"What's that?" Hank asked. Higgins squinted down the road. "Motorcycles."
Leo pushed himself upright, barely daring to hope. The first riders appeared over the rise as small, dark figures against the white morning sky. Then more followed, and the horizon seemed to fill with chrome, windshields, and helmets.
They came in organized groups with space between formations, the kind of enormous road procession that turned ordinary traffic into a stunned audience. Ten motorcycles became twenty, then fifty, then a count Leo could no longer follow. The roar of engines rolled across the desert as the leading group slowed toward the old station. Dust lifted beneath the tires and drifted toward the gas pumps in a tawny cloud.
Hank moved instinctively toward his Dodge Ram. Higgins stood straighter, one hand near his holster, his expression hardening as he tried to understand why so many riders were turning off the road. Leo watched the front row and recognized the broad shoulders of a man whose leather vest he had seen three nights earlier. The Road King was different now, its damaged parts properly replaced, its engine sounding whole. Jack Sullivan rode at the head of the procession, his shoulder bandaged beneath his vest.
The bikers parked in waves along the wide gravel shoulder and the forecourt, leaving the highway passable. Some remained seated, watching quietly, while others dismounted and looked toward the station. The number passed from one rider to another as a count for the planned regional ride: two hundred and forty-seven. Leo had never seen so many motorcycles in one place. The silence when the engines were finally cut seemed to press inward on the desert.
Sully removed his helmet, looked across the concrete, and found Leo beside the pumps. His face changed the moment he saw the swelling near the boy's mouth and the dirt on his clothes. He glanced at Hank's bat, Higgins's uniform, and the open door of the pickup. Then he walked straight toward Leo, and the crowd of riders watched him without a word.
"Kid," Sully said. His voice carried without effort. "You look a whole lot worse than you did three nights ago." Leo tried to answer but found that his throat had closed.
Sully stopped in front of him and lowered his head slightly so the boy would not have to look up so far. "Are you hurt?" he asked. Leo nodded, and that simple answer nearly undid him.
Hank stepped between them. "This is a state custody matter," he announced. "The boy's a runaway under my responsibility. You need to get back on the road."
Sully looked at him, then at Higgins. "A custody matter," he repeated. "With a baseball bat?" Hank adjusted his grip and insisted that the boy had been violent and had stolen property.
"What's your name?" Sully asked. "Hank Dawson," the man said, puffing his chest out as though naming himself might restore some of his authority. Sully nodded once.
"I'm Jack Sullivan. And that kid fixed my motorcycle in this place when I was hurt and stranded." Hank gave a dismissive laugh. "Well, he told me he got some lighter from a biker. My guess is he stole it."