“Where did you hear that?”
Leo tightened his grip on the broom.
“My dad.”
Rusty's expression changed.
“Your father?”
The boy nodded.
“Arthur Hayes.”
Nobody laughed now.
Arthur Hayes had been dead for two years.
But before his death, he had been one of the most gifted motorcycle machinists ever to work in that part of California.
And the black Harley sitting in front of them had belonged to the man Arthur trusted more than anyone.
Dutch Sullivan.
The same Dutch Sullivan whose memorial ride was scheduled for Saturday morning.
Nearly a thousand motorcycles were expected to travel down the California coast in his honor.
And according to the traditions of his riding club, Dutch's beloved FXR was supposed to lead the procession.
There was only one problem.
For fourteen days, the motorcycle had refused to start.
Its engine turned over, kicked backward, and went silent.
Three new batteries had been installed.
Two experienced outside specialists had examined it.
And every repair seemed to reveal another problem.
Rusty had promised that the motorcycle would be ready before the memorial.
Now the deadline was less than forty-eight hours away.
And the only person claiming to know what everybody had missed was an eight-year-old boy with a broom.
Near the rear of the garage stood Marcus “Gravel” Hayes.
At sixty-two, Gravel was an intimidating figure even among men who regularly rode motorcycles weighing hundreds of pounds.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long silver-gray hair, an enormous white beard, tattooed arms, and a black leather vest covered in the patches of the Iron Harbor Riders.
A rectangular patch above his left pocket read PRESIDENT.
Another bore Dutch Sullivan's name.
Gravel had ridden beside Dutch for almost four decades.
They'd crossed deserts, endured storms, repaired breakdowns beside empty highways, and buried friends whose names still lived in old photographs along the clubhouse walls.
To Gravel, the FXR wasn't merely a motorcycle.
It was the last voice his best friend had left behind.
He stepped toward Leo.
“Come here, son.”
The boy hesitated.
Gravel noticed.
His expression softened.
“I'm not angry with you.”
Leo slowly approached.
The club president crouched until his eyes were level with the child's.
“You said your father worked on this engine.”
Leo nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Arty Hayes?”
“Yes.”
Gravel stared toward the motorcycle.
For a moment, he seemed to forget everyone else in the garage.
Then he whispered, “Lord Almighty.”
Rusty looked toward him.
“You knew Arty?”
Gravel turned.
“Knew him?”