“This little thing?”
Rusty laughed.
“If Arthur labeled it, don't lose it.”
The second box held notebooks.
Four of them.
Cheap spiral notebooks with stained cardboard covers.
Leo recognized them immediately.
His father had kept one beside the kitchen table almost every year.
Maria had thrown several away after Arthur died because oil had soaked through them and she assumed they were ordinary work notes.
Leo had cried about it.
Then felt guilty because his mother was trying to clear an apartment while grieving and working double shifts.
He had never told her how much it bothered him.
Now he picked up the oldest notebook and opened it.
Numbers.
Part numbers.
Valve clearances.
Hand-drawn diagrams.
Names.
Dates.
Small comments that made no sense to anyone who had not known Arthur.
Dutch says noise started Tuesday. Dutch lies. Noise existed at least month.
Jim read over Leo’s shoulder.
He laughed once.
“That sounds right.”
Another page:
FXR charging issue again. Owner insists it is ‘character.’ Character does not require three batteries per month.
Rusty snorted.
Another:
Hidden kill circuit revised. If Dutch forgets how to arm it again, let thieves have motorcycle.
Jim covered his face.
Even Leo laughed.
Then the boy turned several pages.
He stopped.
A full drawing of the FXR’s hybrid valve train filled two pages.
Dimensions were written beside every component.
Custom pushrod lengths.
Wall thickness.
Material.
Clearances.
The exact geometry Dave had said they could not reproduce quickly enough.
Rusty leaned over.
“Arthur, you beautiful paranoid bastard.”
Dave stared at the drawing.
“We could manufacture these from scratch with this.”
“We don't need to,” Jim said.
He pointed toward the green case.
“Unless those are damaged.”
Dave picked up one of the stored rods and rolled it across the bench.
Perfect.
Second.
Perfect.
All four.
Rusty looked at the clock on the basement wall.
The clock had been stopped for years.
He looked at his watch instead.
3:48 Wednesday afternoon.
“Get them upstairs.”
Leo gathered the notebooks.
Jim picked up the metal case.
Rusty reached for one box.
Big Dave stopped him.
“What?”
Dave pointed inside.
“There’s something underneath.”
They removed an old shop towel.
A small wooden box lay beneath it.
Not motorcycle equipment.
It was roughly eight inches long, dark walnut, the lid scratched and worn.
A piece of masking tape had been stuck across the top.
In Arthur’s handwriting:
FOR LEO — WHEN HE’S OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW WHY THIS STUFF MATTERS
Nobody moved.
Leo stared at his name.
Jim slowly lowered the green case.
Rusty looked toward the boy.
“How old is old enough?”
Leo swallowed.
“I don't know.”
Dave said, “Probably older than eight.”
Leo gave him an annoyed look.
Dave raised both hands.
“Just saying.”
Jim crouched beside the boy.
“That belongs to you.”
Leo looked at the wooden box.
“What if Dad meant later?”
“That’s possible.”