Toward the sheriff's cruiser.
Toward the empty sidewalk where Tommy had stood earlier.
Finally, Arthur spoke.
"Kids spit near my boots today."
Silence.
"They called me trash."
The voice on the phone became colder.
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Arthur."
"The sheriff watched."
A long silence.
"Does he know who you are?"
"No."
"Did you tell him?"
"No."
"Why?"
Arthur looked down at his worn boots.
"Because it shouldn't matter."
Frank watched him.
Arthur continued.
"Respect shouldn't depend on a name."
The voice on the phone breathed slowly.
"Where are you?"
"Oak Haven."
"How far?"
"About fifty miles east of the ridge."
"Stay there."
Arthur looked up.
"Jack."
"I'm coming."
Arthur almost smiled.
"Don't."
"Too late."
The line went dead.
Frank stared.
"Who was that?"
Arthur closed the phone.
"A friend."
"How many?"
Arthur looked toward the dark horizon.
"Enough."
Frank felt a strange chill.
"Enough for what?"
Arthur stood.
"To remind people that respect isn't optional."
Frank didn't understand.
But he would.
Midnight
At nine o'clock, Tommy returned.
He wasn't alone.
Derek rode beside him.
The third boy followed.
They spotted Arthur immediately.
Tommy laughed.
"He's still here!"
Derek pointed.
"Maybe this is his house now."
Tommy shouted toward Frank's shop.
"Hey, Frank! Your new customer lives on the sidewalk!"
Frank stepped outside.
His face was tight.
"Leave him alone."
Tommy laughed.
"Why? He's not doing anything."
"Exactly."
Arthur raised one hand.
"Let it go."
Frank looked at him.
"They're being disrespectful."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Let it go."
Tommy rolled closer.
"You finally got quiet, old man?"
Arthur looked at him.
"Never been loud."
Tommy laughed.
"Who are you waiting for?"
Arthur said nothing.
"Your tow truck?"
"No."
"Your family?"
"No."
"Your biker gang?"
Arthur looked at him.
"Someone's coming."
Tommy laughed.
"Who?"
Arthur took a breath.
"You'll know."
Tommy's confidence returned.
"The Hell's Angels?"
His friends laughed.
Arthur didn't.
Tommy stared at him.
Then something strange happened.
He realized Arthur wasn't bluffing.
But he couldn't explain why.
He rode away.
At ten o'clock, Whitfield came out of his cruiser.
"The tow still isn't here."
"I noticed."
"You called?"
"Yes."
Whitfield crossed his arms.
"I don't like this."
Arthur looked at him.
"What's this?"
"You sitting here."
"Where should I sit?"
"Somewhere else."
"My motorcycle is here."
"It's a bad look."
Arthur slowly stood.
"A bad look?"
Whitfield said nothing.
"Is that what bothers you?"
"What bothers me is this situation."
Arthur pointed toward the oil stain.
"The situation is a broken motorcycle."
"You know what I mean."
Arthur stared at him.
"No."
Whitfield's voice sharpened.
"Don't push me."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"You've been pushing me all day."
Whitfield's hand moved toward his belt.
"Do you want to spend the night in jail?"
Arthur nodded.
"Go ahead."
Whitfield stopped.
Arthur's voice was calm.
"See how that plays out."
The sheriff stared at him.
For the first time, uncertainty appeared on his face.
He finally backed away.
"Midnight."
"What?"
"If that tow isn't here by midnight, I'm calling the county."
Arthur nodded.
"Understood."
Whitfield walked away.
Frank came out.
"He's nervous."
Arthur looked toward the highway.
"He should be."
"You expecting trouble?"
"No."
"What, then?"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Company."
Frank glanced at the empty road.
"How much company?"
Arthur said nothing.
The clock moved toward eleven.
Then eleven-fifteen.
Then eleven-thirty.
Oak Haven became quiet.
The diner closed.
Windows went dark.
Porch lights appeared along the residential streets.
Arthur remained beside the Harley.
Then he felt something.
A vibration.
Very faint.
He placed his palm against the pavement.
Frank stepped outside.
"You feel that?"
Arthur nodded.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
Arthur looked toward the highway.
"Listen."
The vibration became stronger.
A distant rumble.
Frank frowned.
"What the hell?"
Arthur stood.
The rumble grew.
The diner windows began trembling.
A glass rattled behind the counter.
Then another.
Whitfield stepped from his cruiser.
He looked around.
His coffee cup was vibrating against the dashboard.
"What is that?"
Frank looked down the highway.
At first, there was nothing.
Then one light appeared.
Then two.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
Then dozens.
Headlights.
A line of headlights stretching into the darkness.
Frank's face went pale.
"Arthur."
The old man didn't move.
"Who are they?"
Arthur watched the approaching lights.
"My brothers."
Whitfield stared.
"How many?"
Arthur said nothing.
The first engines became audible.
Then louder.
Then deafening.
The road seemed to shake.
Residents opened doors.
People stepped onto sidewalks.
Tommy and his friends returned, drawn by the sound.
Tommy slowed.
His smile disappeared.
"Dude..."
Derek swallowed.
"That's not thunder."
The third boy whispered:
"Those are motorcycles."
Tommy stared.
How many?
Fifty?
More?
Arthur stood in the middle of Main Street.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't angry.
He simply waited.
The first headlights reached the edge of Oak Haven.
The town finally understood something.
The old man had never been waiting for rescue.
He had been waiting for family.
Fifty Brothers
The motorcycles entered Oak Haven like a moving wall.
Chrome flashed beneath the streetlights.
Leather vests moved through the darkness.
Engines thundered together.
The riders didn't race.
They didn't scream.
They didn't fire weapons into the air.
They simply rode.
That made it more intimidating.