Then the next.
Every time they believed they'd found the answer, the motorcycle refused to cooperate.
It cranked.
Kicked backward.
And went silent.
The behavior concerned Rusty.
Not only because the engine wouldn't start, but because repeated attempts were placing stress on components that might already be damaged.
By the end of the first week, the mechanics had stopped trying to start it casually.
They needed to understand the underlying configuration before risking more damage.
But the service documentation they possessed described a standard 1986 FXR powertrain.
The motorcycle in front of them had clearly been modified over the years.
The problem was discovering exactly how.
Some modifications were visible.
Others weren't.
Rusty checked the shop's old records.
Nothing useful.
Nate called two specialists.
Both offered possibilities.
Neither identified the complete problem.
Paul examined accessible components and found evidence of custom work.
But he couldn't establish the original specifications.
By the tenth day, frustration filled the garage.
Tools were left beside the motorcycle longer than usual.
Coffee cups accumulated near the workbench.
And every conversation eventually returned to the same question.
What had Dutch done to the engine?
On the twelfth day, Rusty sat beside the motorcycle after closing.
The garage was quiet.
Streetlights glowed through the dirty front windows.
A radio played softly near the office.
He looked toward the cracked leather seat.
Then whispered, “Come on, Dutch.”
Of course, the motorcycle didn't answer.
Rusty smiled sadly.
“You stubborn old bastard.”
For a moment, he remembered his friend walking through the garage with a cup of coffee in one hand and a greasy part in the other.
Dutch never waited for permission to enter.
He simply appeared.
Usually when everyone was busy.
Often with some ridiculous story about a breakdown, a highway patrol officer, or an argument with a gas-station attendant.
And somehow, by the time he left, everybody felt a little better.
Rusty looked toward the engine.
“I wish you were here to tell me what you did.”
He reached for the old repair notes.
Then stopped.
The folder was nearly empty.
There were records of ordinary maintenance.
Tires.
Brakes.
Fluid changes.
But almost nothing about the engine's internal modifications.
Rusty frowned.
“Where the hell are your real notes?”
He didn't know that the answer was less than fifty feet away.
Locked beneath the floor.
Waiting for an eight-year-old boy.
Leo Hayes had been coming to Apex Iron Works since he was four.
His father, Arthur Hayes, had worked as a precision machinist in Oakland for nearly fifteen years.