He touched the surface lightly after confirming it was safe. The heat there felt wrong, not simply the residual warmth of a running engine but a concentrated sign that two parts had been working against each other. He withdrew his hand and lay on the creeper staring at the metal, trying to make himself distrust the conclusion that was forming. The hidden problem was no longer beginning to look like a conventional engine failure.
Caleb rolled out, sat on the concrete, and stared at the wall for a full minute. It was nearly five o'clock. He had found something that might explain both the ignition failure and the violent chassis movement, but finding it had made the job immeasurably worse.
He fetched the custom frame's paperwork from the tool pouch and compared it with the paint and fabrication work visible under the lift. A recent repaint had concealed more than ordinary cosmetic work. Under the glossy finish, a concealed alteration appeared to have been made to a critical structural area, and the metal around it showed evidence of movement when the machine was loaded. The precise cause still required inspection, but the danger itself was no longer in doubt.
The wiring had been routed in a way that made it vulnerable to movement within the modified chassis. At a narrow band of engine vibration, the altered structure could disturb the electrical system while also weakening the frame's ability to carry the forces of riding. What had first looked like an electrical breakdown was more plausibly a symptom of a structural defect. The shudder wasn't following the misfire; the misfire and shudder were both consequences of the hidden frame problem.
He sat back on his heels. Somebody had not merely repaired an old cracked weld badly. The altered section was too deliberate, the machining too precise, and the recent paint too conveniently placed for the explanation to be ordinary wear. He could not honestly declare a particular person guilty from a flashlight inspection, but the possibility of intentional tampering was suddenly impossible to ignore.
His throat went dry. He pictured Grip leaning into the wind on the desert highway, the red Knucklehead pulling hard at seventy-five and then throwing its rider toward oncoming traffic. He pictured the police examining a broken frame and deciding that an aging motorcycle had finally come apart. Most of all, he pictured what might have happened if he had patched the apparent electrical fault, handed back the keys, and sent the man away.
The five thousand dollars seemed smaller than it had that morning. Caleb had never needed money as badly as he needed it now, and yet he knew with absolute clarity that accepting it for a superficial repair would destroy him regardless of what the bank did. He could no longer claim ignorance. The machine on his lift was dangerous in a way that could not be cured by changing a carburetor or tightening a connector.
He checked his watch again. Grip had given him until sundown, and there were still hours in which he might gather proof, prepare the chassis for a competent structural repair, and tell the man what he had found. There was no chance of making the machine truly perfect within that period without taking enormous risks. But if the bike needed to be taken apart so he could show Grip the reason it could not safely be ridden, then Caleb would take it apart.