The deputy walked toward them.
“Glad I found you.”
Rebecca’s expression became unreadable.
“Who sent you?”
“No one.”
He looked at Clara.
“Heard what happened at the roadhouse. Thought you might need some protection.”
Clara remembered Ethan’s warning.
Do not trust the man who comes first.
The deputy continued walking.
His smile never changed.
And Clara suddenly realized Ethan had not written that warning six years ago for a stranger.
He had written it for today.
The deputy introduced himself as Warren Pike.
Clara recognized the name.
Not personally.
From Ethan’s funeral.
Pike had been one of the officers who spoke with her after the crash.
Back then he had been younger.
Clean-shaven.
Quiet.
He had stood beside Clara’s kitchen table and explained how investigators believed Ethan lost control on wet pavement.
Clara remembered him handing her a glass of water.
Now he stood inside the towing garage staring at the Harley.
“Terrible what they did.”
Clara slipped Ethan’s note into her jacket.
“Yeah.”
Pike looked at Rebecca.
“Rebecca Sloan.”
“Deputy.”
“Haven’t seen you in years.”
“Not long enough.”
Pike laughed politely.
Clara noticed his eyes move toward the removed tank trim.
He had seen it.
“What are you two doing?”
“Checking damage,” Clara said.
“Find anything?”
The question came too quickly.
Rebecca answered.
“A lot of expensive repairs.”
Pike smiled.
“If you need an official report, I can help.”
“We already made one.”
“Blackridge Police.”
He shook his head.
“Different jurisdiction.”
“This isn’t your jurisdiction either,” Rebecca said.
For half a second Pike’s expression changed.
Then the smile returned.
“Just trying to help an old friend.”
Clara stared at him.
“You knew Ethan?”
“Everybody around here knew Ethan.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Pike looked directly at her.
“We crossed paths.”
“During his investigation?”
Rebecca shifted slightly.
Pike’s eyes sharpened.
“Investigation?”
Clara realized her mistake.
She pretended confusion.
“I thought he helped police identify stolen bikes.”
Pike relaxed.
“Oh. That.”
He stepped closer to the Harley.
“Ancient history.”
Rebecca moved between him and the motorcycle.
“We’re finished here.”
Pike looked at her.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“Mrs. Whitmore, if you remember anything about those men last night, you call me.”
He handed Clara a business card.
She took it.
His phone number had not changed.
That bothered her.
After he left, Clara locked the garage.
Rebecca turned on her.
“You almost told him.”
“I caught myself.”
“Barely.”
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Was he involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ethan clearly suspected somebody.”
“We can’t assume the note refers to Pike.”
“He arrived first.”
“After a public police report.”
“At exactly the garage where we found the message.”
Rebecca had no answer.
Clara unfolded the coordinates.
The six sets of numbers formed three latitude-longitude pairs.
The first led to a location forty-two miles north.
The second was farther west.
The third appeared near the state border.
“What do we do?”
Rebecca looked at the Harley.
“We make them think we found nothing.”
They returned the chrome strip to the tank.
Rebecca photographed the note.
Then Clara destroyed the original.
“Ethan wrote that.”
“I know.”
“You’re telling me to burn the last message my husband left me.”
“I’m telling you that if someone searches you, I don’t want them finding it.”
Clara held the paper above a metal trash can.
For six years she had saved every scrap of Ethan.
Birthday cards.
Receipts with his handwriting.
Old grocery lists.
Destroying his note felt wrong.
But dead people did not need evidence.
Living people did.
She lit the corner.
The flame consumed his handwriting.
By noon, Clara and Rebecca were heading toward the first coordinates in Rebecca’s aging Subaru.
They left Clara’s phone switched off at the motel.
Rebecca carried two cheap prepaid phones.
“Does this make you feel ridiculous?” Clara asked.
“Completely.”
“Good.”
The coordinates led them away from the highway and onto a county road.
Paved road became gravel.
Gravel became dirt.
After another mile they reached an abandoned scenic overlook.
There was nothing there except a picnic table, a rusting trash barrel, and a wooden sign overlooking a canyon.
Clara stepped out.
“Ethan brought me here.”
“When?”
“Twenty-five years ago.”
Rebecca said nothing.
Clara walked toward the overlook.
It had been their third date.
Ethan had arrived on an unreliable motorcycle and forgotten to bring enough fuel for the return trip.
They had spent four hours waiting for his brother to bring a gas can.
Clara had teased him for years.
A memory surfaced.
Ethan carving something into the picnic table with his pocketknife.
She hurried toward it.
The table had been replaced.
“Damn it.”
“What?”
“There used to be an old table.”
Rebecca searched the area.
“Anything else?”
Clara stared toward the canyon.
Ethan had walked down a short trail that day.
He disappeared behind a rock formation and came back holding wildflowers.
“This way.”
They followed the trail.
Twenty yards below the overlook stood a stone wall.
Clara found three scratches carved into the rock.
A triangle.
The same shape Ethan sometimes drew beside measurements in his workshop.
Rebecca crouched.
“There.”
Behind a loose stone was a waterproof container.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens.
Motorcycles.
Trucks.
Vehicle identification plates.
Men exchanging paperwork.
Clara flipped through them.
Then she stopped.
A photograph showed Warren Pike standing beside a tow truck.
Next to him was a man Clara knew.
Gordon Vale.
County sheriff.
The current county sheriff.
Rebecca stared.
“Damn.”
Another photograph showed Gordon Vale with Arthur Brannigan, owner of the largest salvage auction business in the state.
A third showed an evidence trailer.
A fourth showed stolen motorcycle frames inside a police impound building.
Clara’s stomach turned.
“How high does this go?”
Rebecca did not answer.
At the bottom of the container they found a flash drive.
Rebecca put it in her pocket.
“Next location.”
“Shouldn’t we take this to federal investigators?”
“Which ones?”
“You don’t trust anybody?”
“I trusted people six years ago. Ethan died.”
That ended the argument.
They drove west.
Neither noticed the dark pickup following from three miles behind.
The second coordinates led to a closed gas station outside Little Creek.
Its windows were boarded.
The fuel pumps had been removed.
Behind the building stood several rusted storage lockers.
The brass key from Ethan’s tank opened Locker 14.
Inside sat a motorcycle frame covered in dust.
Clara recognized it immediately.
A 1978 Harley Shovelhead.
Ethan had restored one years earlier.
Rebecca checked the frame number.
“It’s listed in those photographs.”
Clara walked around it.
“Why hide an entire bike?”
“Maybe the bike is evidence.”
Clara noticed the rear fender was newer than the rest.
She removed two bolts.
Behind the fender was a flat envelope.
Inside were photocopies of insurance claims.
Every claim involved a supposedly destroyed motorcycle.
Every motorcycle had later been resold under altered identification.
The names repeated.
Vale.
Brannigan.
Crane Logistics.
Pike.
And several people Clara didn’t recognize.
Then she found one more name.
Rebecca Sloan.
Clara stared at the page.
Rebecca saw her expression.
“What?”
Clara turned the document around.
Rebecca went pale.
Her name appeared beside a transfer payment of $75,000.
Date: two months before Ethan died.
Clara stepped away.
“Explain.”
Rebecca stared.
“I can’t.”
“That is a terrible answer.”
“I never received that money.”
“Your name is right there.”