"Get away from that window. Get away!" Three slow, heavy knocks on the front door. Loretta grabbed James's old shotgun off the rack. She didn't raise it.
She just held it the way old southern grandmothers hold things they pray they will never have to use. Elijah walked to the door.
He opened it. Standing on the porch was Hank Donovan, cleaned up, beard trimmed, leather cut crisp. Behind him, 200 Hells Angels in colors, standing in perfect formation. Silent.
Helmets off. Hands folded. Hank removed his sunglasses. "Mrs. Sanders, may we come in?"
"There's something I owe you and your grandson that I aim to settle this morning." Loretta lowered the shotgun an inch. Then she lowered it all the way. She stepped aside. Hank walked in.
Behind him came a man the size of a refrigerator, carrying a leather portfolio under his arm. He nodded to Loretta once. "Ma'am, my name is Roy Bradford. People call me Tank. I work for Mr.
Donovan. The other 198 bikers stayed outside.
Motionless. Respectful. Like a funeral honor guard. Hank stood in Loretta's kitchen. The kitchen with the faded yellow curtains.
The kitchen with the chipped table.
The kitchen where she'd raised her son and now her grandson. He took off his hat, held it in both hands, looked her in the eye. "Ma'am, my name is Walter Donovan. People call me Hank. I am the founder and chairman of Iron Horse Custom Cycles.
I am also the national president emeritus of the Northern States Nomad chapter of the Hells Angels. Loretta sat down hard on the kitchen chair. Hank continued, "And I owe your grandson and your late husband a debt that I cannot repay with money. But this morning, ma'am, I am going to try."
Elijah stood in the doorway. He could hear his own heartbeat. Hank set his hat on the table. "I made the dawn ride. Two hundred miles, no breakdown, on a Buick sleeve and a lawnmower coil.
The bike got me there, ma'am. Your grandson got me there. He looked at Elijah. "At the memorial in front of 600 of my brothers, I told them the story of what happened in this shop on Thursday night. The boy, the storm, the 11 hours, the $20 he wouldn't budge on."
His voice caught. "Then I told them something I have not told a soul in 12 years. Loretta's hand went to her chest. "Mrs. Sanders, 12 years ago I was riding cross-country alone.
My bike threw a rod outside a town called Cedar Bluff, Alabama. I was stranded on the shoulder of a state highway. Two trucks passed me. Three. Five.
Nobody stopped. He swallowed hard. Then a black man in coveralls pulled over in a pickup. He had a little boy in the passenger seat. Maybe six, seven years old.