And then abruptly disappeared around 1994.
According to Derek, Arthur Bell had abandoned Iron Valley because he “couldn't handle the modern club.”
According to older riders, the story was much more complicated.
Some claimed Arthur had personally saved three founding members after a highway crash.
Others said he had once ridden two hundred miles through a snowstorm carrying blood for an injured club member.
One rumor said the original clubhouse land had belonged to Arthur.
Caleb had assumed Arthur Bell was dead.
“You're Doc.”
Arthur's face hardened.
“Nobody has called me that in years.”
“You helped start Iron Valley.”
Arthur looked at him.
“No.”
Caleb blinked.
Arthur pointed toward the diner.
“Whatever that is, I didn't start it.”
He touched the old patch beneath his coat.
“I helped start something else.”
Behind them, six motorcycle engines suddenly came to life.
Caleb turned.
Derek Cain had noticed his missing prospect.
And now the Iron Valley Riders were coming back.
The six motorcycles surrounded Arthur and Caleb in a semicircle.
Derek Cain removed his helmet first.
He was forty-six, broad through the shoulders, with a trimmed beard and the type of expensive sunglasses that remained on his face even under gray winter clouds.
He looked at Caleb.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping him.”
Derek glanced at the ruined groceries.
Then at Arthur's muddy clothes.
“Helping Grandpa clean up?”
Two riders laughed.
Caleb didn't.
Derek noticed.
“You lost your sense of humor?”
“No.”
“Then get on your bike.”
Caleb remained still.
Arthur watched the exchange quietly.
Derek turned toward him.
“You all right, old-timer?”
Arthur wiped mud from his glasses.
“I was better before seven motorcycles passed.”
Derek grinned.
“Road's wet.”
“It is.”
“Accidents happen.”
Arthur studied Derek's front tire.
“That wasn't an accident.”
The laughter stopped.
Derek stepped closer.
“You calling me a liar?”
“No.”
Arthur placed his glasses back on his face.
“I'm calling you a mediocre rider.”
One of the bikers made a choking noise.
Derek slowly removed his sunglasses.
“What did you say?”
“You entered the water too fast.”
Arthur pointed toward Derek's motorcycle.
“You shifted your weight late, your front tire pushed right, and you corrected after the rear wheel had already started to float.”
Derek's jaw tightened.
“You think you know motorcycles?”
“A little.”
“I've been riding twenty-seven years.”
“And apparently learning very slowly.”
Caleb looked away before Derek saw his smile.
Another rider named Mason Tate did not succeed.
A laugh escaped him.
Derek turned sharply.
“You find something funny?”
Mason coughed.
“No.”
Arthur looked at Derek's front brake.
“Your lever is adjusted too high.”
Derek stared.
“And your clutch cable is fraying near the housing.”
Now Derek looked involuntarily toward the handlebar.
Arthur shrugged.
“Could be wrong.”
He wasn't.
Derek stepped toward Arthur.
Caleb moved between them.
That was a mistake.
Derek's expression changed instantly.
“Move.”
Caleb didn't.
“Derek, you need to see something.”
“I need you to remember you're a prospect.”
“Look at his vest.”
Arthur sighed.
“Boy, leave it alone.”
But the wind had already pulled the coat open again.
Mason Tate saw the patch first.
His face went blank.
Then another rider, sixty-three-year-old Walter “Red” Jensen, climbed off his motorcycle.
Red had been with Iron Valley since 1982.
He limped toward Arthur.
He stared at the horseshoe emblem.
Then at Arthur's face.
“No.”
Arthur looked at him carefully.
“You're Harold Jensen's son.”
Red froze.
“My father was Harold.”
“You were nineteen when he brought you to the clubhouse.”
Red's mouth opened.
Arthur continued.
“You dropped his shovelhead outside the repair shed.”
Red's face turned pale.
“Nobody knew about that.”
“I did.”
Arthur smiled faintly.
“You begged me not to tell him.”
Red took another step closer.
“Doc?”
Arthur's smile disappeared.
“Hello, Walter.”
Red looked as though someone had punched him.
Then, incredibly, the old biker wrapped his arms around Arthur.
Arthur stood rigid for a second.
Then returned the embrace.
Derek stared.
“You actually know him?”
Red stepped back.
“Know him?”
He turned toward the others.
“This man taught my father how to rebuild a carburetor.”
Derek scoffed.
“Come on.”
Red pointed toward Arthur's vest.
“That isn't a reproduction.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my father helped sew the first eight.”
The younger riders became silent.
Red's voice changed.
“This is Arthur Bell.”
One rider whispered, “Doc Bell?”
Derek looked irritated rather than impressed.
“You're saying this old man is one of the founders?”
Arthur answered before Red could.
“I was there.”
“Anyone can buy an old vest.”
Arthur almost smiled.
“That's true.”
Derek folded his arms.
Arthur looked at Derek's president patch.
“Still holding meetings in the old feed warehouse?”
Derek hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Office upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Desk facing the south wall?”
Derek said nothing.
Arthur continued.
“There's a burn mark shaped like a crescent moon on the back corner.”
Caleb had seen it.
So had everyone else.
Arthur kept going.
“Under the bottom drawer is a steel plate.”
Derek's expression shifted.
“Behind the plate is a lever.”
Nobody spoke.
“Pull the lever and the bookshelf opens six inches.”
Red stared.
“There is no hidden bookshelf.”
Arthur looked at him.
“You never found it?”
“No.”
Arthur laughed for the first time.
“My God. Raymond would be disappointed.”
Derek's patience disappeared.
“Enough.”
Arthur's smile vanished.
“What is behind it?” Caleb asked.
“A small records room.”
“For what?”
“The original charter.”
Derek shook his head.
“We have the charter.”
“You have the 1987 revision.”
Arthur pointed toward his own chest.
“The original was written in 1971.”
Derek looked unconvinced.
“Why should anyone care?”
That question changed Arthur's face.
Caleb saw it.
Not anger.
Something closer to disappointment.
“Because you're wearing its name.”
Derek looked around at the others.
“This is ridiculous.”
Then he pointed at Caleb.
“Get on your motorcycle.”
Caleb looked at Arthur.
Arthur was still shivering.
The replacement groceries hadn't been bought.
His phone was destroyed.
Derek's voice sharpened.
“Now.”
Caleb remembered Saturday.
His patch vote.
Everything he had tolerated.
Everything he thought he wanted.
He removed his prospect vest.
Derek stared.
“What are you doing?”
Caleb folded it over his arm.
“I'm taking him home.”
“You walk away now, you're finished.”
Caleb's chest tightened.
Ten months.
Ten months disappearing in one sentence.
He looked at the six men.
Then at Arthur.
A seventy-eight-year-old stranger drenched because they wanted a laugh.
Caleb handed Derek the prospect vest.
“Then I'm finished.”
No one moved.
Arthur studied Caleb.
Derek snatched the vest.
“Good.”
He pointed toward the road.
“Walk.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“He has a motorcycle.”
“I wasn't talking to him.”
Caleb laughed once.
Then put his helmet on.
Arthur stopped him.
“I'm not getting on that thing.”
“We'll call a cab from the diner.”
Arthur nodded.
Derek climbed onto his motorcycle.
Before leaving, he looked at Arthur.
“If you really are who Red says you are, understand something.”
Arthur waited.
“This club isn't 1971 anymore.”
Arthur's answer came quietly.
“I noticed.”
The bikers departed.
Red remained several seconds longer.
“Doc, where have you been?”
Arthur looked at him.
“Living.”
“Why did you disappear?”
Arthur's expression hardened.