“He appears to have been recording scenarios where animals were placed near vehicles or machinery.”
“And waiting for somebody to hurt them?”
“That's part of what we're investigating.”
The biker looked at the Harley.
Red paint.
New chrome.
The photograph he had kept for twelve years flashed through his mind.
Suddenly he felt ashamed that the motorcycle had ever mattered as much as it had fifteen minutes earlier.
“What happens to him?”
“Juvenile process.”
“That means what?”
“Depends on charges, history, prosecutor, court.”
“Animal cruelty?”
“Likely.”
“Trespass?”
“Possibly.”
“Property damage?”
“The girl caused the paint damage.”
The biker almost laughed.
“Right.”
The officer added:
“The teenager's attorney may contact you later regarding victim statements.”
“Good.”
His voice hardened.
“I've got one.”
The club heard enough from his side of the conversation.
When he ended the call, the largest man in the garage spoke first.
“That kid needs to be buried.”
The biker looked at him.
“He's fifteen.”
“So?”
“He's fifteen.”
“He tied a kitten to your bike so you could run it over.”
“I know what he did.”
Another rider said:
“Three times before this.”
“Maybe more.”
“Then he knows exactly what he's doing.”
The biker said nothing.
The largest rider pointed at the Harley.
“And this?”
“The little girl did it.”
“She saved the cat.”
“Yes.”
“So we're not touching her.”
“No.”
“That leaves him.”
The biker looked at the group.
His club was not criminal.
Despite the leather, tattoos, and reputation strangers projected onto them, most members had ordinary jobs.
Mechanics.
Electricians.
Contractors.
A retired firefighter.
A nurse.
A warehouse supervisor.
They organized charity rides.
Raised money for injured riders.
Delivered toys every December.
They also had tempers.
Especially where children and animals were concerned.
The biker knew exactly what several men wanted emotionally.
He wanted it too.
For about thirty seconds.
Then he imagined fifteen.
Not fifty.
Fifteen.
He remembered being fifteen.
He had stolen cigarettes.
Broken windows.
Driven a truck before having a license.
Fought because somebody looked at him wrong.
Nothing remotely like tying animals to motorcycles.
There were lines.
The teenager had crossed one.
Maybe several.
But fifteen remained fifteen.
That did not excuse anything.
The biker was not yet sure what it changed.
The largest rider looked at him.
“What are you thinking?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, think faster.”
The biker stared at the ruined Harley.
“No.”
The man frowned.
“No what?”
“No pretending anger is a plan.”
The garage became quiet.
One rider laughed softly.
“When did you become philosophical?”
“When a nine-year-old dumped five gallons of paint on my motorcycle.”
Nobody argued with that.
The girl visited the kitten the next morning.
The biker joined her.
He had barely slept.
The animal hospital allowed them into a small recovery room.
The kitten lay in a warmed enclosure with one rear leg supported.