM. I told his parents to go home. The hospital would call them if there was any change. When the morning shift arrived, I knew it was time for me to go, too. Way overtime.

CHAPTER 5
    When I got back to the motel I was not in a good mood. The sight of a bunch of tattooed, half-naked, muscle-bound bruisers milling around the lobby did nothing to improve it. For twelve hours I had forgotten they existed. Now, one stood between me and a much-needed cup of coffee.
    â€œMove!” I grunted.
    The assembled company turned and stared.
    â€œAnything left in that pot or have you