“She didn’t fix the bike.”
Loretta called from the doorway:
“I made coffee.”
Hank looked between them.
“Twenty and coffee?”
Elijah nodded.
“That’s honest.”
Hank stared for a long time.
Then peeled off one twenty.
Placed it on the workbench.
“What’s your full name?”
“Elijah Sanders.”
“Father?”
“James.”
“James Sanders.”
Hank repeated it quietly.
Then wrote both names in his notebook.
ELIJAH SANDERS.
JAMES SANDERS.
Underlined twice.
He reached toward a small enamel emblem on his vest.
Horseshoe.
Anvil.
Two letters.
IH.
He removed it.
Pinned it carefully to Elijah’s overall strap.
“What’s this?”
“Something where I come from.”
Hank placed a card on the bench.
No printed name.
Only the same emblem and a telephone number.
“If you ever need something.”
“Call.”
“Say your name.”
“Then wait.”
Elijah looked at the card.
“I’m not going to ask you for money.”
Hank smiled.
“I know.”
“That’s why I gave it to you.”
At 2:26, the Panhead rolled into the wet night.
Storm weakening.
Rain becoming mist.
Elijah and Loretta watched until the tail light disappeared.
Loretta put one hand on his shoulder.
“Your daddy would be proud.”
Elijah looked down.
“I know.”
For once, he almost believed it.
Then he turned.
His boot hit something beneath the workbench.
Leather.
Heavy.
A satchel.
“Hank.”
Elijah ran outside.
Nothing.
The old biker was gone.
Inside the bag were a Bible.
A folded map.
A photograph.
A small medication bottle.
A notebook.
The map showed a route north.
EAGLE RIDGE circled in red.
The photograph showed dozens of bikers gathered around a campfire.
A younger Hank stood in the middle beside another man.
Arms around each other.
Elijah recognized the horseshoe emblem.
Then another symbol.
Winged skull.
He knew that one.
Everybody did.
Loretta looked over his shoulder.
“Elijah.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who did you just fix a motorcycle for?”
“I don’t know.”
By Friday afternoon, Elijah did.
His laptop took three minutes to load the search page.
He typed the name connected to the emblem.
IRON HORSE CUSTOM CYCLES.
Results appeared.
A custom motorcycle manufacturer founded in 1980.
Restoration division.
Parts.
Touring builds.
Charitable foundation.
Annual revenue estimates high enough that Elijah assumed the number was wrong.
Then:
FOUNDER AND CHAIRMAN: WALTER “HANK” DONOVAN.
Elijah clicked images.
Older Hank.
Suit at a charity event.
Hank beside motorcycles.
Hank receiving an industry award.
Hank in leather with biker chapters.
Same gray beard.
Same eyes.
Same limp.
Elijah leaned back.
“No way.”
He looked toward James’s workbench.
The catalog.