It was a motorcycle, but not the uneven cough of the neglected commuter bikes that occasionally came in for inexpensive service. This engine had a deep, deliberate rhythm, the unmistakable pulse of an old American V-twin tuned by somebody who wanted the world to hear it. Caleb straightened before he realized he was moving. He wiped his hands on a rag and walked toward the open bay.
The machine appeared first, a low blood-red silhouette crossing the wavering sheet of heat above the asphalt. Behind it came two other motorcycles carrying younger riders in denim and leather, their headlights pale against the sun. The lead bike slowed at the corner, glided past the shuttered neighboring machine shop, and rolled toward Caleb's bay with the weight and certainty of a ship entering harbor. Its engine note was magnificent and somehow uneasy at the same time.
The rider was a broad-shouldered older man with a weathered face and scars that the sunglasses could not conceal. His leather vest bore the winged death's-head patch of a Hells Angels chapter, and two younger men waited behind him with the tense attention of people accustomed to taking his moods seriously. Caleb recognized him before the engine stopped. Everyone who had spent enough time around motorcycles in the valley knew the name Silas 'Grip' Henderson.
Grip was sergeant-at-arms for a feared regional charter, and his reputation had grown through decades of stories told in repair shops, bars, and courthouse hallways. Some stories were probably exaggerations, while others were grim enough that Caleb had no intention of testing them. He knew the club's members spent money on their machines and demanded work that justified the price. He also knew that men who expected intimidation to solve every inconvenience could turn a small misunderstanding into something much larger.
The motorcycle itself demanded his attention. It was a 1947 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead built around a rigid custom frame painted a rich candy-apple red, the finish so deep that it seemed dark purple where the sun did not reach it. Its aged engine cases were polished rather than plated, and the brass details carried the marks of years of maintenance instead of the bland perfection of a modern show bike. There was an open primary drive, an old-fashioned foot-clutch arrangement, and a saddle worn into the shape of its owner's body.
Caleb could see immediately that somebody had invested enormous care in the machine. Nothing about it was casual, from the careful routing of the cables to the narrow strip of black pinstriping that followed the upper frame tube. He could also see that something had been troubling its owner, because the front tire was marked with fresh chalk notes and one side of the engine had been opened recently. A man did not bring a motorcycle like that to an unknown teenager unless he had run out of comfortable choices.
Grip switched the engine off. For an instant the air seemed to hold the last pulse of the exhaust, and then there was only the scratch of the kickstand and the sound of distant traffic. He took off his sunglasses and looked at Caleb with pale, hard eyes. The two younger riders remained astride their machines, and neither looked interested in leaving.