Leo set the broom against the wall. He did not rush forward, because his father had taught him that engines belonged to the people qualified to work on them and that being excited was never a reason to forget danger. Instead, he pointed toward the right side of the FXR and described something he remembered from a notebook filled with his father's drawings. The machine, he said, carried a hybrid assembly Dutch and Arty had built after an engine failure near Reno in 1992. His father had described an adapted gear recovered from a wrecked 1978 Shovelhead and painstakingly machined to work with the later Evolution engine, not a simple factory replacement. Some reference marks on those modified parts did not correspond to the service manual Rusty's crew had been using.
Rusty's first reaction was disbelief. He had already checked the records, compared the measurements, and spent hours reading the old service literature. "A hybrid assembly that old wouldn't still be running without somebody noticing," he said. "We would have seen something unusual."
Leo looked at him without disrespect. "You saw that the numbers didn't match, Mr. Rusty. That's what you kept saying. My dad said those were the numbers that would confuse somebody who didn't know Dutch's trick."
He hesitated, then added, "He told me about a twelve-degree difference. I don't know how to set it. I just know that's what he wrote."
Jim had been present for the Reno trip, though time had blurred much of it into the sound of laughter, motel doors, and late-night arguments over engines. Dutch had indeed broken something in the machine and refused to let anyone talk him into replacing it with a standard build. Arty had worked beside him for nearly two days, and the pair had returned covered in oil and delighting in their own stubbornness. Jim remembered Dutch calling the rebuilt engine his Frankenstein monster and refusing to explain exactly what had gone into it.
"Reno," Jim said softly. "Ninety-two."
Leo turned toward him. "You were there?"
"I was," Jim answered. "Your father drank more bad coffee in that motel than anybody I've ever met." The memory brought a rough warmth into his voice. "He also told Dutch he'd regret trying to outsmart his own motorcycle."
"He said that a lot," Leo replied, and for the first time a smile touched his face.
Jim's expression changed. The anger had not vanished, but grief had moved into the space it had occupied, making him look tired rather than dangerous. "What else did Arty tell you?"
Leo glanced at the left side of the fuel tank. "He said Dutch hated the thought of someone taking the bike without asking. There's a switch people can't see unless they know where to look. If it isn't in the right position, the motorcycle acts like it's broken. And he said some of the old wiring could leave a relay drawing power, so it can make a good battery look bad."
Pete, who had been standing near his electrical bench, stepped forward. "That would explain some of what we've seen," he said, more cautiously than he had spoken in days. "Not all of it, necessarily. We'd have to verify the circuit and check the condition of the wiring." He glanced at Leo. "Who told you where to look?"