Indian Pipes by Cynthia Riggs Page B

to hear Casey’s explanation of why the Aquinnah police had changed their minds about Jube Burkhardt’s death. When she arrived, Casey was on the radio with Junior Norton.
    “Mrs. Summerville, Chief,” said Junior. “She’s complaining about motorcyclists camping in her pasture.”
    “I’ll check on Mrs. S., Junior. Where are you now?”
    “Behind Maley’s. Got more bikers camping out here. I’ll make sure they’ve got sanitary facilities and water.”
    “Roger.” Casey hung up the mike. “I’ll be glad when this rally is over. The bikers aren’t as bad as they want us to think, but there are five hundred of them. That’s an awful lot for the Island to absorb.”
    “You know where Mrs. Summerville lives, don’t you?” Victoria asked.
    “Somewhere near that split oak in North Tisbury?”
    “On the road branching off to the left. I’ll show you.”
    “Let’s go, then.”
    Victoria climbed into her seat in the Bronco, and Casey took off toward North Tisbury. She had slowed to negotiate the sharp curve by the cemetery, when a string of seven motorcycles roared up behind them and passed, cutting across the solid line in the middle of the road. Casey swerved onto the grass to their right as a car approached from the other direction. The bikers cut sharply in front of the police vehicle as the driver of the oncoming car went off the road with a squeal of brakes.
    “You all right, sir?” Casey shouted to the driver of the car, a white- haired man with a young boy next to him.
    He nodded. “Go after ‘em!” He made a fist and shook it.
    “Hold on, Victoria.” Casey swung away from the verge and switched on her siren and lights. “Seat belt?”
    Victoria settled her cap firmly on her head, and fastened her seat belt.
    When they reached the straightaway beyond the cemetery, Casey sped up. The siren wailed. Ahead of them, beyond Whiting’s fields, past Scotchman’s Lane, in front of the New Ag Hall, they could see the motorcycles, two in front, two in the middle, and three bringing up the rear. The bikes took up the entire right lane.
    “Let me have the mike, will you, Victoria.”
    Victoria handed it to her.
    “I need help,” Casey told the dispatcher. “I’m almost at the intersection of North and State Road, and we may have a problem with some motorcycles.”
    Casey passed the mike back to Victoria, who hung it up. “That’s a bad intersection,” Victoria said. “I hope they slow down before they get there.”
    Casey pushed down on the accelerator, and the distance between them and the bikers decreased. One of the bikers turned in his seat and, with a grin, lifted a middle finger.
    “I hope I can stop them before the bridge.”
    The motorcycles were pulling farther ahead, and Casey accelerated until she was right behind them again. She held out her hand for the mike. “The bikers are almost at Mill Brook,” she said after she’d identified herself. “Where are you, Tango 9?”
    “At the dump road.”
    “That was Tisbury,” Casey said to Victoria over the sound of the siren. “Where are you, Charlie?”
    “This is Charlie 2, passing Seven Gates.”
    “Chilmark. We’ll stop them, Victoria.” Casey gave the mike to Victoria, who hung it up again. “I just hope they don’t run into some kid on a bicycle first.”
    The motorcycles started a kind of dance, weaving from the right side of the road to the center line, crossing in front of one another, each tilting at a sharp angle. One of the bikers dragged his gloved left hand along the pavement.
    “They think they’re playing dodger car in an amusement park.”Casey’s voice was sharp. “They won’t stop until they kill someone.” The road dipped into a small valley and crossed the brook.
    Victoria, hoping to ease the tension, spoke up over the siren. “That used to be a ford, where the bridge is,” she said. “Our horse would step through the water daintily, lifting each foot, pulling the wagon behind her.”
    Casey stared