Internal engine parts.
Some modifications were documented.
Many were not.
Dutch believed service manuals were useful for people who lacked imagination.
Mechanics hated people like Dutch after they died.
When the owner was alive, you could ask.
When he was gone, every strange washer became archaeology.
The Saturday after Dutch’s funeral would be the memorial ride.
Almost one thousand motorcycles were expected to meet at dawn near the Oakland waterfront, cross the Bay Area, climb toward the coastal hills, then ride south along Highway 1.
Dutch’s FXR was supposed to lead.
The club expected Jim Mercer to ride it.
Jim had been Dutch’s closest friend for thirty-one years and had succeeded him as club president.
He was not a man Rusty enjoyed disappointing.
Jim arrived that Wednesday twenty minutes after Leo made the comment about the timing marks.
The sound came first.
Six motorcycles.
Deep exhaust.
Then the garage doors filled with black leather.
Jim entered first.
He was fifty-nine, six-foot-three, with a heavy gray beard, weathered face, thick forearms, and the calm expression of a man who did not waste anger unless he intended to use it.
Four club members followed.
The fifth waited outside.
Rusty wiped his hands.
“Morning.”
Jim looked past him.
Straight toward the FXR.
“How bad?”
Rusty hated the question because Jim already knew the answer.
“Still chasing it.”
Jim walked to the motorcycle.
He placed one scarred hand on the worn leather seat.
His face changed.
Barely.
Rusty knew grief when he saw it.
Jim spoke without looking up.
“This motorcycle leads Saturday.”
Rusty nodded.
“I know.”
“You have two days.”
“I know.”
Jim looked at him.
“You keep saying that.”
Rusty’s jaw tightened.
“We've replaced half the ignition system.”
“Put the old parts back.”
“We already did where possible.”
“You checked fuel?”
“Yes.”
“Compression?”
“Yes.”
“Cam timing?”
“Yes.”
“Security circuit?”
Rusty hesitated.
“What security circuit?”
Jim looked at him.
“I don't know.”
“You just asked.”
“Dutch once told me he wired something into it so nobody could steal the bike.”
“When?”
“Nineties.”
“What?”
“He was drunk.”
Rusty stared.
“That would have been useful thirteen days ago.”
Jim almost smiled.
“Dutch didn't believe in useful information.”
One biker behind him laughed.
Rusty did not.
Then a broom handle struck a metal trash can in the back of the shop.
Everyone turned.
Leo froze.
He had been trying to sweep around a stack of tires while listening.
Jim looked at him.
Then at Rusty.
“Kid yours?”
“No.”
“Shop apprentice?”
“He’s eight.”
“That wasn't answer.”
Rusty sighed.
“His father worked here.”
Jim’s face changed.
“Who?”
Rusty hesitated.
“Arthur Hayes.”
Jim removed his sunglasses.