It had been hidden behind several carburetors.
The cardboard was yellowed.
Written on the side were two words:
W.H. — PERSONAL
Dustin carried it to Jerry.
Jerry opened it.
Inside were photographs, receipts, letters, and old service records.
At the bottom was a folded piece of paper.
Jerry opened it.
His face changed.
“What?”
Pete leaned over.
“What is it?”
Jerry read silently.
Then he handed it to Frankie.
Frankie recognized Bill's handwriting immediately.
The note was short.
Frankie,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone.
There's something I never told you.
The Harley isn't just mine.
I kept something inside it.
Something that could cause trouble if the wrong person found it.
Don't trust anyone who asks about the timing marks.
—Bill
The garage became silent.
Frankie looked at Jerry.
Jerry looked at Pete.
Pete looked at Dustin.
Dustin was staring at the paper.
Frankie turned to him.
“You knew?”
Dustin shook his head.
“No.”
“Then why did you say someone changed the timing?”
Dustin looked at the engine.
“Because whoever did it didn't want the engine to run normally.”
“Why?”
Dustin didn't answer.
Ray spoke.
“Maybe to hide whatever's inside.”
Frankie looked at him.
“Inside the motorcycle?”
Dustin nodded slowly.
“That would make sense.”
Pete frowned.
“What exactly would make sense?”
Dustin pointed toward the frame.
“If you wanted to hide something for thirty years, you'd choose a place nobody would inspect unless the bike had a serious problem.”
Jerry looked at the Harley.
“Bill's timing?”
“Maybe.”
Frankie stood.
“Then we find it.”
They searched until sunset.
Nothing.
No hidden compartment.
No secret package.
No false panel.
Nothing.
Finally, Pete sat down.
“Maybe Bill was joking.”
Frankie shook his head.
“Bill didn't joke about things like this.”
Dustin remained silent.
He walked around the motorcycle.
He studied the frame.
The fuel tank.
The seat.
The engine.
The rear fender.
Then he stopped.
“Wait.”
Everyone looked at him.
Dustin pointed to the tank.
“That dent.”
Frankie nodded.
“What about it?”
“Was it always there?”
Frankie stared at it.
“No.”
“Do you remember when it happened?”
“Highway accident. Bill hit a deer.”
Dustin crouched beside the tank.
“Was the tank replaced?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Bill said it gave the bike character.”
Dustin smiled.
Then his expression changed.
He ran his fingers beneath the tank.
“There's something here.”
Jerry brought a flashlight.
They removed the tank.
Behind it, beneath decades of dust and grime, was a small welded patch.
Pete whispered:
“What the hell?”
Dustin pointed.
“That's not factory.”
Jerry cleaned the area.
A narrow seam became visible.
Frankie stared.
“Open it.”
They carefully cut along the weld.
Inside the frame was a small metal cylinder.
It was sealed.
Dustin looked at Frankie.
Frankie nodded.
Jerry opened it.
Inside was a small plastic bag.
Inside the bag was a key.
And beneath the key was a photograph.
Frankie picked it up.
The photograph showed Bill standing beside a warehouse.
On the back were four words:
Bay 17. Midnight. Come alone.
Pete looked at Jerry.
“Bay 17?”
Jerry nodded slowly.
“Old waterfront warehouses.”
Frankie looked at the date on the photograph.
Thirty-one years old.
Exactly.
The day before Bill died.
Dustin stared at the picture.
“Maybe he was murdered.”
Nobody answered.
Frankie folded the photograph.
“No.”
He looked at the Harley.
“Bill died of cancer.”
Dustin shook his head.
“I'm not talking about what killed him.”
Frankie looked at him.
Dustin continued.
“I'm talking about why he was afraid.”
Bay Seventeen
Friday morning came with fog rolling over Oakland.
The memorial ride was less than twenty-four hours away.
But nobody at Iron & Oil talked about the ride anymore.
They talked about Bay 17.
The warehouse district had changed dramatically since Bill's death.
Old industrial buildings had been demolished.
Others had been converted into offices.
But one structure remained.
Bay 17 stood at the end of a narrow road near the water.
The building looked abandoned.
Its windows were broken.
Its walls were covered with faded graffiti.
Frankie parked beside the entrance.
Jerry followed.
Pete came in a pickup.
Dustin stayed in the back seat beside Frankie.
As they approached the warehouse, Dustin asked:
“Are we supposed to be here?”
Frankie nodded.
“Probably not.”
“That's reassuring.”
Frankie smiled.
“You're learning.”
Inside, the warehouse smelled of dust, rust, and salt.
They found the old bay number painted above a metal door.
Jerry tried the key.
It fit.
The door opened.
Inside was a narrow room.
Nothing else.
Except for a steel cabinet.
Frankie opened it.
There was a single envelope.
His name was written on it.
Frankie.
His hands trembled slightly.
He opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Bill had written it thirty-one years earlier.
Frankie,
If you came here, then you found the key.
I wish I could have told you everything.
But I didn't know who I could trust.
Years ago, I found out that several stolen motorcycles were being moved through these warehouses.
I knew some of the men involved.
One of them was a mechanic I trusted.
I found records.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
I hid copies because I didn't know how far it went.
If something happens to me, the original records are inside the Harley.
But don't look for them unless you have to.
Some people will do terrible things to protect money.
—Bill