Frankie thought.
"Yes."
"When?"
"About a year before he died."
"Who did it?"
Frankie closed his eyes.
"Somebody named Marcus."
Pete looked at Jerry.
"Marcus who?"
"I don't remember."
Dustin suddenly stood.
"Maybe you should."
Frankie looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because whoever worked on it didn't just replace parts."
Dustin pointed at the engine.
"They changed how the motorcycle thinks."
Pete stared at him.
Then, for the first time in twenty-three days, he felt something he hadn't felt since the job began.
Hope.
Wild Bill Henderson
Frankie remembered the first time he met William Henderson.
Oakland.
Frankie was twenty-two.
Bill was twenty-four.
Both were young enough to believe they couldn't die.
They met outside a gas station after Bill's motorcycle refused to start.
Frankie had laughed.
Bill had threatened him.
Ten minutes later they were laughing together.
Within a year, they were inseparable.
Bill had a particular way of riding.
Fast, but never reckless.
Confident, but never careless.
He treated his Harley as though it were a living animal.
He talked to it.
He named parts.
He cursed the carburetor like it had personally offended him.
And he loved the machine more than most people loved their cars, houses, or possessions.
Frankie remembered one night in particular.
It had been raining.
They were stranded near Big Sur with almost no money.
Bill had removed the spark plug, cleaned it with the corner of his shirt, and said, "She'll get us home."
Frankie had laughed.
"You're talking to the bike again."
Bill had looked at him seriously.
"She listens better than you."
The motorcycle started on the third kick.
They rode through the rain until sunrise.
Thirty years later, Frankie still remembered the sound.
He remembered everything.
The first long road trip.
The first crash.
The first funeral.
The day Bill married Sarah.
The birth of Bill's daughter, Emily.
The arguments.
The reconciliations.
The endless coffee.
The garage jokes.
And then the final ride.
Bill had died in an accident on Highway 1.
A truck crossed the center line during heavy fog.
Bill never made it home.
Frankie had been the one who identified him.
He had also been the one who collected the motorcycle.
For thirty-one years, he had kept it.
Sometimes he rode it.
Sometimes he simply sat beside it.
He had never explained why.
Maybe he didn't need to.
The motorcycle was not really a motorcycle anymore.
It was a doorway.
Touch the handlebars and Frankie could hear Bill laughing.
Smell the old leather and he could remember rain on California pavement.
Turn the key and he could almost imagine his friend shouting over the engine:
"Come on, Frankie! We're burning daylight!"
Now Dustin stood beside the Harley.
"You said Bill changed the ignition a year before he died."
Frankie nodded.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Dustin looked at the machine.
"Did he say anything?"
Frankie thought about it.
"He said the motorcycle was becoming unreliable."
"That's all?"
"No."
Frankie frowned.
"He also said, 'If anything ever happens to me, don't let them turn her into something she isn't.'"
Jerry looked up.
"That's interesting."
Frankie nodded.
"I never understood it."
Dustin crouched again.
"Maybe he wasn't talking about the bike."
Frankie stared at him.
Dustin carefully touched the frame.
"Maybe he was talking about what was inside it."
The First Crack
Pete refused to believe the teenager.
Not completely.
But enough to investigate.
He pulled the timing cover.
Ray brought the original wiring diagrams.
Jerry dug through boxes of old Harley manuals.
Dustin stood back and watched.
For three hours, they found nothing.
Then Ray stopped.
"Wait."
Everyone looked over.
He held a wire between two fingers.
"This isn't original."
Pete frowned.
"That's impossible."
Ray pointed.
"The insulation."
Jerry stepped closer.
Ray continued.
"This was added later."
Pete stared.
"How later?"
"Can't tell."
Dustin spoke quietly.
"Thirty years ago."
Everyone looked at him.
"How do you know?"
"The wire is cloth-braided underneath the outer insulation."
Ray inspected it.
His eyes widened.
"He's right."
Dustin continued.
"Modern replacements wouldn't use that."
Jerry leaned against the workbench.
"What exactly are we looking at?"
Dustin pointed toward the ignition circuit.
"An old modification."
Pete shook his head.
"Why?"
Dustin hesitated.
"To change the timing curve."
Silence.
Ray looked at the wiring.
"Someone altered the ignition."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Dustin looked at Frankie.
"To make the engine behave differently."
Frankie frowned.
"Why would Bill want that?"
Dustin didn't answer.
Instead, he asked:
"Do you have anything he left behind?"
Frankie thought.
"His toolbox."
"Where?"
"At my house."
"Can we see it?"
Frankie studied the boy.
"You think it'll tell us something?"
Dustin nodded.
"Maybe."
The next morning, Frankie brought the toolbox.
It was an old steel box with chipped red paint.
Inside were wrenches, screwdrivers, old spark plugs, a timing light, and a folded photograph.
Dustin picked up the photograph.
Four young men stood beside motorcycles.
Frankie.
Bill.