Eli climbed from the SUV holding the lunchbox.
He expected the bikers to immediately walk toward the bridge.
Nobody did.
The long-bearded man stared upward.
The quiet biker removed his sunglasses.
The broad biker put both hands on his hips.
Mack looked thirty years older than he had at the diner.
Eli approached.
“You okay?”
Mack glanced down.
“Yeah.”
“You look scared.”
One of the bikers gave a quiet laugh.
Mack did not deny it.
“Sometimes a place remembers things.”
Eli looked at the bridge.
“Places don’t remember.”
Mack nodded toward his own chest.
“Then people do it for them.”
The boy’s mother locked the SUV.
“What do we do?”
Mack removed Walter’s brass key from his pocket.
“Find locker seventeen.”
3
The fence around the old bridge had been added after the highway closed.
A county sign warned against unauthorized entry.
Mack stopped.
The broad biker looked toward him.
“We’re not climbing it.”
Mack pointed down the slope.
“Old crew access.”
They followed a narrow trail through weeds.
Thirty-three years earlier, workers had walked the same path carrying thermoses, tool bags, cigarettes, and lunchboxes.
Mack remembered Walter always being first.
Walter never hurried.
Yet somehow always arrived first.
The path descended toward the northern abutment.
Concrete rose from the riverbank like a wall.
Near its base was a steel service door.
Rust coated the hinges.
A newer county padlock secured it.
Mack frowned.
“That’s new.”
The biker beside him looked around.
“So much for the key.”
Eli stepped closer.
“What did the key open?”
“Locker.”
“Inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we need inside.”
Mack almost smiled.
“Excellent analysis.”
Eli touched the red lunchbox.
“Grandpa knew there’d be a lock?”
“Maybe not.”
The boy’s mother looked toward a faded number stenciled on the concrete.
“There’s a phone number on the sign.”
Mack groaned.
The long-bearded biker looked at him.
“What?”
“We call.”
“You want county maintenance involved?”
“We’re not breaking into a bridge with a nine-year-old.”
The biker shrugged.
“Age has ruined you.”
“Prison would ruin my afternoon.”
Mack called.
After twenty minutes and three transfers, they reached a county supervisor.
Mack explained.
Former construction workers.
Personal property supposedly left in old maintenance locker.
Family of deceased worker present.
The supervisor sounded skeptical.
Then asked Walter’s name.
Mack told him.
Silence.
“You said Walter Turner?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“I know that name.”
Mack’s grip tightened around the phone.
“From where?”
“Old bridge file.”
“What file?”
The supervisor avoided answering.
“I’m sending someone.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”