Pete stared at Frankie.
“So the motorcycle was a hiding place.”
Frankie nodded.
Dustin asked:
“What happened to the records?”
Frankie looked toward the Harley key.
“Maybe someone found them.”
Jerry frowned.
“Then why would they change the timing?”
Dustin answered.
“To make the bike impossible to start.”
Everyone looked at him.
“If the records were hidden inside the engine or frame, whoever searched the bike might have suspected something. But if the motorcycle simply appeared mechanically dead, nobody would think to search it carefully.”
Pete nodded slowly.
“That would explain why the failure was so precise.”
Dustin looked at the letter.
“But there's something else.”
“What?”
“The person who changed the timing knew the motorcycle.”
Frankie looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because the alteration was clean.”
Dustin picked up the old photograph.
“They didn't break it.”
“They preserved everything.”
“They wanted it to remain intact but useless.”
Jerry stared at him.
“Someone who understood Bill's bike.”
Dustin nodded.
“Someone who had worked on it.”
They returned to Iron & Oil.
Jerry began searching old records.
Bill's motorcycle had been serviced at several garages over the decades.
Most records were gone.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Arthur Mercer.
Jerry froze.
Pete noticed.
“You know him?”
Jerry nodded.
“Arthur was Cal's father.”
Dustin's face went pale.
“My grandfather?”
Jerry nodded.
Dustin stepped back.
“Why was he working on Bill's bike?”
“Because he was one of the best mechanics in California.”
Dustin stared at the records.
Then he noticed something.
“Wait.”
He pointed to a service date.
The last recorded service before Bill died.
“That's the week before the photograph.”
Jerry checked the record.
Arthur had performed a timing adjustment.
Pete looked at Dustin.
“Your grandfather.”
Dustin shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He wouldn't.”
Jerry looked at him.
“You knew him?”
“I barely remember him.”
Dustin's voice lowered.
“My mother hated him.”
Frankie frowned.
“Why?”
Dustin swallowed.
“She said he stole things.”
Jerry became still.
“What things?”
“Motorcycle parts. Money. Whatever people would pay for.”
Nobody spoke.
Dustin looked at Jerry.
“Is that why you stopped talking to him?”
Jerry's face hardened.
“I didn't stop talking to him.”
“Then what happened?”
Jerry looked away.
“He disappeared.”
“When?”
“About twenty-nine years ago.”
Dustin stared at him.
Two years after Bill died.
Pete whispered:
“That's not a coincidence.”
Jerry didn't answer.
The garage door suddenly slammed.
Everyone turned.
A man stood outside.
Late fifties.
Dark jacket.
Gray hair.
He stared at the Harley.
Then at Dustin.
Then at Jerry.
His expression changed.
“You found it.”
Frankie stepped forward.
“Found what?”
The man backed away.
Dustin recognized him.
He had seen him before.
Behind the garage.
Watching.
The man turned and ran.
Pete shouted.
“Hey!”
Frankie stopped him.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him.
Frankie stared toward the disappearing figure.
“Let him go.”
Jerry frowned.
“Why?”
“Because now we know someone is watching.”
Frankie looked at Dustin.
“And that means we finally have something worth protecting.”
The Last Ride
Friday night arrived.
The Harley still wouldn't start.
But something had changed.
They knew why.
They knew the failure was deliberate.
And they had discovered that Bill had hidden evidence connected to stolen motorcycles.
What they didn't know was where the evidence was.
Dustin spent hours studying the old engine.
Finally, at midnight, he called Jerry.
“I found it.”
Jerry came running.
Pete followed.
Dustin pointed toward the crankcase.
“There.”
“What am I looking at?”
“The casting.”
Jerry squinted.
Dustin showed him a tiny irregularity.
“This wasn't part of the original casting.”
Pete brought a magnifying glass.
He stared.
Then he smiled.
“Hidden plug.”
They removed it.
Inside was a narrow metal capsule.
The evidence was still there.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
Photographs.
Everything Bill had described.
The documents connected several people to a theft operation that had operated through Bay 17 decades earlier.
Some names were familiar.
Some were dead.
Some had disappeared.
And one name made Jerry sit down.
Arthur Mercer.
Dustin stared at the paper.
“My grandfather.”
Jerry looked at him.
“There's more.”
He turned the page.
Arthur had apparently been one of the mechanics who discovered the operation.
He hadn't been the organizer.
He had tried to expose it.
The stolen parts had been transported through the warehouses.
Arthur had kept copies.
Bill had helped him.
The timing change had been an attempt to hide the evidence after Arthur disappeared.
Jerry's eyes filled with tears.
“I accused him.”
Dustin looked at him.
“Of what?”
“Of stealing.”
Jerry swallowed.
“I thought he ran.”
“But he didn't.”
“No.”
Jerry looked at the papers.
“He was trying to stop them.”
Dustin said nothing.
Then Jerry reached into an old cabinet and pulled out a box.
Inside was a photograph of Arthur and Bill.
They were standing beside the Harley.
On the back, someone had written:
Good men don't always get believed.