Mack hung up.
The others stared.
“What?”
“Walter’s name is still in the county file.”
The quiet biker whispered:
“After thirty-three years?”
“Apparently.”
Mack looked toward the bridge.
Something inside him began waking up.
Not fear.
Anger.
Walter’s warning returned.
Listen before you get angry.
He hated that dead men could still tell him what to do.
Twenty-seven minutes later, a white county utility truck stopped near the fence.
A maintenance supervisor climbed out.
Early sixties.
Bright safety vest.
Clipboard.
He looked at the motorcycles.
Then Eli.
Then the red lunchbox.
His face changed.
“That his?”
Mack nodded.
“You knew Walter?”
“No.”
The supervisor approached the lunchbox.
“But I knew somebody who did.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
Mack stared.
The supervisor looked toward the bridge.
“He worked county inspection after the collapse.”
Every biker became silent.
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
The supervisor removed a key ring.
“He said the wrong man got blamed.”
The river seemed to grow louder beneath them.
Mack whispered:
“Danny.”
The supervisor looked at him.
“So you know.”
Mack’s jaw tightened.
“We suspected.”
The supervisor unlocked the service door.
“He said Walter Turner spent twenty years trying to prove it.”
4
The maintenance corridor smelled like rust, damp concrete, and old river water.
The supervisor switched on portable lights.
Modern electrical service had been disconnected years ago.
The tunnel was narrower than Mack remembered.
Or perhaps he was larger.
Eli walked between his mother and Mack.
The red lunchbox bumped lightly against his leg.
They reached the old locker wall.
Most doors had been removed.
Several hung open.
Some were rusted shut.
Numbers remained above them.
A missing door.
Mack stopped.
Locker seventeen was still there.
Red rust coated the edges.
A small brass lock sat in the center.
Walter’s key trembled in Mack’s hand.
The long-bearded biker noticed.
“You want me?”
“No.”
Mack stepped forward.
Inserted the key.
It did not turn.
He tried again.
Nothing.
The broad biker muttered:
“Thirty-three years.”
Mack pushed harder.
Click.
The lock rotated.
Eli inhaled sharply.
Mack pulled.
The door resisted.
He grabbed harder.
Metal groaned.
Then opened.
Inside sat another metal box.
Smaller than the lunchbox.
Gray.
Covered in dust.
On top rested a folded piece of red cloth.
Mack reached toward it.
He knew the fabric.
Same material as the patch on Walter’s glove.
Underneath lay four envelopes.
One for each biker.
Then a fifth.
For Eli.
The boy stared.
“That’s mine?”
Mack nodded.
“Looks like.”
Behind the envelopes was a thick plastic document pouch.