But the connection was dirty.
Not merely dusty.
Corroded.
"That's not enough to stop it," Jerry said.
"It can be."
Jerry shook his head.
"Not completely."
Eli looked at him.
"You're measuring resistance with everything disconnected."
Jerry stared.
Eli continued.
"When the system is under load, the resistance changes."
Jerry paused.
Then slowly nodded.
"Go on."
Eli connected the meter differently.
They tested the circuit while attempting to crank the engine.
The reading jumped.
Marcus leaned closer.
"What does that mean?"
Eli answered.
"The ground connection is failing under load."
Jerry looked at the old cable.
"That's it?"
Eli shook his head.
"No."
Jerry raised an eyebrow.
"Then why did you stop?"
"Because there's another problem."
"Where?"
Eli pointed toward the ignition system.
Jerry examined it.
Everything appeared correct.
Eli reached for a flashlight.
He illuminated the wiring.
"Someone repaired this."
"Yes."
"Badly."
Jerry sighed.
"That repair is twenty years old."
"Then it's been wrong for twenty years."
Marcus laughed.
Jerry gave him a look.
"Don't encourage him."
Eli found a cracked wire hidden beneath insulation.
The wire wasn't completely broken.
It was hanging by a few strands.
That meant the electrical system worked sometimes.
But not consistently.
Jerry replaced the section.
They repaired the ground.
They cleaned the frame connection.
Then Jerry stood back.
"Start it."
Eli looked at him.
"You want me to?"
Jerry nodded.
Eli pressed the starter.
The engine turned.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Silence.
Marcus groaned.
"Back to the funeral."
Eli didn't move.
"Wait."
He listened.
Jerry frowned.
"What?"
"The sound."
"What sound?"
"The second rotation."
Jerry stared.
Eli smiled faintly.
"It almost caught."
Jerry turned toward the motorcycle.
He heard it too.
A tiny change.
A hesitation.
A difference in rhythm.
The Harley wasn't dead.
It had been trying to speak.
They spent another two hours working.
Fuel.
Spark.
Timing.
Air.
Compression.
Everything had to be right.
Finally, Eli stood beside the motorcycle.
"Try again."
Jerry pressed the starter.
The engine turned.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then—
WHUMP.
The exhaust coughed.
Everyone froze.
A second cough followed.
Then another.
Marcus shouted.
"Come on!"
The engine caught for half a second.
Then died.
The garage filled with silence.
Jerry stared at the motorcycle.
Frankie closed his eyes.
For twenty-three days, he had heard nothing.
Now he had heard Bill's motorcycle breathe.
He placed both hands on the tank.
"Again," he whispered.
They tried again.
This time, the engine caught for three seconds.
Then five.
Then eight.
Black smoke rolled from the exhaust.
The old Harley shook violently.
Marcus laughed.
Jerry laughed.
Even Eli smiled.
Frankie didn't.
He was crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just tears running down an old man's face while he stood beside a machine that had carried half his life.
When the engine died again, Frankie wiped his eyes.
Jerry looked at him.
"You okay?"
Frankie nodded.
"I haven't heard that sound in thirty-one years."
Jerry frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Frankie looked at the motorcycle.
"Bill died thirty-one years ago."
Eli glanced at him.
Frankie continued.
"But the last time I heard this engine run before today..."
He paused.
"It was the night before he died."
The room went quiet.
Eli looked at the Harley.
Then at Frankie.
"What happened?"
Frankie didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked to an old workbench and opened a drawer.
He pulled out a photograph.
Two young men stood beside the same motorcycle.
One was Frankie.
The other was Bill.
Both were laughing.
Both had long hair.
Both looked invincible.
Frankie handed the photograph to Eli.
"Bill was thirty-six when he died."
Eli studied the picture.
"What happened?"
"Car accident."
Eli looked up.
Frankie shook his head.
"At least that's what they told me."
Jerry frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Frankie stared at the photograph.
"It means I've spent thirty-one years wondering whether I believed the story."
Wild Bill's Secret
Frankie had never told Jerry the entire story.
He hadn't told anyone.
Not because he was hiding a crime.
Because sometimes the truth became too painful to say aloud.
Thirty-one years earlier, Bill Henderson had been the kind of man people remembered.
He was fearless.
Loud.
Funny.
Stubborn.
He could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with ten new friends.
He had worked as a mechanic during the week and ridden motorcycles whenever he could.
Frankie had met him in 1978.
They had argued over a motorcycle part.
Bill had accused Frankie of stealing it.
Frankie had accused Bill of being stupid.
Then they discovered neither accusation was true.
They became friends.
Within a year, they were inseparable.
The Harley came into Bill's life in 1980.
It was already old.
Already modified.
Already difficult.
Bill loved it immediately.
He called it Midnight.
Frankie called it ugly.
Bill told him to shut up.
They rode thousands of miles together.
Then, in 1993, everything changed.
Bill had started investigating something.
Frankie never knew exactly what.
He only knew Bill had become nervous.
He kept receiving phone calls.
He started writing notes.
He stopped parking the Harley outside.
One evening, he came to Frankie's house.
He looked exhausted.
"Frankie," he said, "if something happens to me, take care of Midnight."
Frankie laughed.
"Why are you talking like you're dying?"
Bill didn't laugh.