Wyatt studied her for several seconds, then looked down at his machine. He had bought it used, rebuilt much of it himself, and ridden it across state lines so often that the seat had molded to his shape. He knew where the ordinary repairs had been made. He did not remember authorizing work beneath the side panel.
"Who touched the bikes at the compound?" he asked.
Billy spread his hands. "Everybody touches bikes. We share a garage."
"I asked who touched mine."
The prospect looked toward the highway. Sarah saw his expression change, and the fear in it made the heat feel suddenly irrelevant. Wyatt noticed, too. He took one step away from the motorcycle and told all of them to move farther into the lot.
"Whatever that is, we're not gathering around it," Sarah said. "The safest thing is to clear the area and get the right people here."
"The right people?" Billy echoed. "You mean cops?"
"I mean people trained to handle a suspicious device. You can dislike their uniforms after the parking lot is safe."
Wyatt looked at her as though she had suggested they dismantle the clubhouse and plant a garden. For a moment Sarah wondered if he would refuse simply because nobody in his world was accustomed to taking instructions from a woman in work clothes. Then he nodded. He motioned the prospect away from his machine and stood between Billy and the path back to the motorcycles.
"My name's Sarah Jenkins," she said, more to steady herself than because anyone had asked. "This property is mine. Nobody goes near that bike until professionals clear it."
"Wyatt Henderson," he said, and his expression tightened. "They call me Cross."
"I heard."
"I expect you did."
"Names aren't the problem at the moment."
Billy's hand drifted toward his belt. Wyatt caught the movement and stopped him with a look sharp enough to make Sarah take another step backward. She had no wish to find herself in the middle of a confrontation that began with a faulty motorcycle and ended in something she could not undo.
"What happened at the garage this morning?" Wyatt asked.
"Nothing," Billy said. "We checked the bikes. That's all."
"Who checked mine?"
The question hung unanswered. A truck went by on the highway, trailing a low cloud of exhaust and white dust. Sarah heard the prospect swallow. She had seen men behave like that after an accident, when the truth was already known but nobody wanted to be the first to say it.
"Billy," Wyatt said, "I'm giving you a chance to answer honestly."
"Cross, it wasn't supposed to happen here," Billy blurted.
Sarah felt the words strike the space between them. Wyatt did not move, and for a moment his stillness was more unnerving than Billy's panic. The prospect closed his eyes as if hearing his worst fear finally spoken aloud.
"What wasn't supposed to happen here?" Wyatt asked.
Billy looked from Wyatt to Sarah, then toward the wide empty highway. He opened his mouth twice before any sound emerged. "Your brother's plan. He said it would happen after you left the compound. He said nobody else would get hurt."