“Do it.”
Eli began removing the shield.
The bikers gathered closer.
Carl watched with the expression of a man hoping the kid would fail quickly enough to end the embarrassment.
Two bolts came out normally.
The third felt wrong.
Eli stopped.
He looked closer.
Then he smiled.
Not broadly.
Just enough that Marcus noticed.
“You found something?”
“Maybe.”
Carl leaned forward.
“What?”
Eli did not answer.
He removed the shield.
Behind it ran a section of wiring protected by a black heat sleeve.
At first glance, nothing looked unusual.
Then Eli pulled the harness gently sideways.
A tiny section of insulation had melted.
Underneath it, one wire had been rubbed almost completely through.
Carl frowned.
“That wouldn’t explain everything.”
“No.”
Eli agreed.
“It wouldn’t.”
He followed the wire.
It ran to a sensor responsible for telling the engine-control system the crankshaft position.
Carl stepped closer.
“We tested that sensor.”
“You tested the sensor.”
Eli looked up.
“Not the wire while it was hot.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“Explain.”
Eli pointed toward the exhaust bracket.
“This bracket is slightly crooked.”
Carl’s expression changed.
“Barely.”
“Enough.”
Eli continued.
“When the exhaust gets hot, the metal expands. The harness moves closer to the bracket. Vibration rubs the damaged wire against it.”
He touched the exposed section.
“Cold, it still makes contact.”
Then he pointed toward the exhaust pipe.
“Hot, everything expands. The connection breaks intermittently. Computer loses crank signal. Engine dies.”
Carl shook his head.
“No. We ran continuity tests.”
“Cold.”
Carl opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Eli continued.
“If I’m right, heating this section while monitoring resistance should reproduce the failure.”
Nobody laughed anymore.
Carl brought over a meter.
Eli connected it.
Then they carefully applied controlled heat.
The reading held steady.
Then changed.
Dropped.
Returned.
Dropped again.
Travis whispered:
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Carl stared at the meter.
Eli looked at Marcus.
“That wire is one problem.”
“One?”
Marcus asked.
“I think there’s another.”
Carl snapped:
“How?”
“Because the bike started cutting out before that wire was damaged enough to fail completely.”
Carl looked offended again.
Marcus looked delighted.
“Keep going.”
For the next forty minutes, Eli worked quietly.
He repaired the damaged wire temporarily.
Straightened the mounting point.
Rerouted the harness.
Then he started the motorcycle.
It ran.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
No problem.
Marcus smiled.
Carl crossed his arms.
“Twenty-mile test ride.”
Eli nodded.
“I remember.”
Marcus put on his helmet.
Eli stopped him.
“Not yet.”
Marcus paused.
“Why?”
“I said there might be another problem.”
“You just fixed it.”
“I fixed what could make it shut off.”
Eli pointed toward the engine.
“I haven’t fixed what caused the bracket to shift.”
Carl laughed.
“Exhaust vibration.”
“Maybe.”
Eli crouched.
Then he saw it.
One engine-mount bolt sat perfectly in place.
Too perfectly.
Its washer was clean.
Cleaner than everything surrounding it.
Eli put his wrench on the bolt.
He turned.
Almost no resistance.
The bolt was loose.
Marcus stopped smiling.
Eli checked the next one.
Tight.
Another.
Tight.
Then a second mount.
Loose.
Carl stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
Eli straightened.
“If those mounts keep loosening, vibration increases. That probably shifted the exhaust bracket and damaged the wiring.”
Marcus’s expression darkened.
“Why are two engine mounts loose?”
Nobody answered.
Carl walked closer.
“We torqued those during the last service.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Marcus looked at him.
“You sure?”
“I did it myself.”
Eli looked at the threads.
Then at the marks on the bolt heads.
His face became serious.
“Somebody has touched these since then.”
The atmosphere in the garage changed instantly.
The $5,000 bet had begun as entertainment.
Now nobody was laughing.
Marcus looked at the motorcycle.
Then at the people around it.
“You’re saying somebody loosened them?”
Eli carefully chose his words.
“I’m saying these bolts were recently moved.”
Marcus glanced around the garage.
There were riders he had known twenty years.
Mechanics he trusted.
Friends.
Customers.
Then he looked back at Eli.
“Fix the bike.”
Eli nodded.
Marcus pointed toward the money.
“And if it survives the test ride, the five grand is yours.”
Eli looked at the old wrench in his hand.
Five thousand dollars.
But suddenly the money was not the most interesting thing in the room.
Someone had tampered with Marcus Hale’s motorcycle.
And Eli suspected the damaged wire was not an accident.
Eli stayed after closing.
The other employees left reluctantly, but Marcus refused to move the motorcycle until Eli had finished inspecting every critical fastener.
Carl remained.
So did Travis and four members of the North Ridge Riders.
Marcus stood by the office window making phone calls.
Eli worked beneath the bike.
Carl watched from a nearby stool.
After several minutes he finally said:
“Where’d you learn to look for stuff like that?”
Eli kept working.
“My grandfather.”
“You said he fixed bikes.”
“He did more than that.”
“What?”
“Built race engines. Mostly local.”
Carl frowned.
“What was his name?”
“Walter Dawson.”
Carl stopped moving.
Eli noticed.
“You know him?”
Carl stared at the floor.
“I knew the name.”
“That means yes.”
Carl hesitated.
“Your grandfather built engines for flat-track racers back in the eighties.”
Eli nodded.
“He stopped after my mom was born.”
Carl looked at him differently now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked.”
Carl winced.
Fair answer.
“When you applied here, you wrote lawn-equipment repair.”
“That’s what his shop became later.”
“So you grew up rebuilding motorcycle engines?”
“Mostly watching.”
“You ever build one yourself?”
“One.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Whose?”
“My grandfather’s 1981 Shovelhead.”
Carl stared.
“You rebuilt a Shovelhead at eighteen?”
“Seventeen.”
Carl laughed once.
Not mockingly this time.
“You know, you could have mentioned that before I had you sweeping floors for eight months.”
Eli finally looked up.
“Would you have believed me?”
Carl had no answer.
At ten-thirty, the motorcycle was ready.
Every mount had been checked.
The wire was repaired correctly.
The damaged heat sleeve was replaced.
Eli adjusted the routing and installed a spacer that kept the harness away from the exhaust.
Marcus rode the bike thirty-two miles.
He returned forty-five minutes later.
The engine was still running.
He parked inside.
Nobody spoke.
Marcus removed his helmet.
Then he smiled.
“That’s the best it’s run in months.”
Travis clapped Eli on the shoulder hard enough to move him sideways.
“Kid just made five grand.”
Eli stared at the cash on the bench.
Marcus picked it up.
He counted nothing.
He simply held out the entire envelope.
Eli did not take it.
Marcus frowned.
“What?”
Eli looked at the motorcycle.
“You need to find out who loosened those mounts.”
“I intend to.”
“The bike shouldn’t be ridden until you know whether anything else was touched.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“Then consider this payment for tonight’s work.”
Eli accepted the envelope.
His hands shook slightly.
Marcus noticed.
“First time holding five thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy it. It disappears surprisingly fast.”
Eli almost smiled.
Then he reached into the envelope.
He removed several bills.
Marcus frowned.
“What are you doing?”
“Parts.”
“What parts?”
“Heat sleeve. Wire. Spacer.”
Marcus laughed.
“Kid, I’m not taking thirty dollars out of your prize.”
“It’s your motorcycle.”
“And my bet.”
He pushed Eli’s hand back.
“Keep it.”
Eli returned the cash reluctantly.
Marcus studied him.
“You always this stubborn?”
“My grandmother says worse things.”
“You live with her?”
Eli nodded.
“Since I was thirteen.”
“What happened to your parents?”
Eli’s expression changed.
Marcus immediately understood he had gone too far.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“My dad died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My mom left a few years after that.”
Marcus nodded.
Eli closed the toolbox.
“I need to go.”
Marcus looked outside.