The Girl Who Looked Up
The summer evening had begun like any other in Hawthorne.
The sun hung low over the neighborhood, turning the windows of the houses orange and gold. Somewhere beyond the trees, a lawn mower coughed its final sputter before falling silent. Children shouted near the basketball court at Hawthorne Park, their voices carrying across the warm air.
For nine-year-old Lacy Worthington, it was the perfect kind of evening.
She had spent the afternoon doing homework, helping her father organize tools in their garage, and waiting impatiently for dinner.
Now she was free.
Free meant running.
Free meant getting grass stains on her knees.
Free meant playing tag with Owen Miller and his little brother, Jacob.
"You're it!" Owen yelled.
"I am not!"
"You touched the tree!"
"That doesn't count!"
"It absolutely counts!"
Lacy laughed and ran faster.
She was smaller than Owen, but she was quicker.
That was why Owen cheated.
He grabbed the half-deflated rubber ball they had been using earlier and kicked it toward her.
"Catch!"
The ball flew over Lacy's head.
"Hey!"
It bounced once.
Twice.
Then rolled across the sidewalk and straight toward a large open garage on the opposite side of the street.
The garage belonged to the Iron Jaws Motorcycle Club.
Everybody in Hawthorne knew about the Iron Jaws.
They weren't criminals.
At least, not in the way people imagined motorcycle clubs in movies.
They were veterans, mechanics, construction workers, truck drivers, electricians, and retired police officers. They organized food drives, helped stranded motorists, raised money for children's hospitals, and every December delivered boxes of groceries to families who couldn't afford Christmas dinner.
But they were still intimidating.
Their clubhouse was a large industrial building with wide bay doors.
Inside were motorcycles.
Lots of motorcycles.
Chrome.
Black paint.
Leather saddlebags.
Tools.
Engines.
The walls were covered with photographs of old riders, memorial plaques, faded flags, and club banners.
Children weren't supposed to go inside.
Owen stopped running.
"Forget it."
Lacy looked at him.
"It's your ball."
"Your ball."
"You kicked it."
"I don't want it anymore."
Jacob laughed.
"You're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Then get it."
Owen folded his arms.
Lacy looked at the open garage.
She knew she should turn around.
She also knew something Owen didn't.
She hated leaving puzzles unfinished.
And that ball was hers.
So she crossed the street.
One step.
Then another.
She walked into the garage.
The temperature dropped immediately.
Outside, the air had been warm and smelled of cut grass.
Inside, it smelled like motor oil, rubber, leather, coffee, and metal.
Three men were standing beside a workbench.
All three wore black leather vests.
One was enormous, with a gray beard and thick arms covered in faded tattoos.
Another was tall and thin.
The third was an older man with white hair and a hearing aid.
All three looked at Lacy.
She stopped.
"Sorry," she said.
The gray-bearded man raised an eyebrow.
"Looking for something?"
"My ball."
The man pointed toward the workbench.
"Under there."
Lacy crouched.
She found the ball.
She picked it up.
She was about to leave.
Then she looked up.
She didn't know why.
Maybe it was because something didn't belong.
Maybe it was because the dust on the ceiling beam had a strange pattern.
Maybe it was simply because Lacy noticed things other people ignored.
She stared at the wooden beam.
Then she stared harder.
A small black circle was mounted above the office door.
It was almost invisible.
But not completely.
Dust covered most of the beam.
Around the object, however, there was a clean circle.
Someone had touched it.
Recently.
Lacy pointed.
"There's a camera up there."
The garage went silent.
The three bikers stopped moving.
The gray-bearded man slowly looked upward.
"What?"
Lacy pointed again.
"That."
The man squinted.
"I don't see anything."
"Right there."
She walked backward and pointed toward the beam.
"The dust is different."
The tall biker looked at the gray-bearded man.
"Dean."
Dean McCrae stared at the ceiling.
Then he looked at Lacy.
"Randy."
The old man with the hearing aid looked over.
"Yeah?"
"Get the ladder."
Randy didn't ask why.
He walked toward a storage corner.
The ladder unfolded with a metallic snap.
Randy climbed.
The garage remained silent.
Lacy watched.
Randy reached the beam.
He leaned closer.
Then he stopped.
"Damn."
Dean's face hardened.
"What?"
"She's right."
He carefully removed the device.
It was smaller than a quarter.
Black.
Round.
A thin wire had been connected to an overhead power strip.
Dean stared at it.
"That's not ours."
Randy turned it over.
A tiny red light blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"Still powered."
Dean's expression changed.
"Is it recording?"
Randy examined the device.
"More than that."
He held it up.
"It's transmitting."
The garage suddenly felt colder.
Dean looked at Lacy.
"You really saw that?"
She nodded.
"The dust gave it away."
For the first time, Dean smiled.
It was a rare smile.
"You've got good eyes, kid."
Lacy smiled back.
"My dad says I notice too much."
"Your dad might be right."
Dean turned to the younger biker.
"Call Gary."
Twenty minutes later, a pickup truck pulled into the garage.
Gary Worthington jumped out.