"Elijah Sanders, sir." "And your daddy's name?" Elijah swallowed. James.
James Sanders. Something passed behind Hank's eyes, quick, like he'd been struck. He looked away. Then he pulled out the same worn pocket notebook, wrote the name down, underlined it, closed it. He didn't explain.
He reached up to his own leather cut, unpinned a small enamel patch from the chest, a horseshoe and an anvil. Two letters embossed, I H. He pinned it to the strap of Elijah's overalls. "You keep that."
It means something where I come from. He set a folded card on the bench. No name, no company, just the horseshoe emblem and a phone number written by hand. "Anything you need, you call that number. "You say your name, you wait.
You hear me?"
"Yes, sir. Hank limped back to the Panhead, swung a leg over. The engine fired clean on the first try. "What you did tonight, Elijah Sanders, will not be forgotten. The headlight came on.
The Panhead rolled out into the breaking dawn.
The storm had passed. Elijah and Loretta stood in the doorway watching him go. Loretta put a hand on her grandson's shoulder. "Baby, that was the right thing." "I know, Mama Lo."
"Your daddy would be proud." "I know." He turned to go back inside. That's when his foot caught on something under the workbench. A leather satchel, worn, heavy.
Hank had forgotten it. Elijah carried it to the kitchen table. The buckle came loose in his hand. Inside, a folded map.
Eagle Ridge circled in red ink. A worn Bible and one laminated photograph. Elijah pulled the photograph out slow. A campfire.
Thirty bikers stood around it. Two men in the center arms around each other. A younger Hank, dark hair instead of gray, and another man. It was the patches on their cuts that made Elijah's breath catch.
The horseshoe and the anvil and the winged skull. He had seen that skull before. Everyone in America had seen that skull before. Elijah looked up at his grandmother in the doorway. "Mama Lo."
"What is it, baby?" He held up the photograph. "I don't think that was just some old biker." Loretta's face went still.
She didn't know yet. But in three days, the entire town of Pine Hollow was about to find out. For three days, Elijah Sanders did not sleep right. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that ring on Hank's finger. The horseshoe the anvil the two letters, I H.
Friday afternoon, he opened his cracked laptop in the corner of the garage. He typed the emblem into the search bar. The first result loaded. Iron Horse Custom Cycles founded 1980, the largest independent American custom build company outside of Harley-Davidson. Annual revenue in the high nine figures.