“Do you know what that means?”
Frankie didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
His face had gone pale.
“Where did you find that?”
Jerry showed him the plate.
Frankie stared at it.
Then he sat down.
“Jack.”
Pete asked, “Who was Jack?”
Frankie looked toward the floor.
“Bill's son.”
Silence.
Ray glanced at Jerry.
“Bill had a son?”
Frankie nodded.
“He never talked about him.”
“Why?”
“Because Jack was dead.”
Jerry placed the brass plate gently on the workbench.
“How did he die?”
Frankie closed his eyes.
“Motorcycle accident.”
Pete looked at the Harley.
“When?”
“1989.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Frankie breathed slowly.
“Jack was nineteen.”
Jerry picked up the plate.
“Why would this be inside the engine?”
“I don't know.”
Frankie stood.
“I thought I knew everything about that motorcycle.”
He looked at the stripped engine.
“I was wrong.”
For the first time in twenty-three days, the mechanics stopped thinking about the Harley as a broken machine.
They began thinking about it as a locked box.
And somewhere inside that box was a story nobody had told.
The brass plate became their first clue.
They searched every inch of the motorcycle.
They found no hidden compartment.
No obvious engraving.
No documents.
Nothing else.
Jerry wondered whether Jack had ever ridden the Harley.
Frankie said yes.
“Bill taught him.”
“How old was he?”
“Fourteen the first time he touched it.”
Pete smiled faintly.
“That was probably illegal.”
Frankie laughed.
“Bill didn't care.”
“Did Jack love it?”
Frankie looked at the bike.
“He worshipped it.”
The next several hours passed in conversation rather than wrenching.
Frankie told them about Jack.
The boy had been quiet.
Skinny.
Always dirty.
Always carrying a wrench.
He could take apart a lawn mower before he was twelve.
At sixteen, he started working in a small motorcycle shop.
At eighteen, he had become obsessed with racing.
Then came the accident.
A wet road.
A truck.
A curve.
A helmet that didn't save him.
Frankie remembered the funeral.
He remembered Bill standing beside the coffin.
He remembered the way Bill looked at the motorcycle afterward.
“He wouldn't ride it for almost a year,” Frankie said.
“Then why did he?”
“Because Jack had wanted him to.”
Frankie stared into the distance.
“He said Jack wouldn't want the bike sitting in a garage.”
Pete nodded.
“What happened after that?”
“Bill changed.”
“How?”
“He stopped talking.”
Frankie rubbed his eyes.
“He still worked. Still rode. Still drank coffee. But something inside him had gone quiet.”
Jerry looked at the brass plate.
“Did Jack have something like this?”
Frankie frowned.
“I don't know.”
“Maybe his name was on something.”
“Maybe.”
They continued examining the motorcycle.
Late in the afternoon, Pete discovered a second irregularity.
A small hole had been drilled into one of the internal components.
It wasn't factory work.
The edges were too clean.
Jerry studied it.
“That's deliberate.”
Pete nodded.
“Someone modified this.”
Ray leaned closer.
“Why?”
Jerry didn't answer.
He inserted a thin inspection camera.
The camera moved through the opening.
On the monitor appeared a narrow interior channel.
Oil.
Metal.
Darkness.
Then something else.
A folded piece of paper.
Nobody spoke.
Jerry looked at Frankie.
“Should we open it?”
Frankie stared at the screen.
Finally he said, “Yes.”
They carefully removed the component.
The paper was stained and brittle.
Jerry unfolded it.
There were only a few words.
The handwriting was unmistakably old.
Frankie recognized it immediately.
Bill's.
The note said:
If this engine ever stops, don't fix it until you understand why.
Underneath were three numbers.
11-4-92.
Frankie stared at them.
“That was the day Bill came to my house.”
Jerry's voice was quiet.
“Why would he hide this?”
Frankie shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Pete looked at the engine.
“Maybe he wanted you to find it.”
Frankie frowned.
“After he died?”
Pete nodded.
“Maybe.”
Ray looked at the note.
“What happened on November fourth?”
Frankie didn't answer.
He walked out of the garage.
The others watched him leave.
Jerry considered following him.
Pete stopped him.
“Give him a minute.”
Outside, Frankie stood beside the curb.
Cars passed.
The city continued moving.
People hurried to work.
Buses stopped.
Pedestrians crossed streets.
Nobody knew that an old man was standing outside a motorcycle garage trying to remember the last secret his best friend had ever given him.
After ten minutes, Frankie returned.
He carried an old envelope.
He placed it on the workbench.
“I found this in my house.”
Jerry looked at him.
“I've had it for thirty-one years.”
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Two young men stood beside the Harley.
Bill and Frankie.
Both were laughing.
Both were twenty years younger.
Behind them was a third figure.
A teenage boy.
Jack.
Frankie turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
November 4, 1992.
Three rides left.
Jerry frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Frankie shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Ray studied the picture.
“Who's taking it?”
Frankie turned the photograph around.
Nobody was visible behind the camera.
Pete pointed toward Jack.
“Look at his hand.”
Jack was holding something.
A small metal object.
Jerry zoomed in with his phone.
It looked like a key.
Frankie stared.
“Bill had a key like that.”
“To what?”
“I don't know.”
Pete looked at the motorcycle.
“Maybe that's what we're supposed to find.”
That night, Jerry didn't sleep well.
He kept thinking about the engine.
About the note.
About the brass plate.