Grip picked up the bagged sleeve and held it for a long time. “That’s the part that was hurting my motorcycle?” he asked.
“It was part of it. It damaged the wiring and weakened the frame. I can show you how everything fit together.”
“You’re telling me somebody could stand beside me at a gas station, look me in the eye, and know my bike might come apart under me?”
“I don’t know what they knew,” Caleb said. “But somebody put that there.”
Grip’s face changed. The anger did not leave so much as settle into something heavier, a grief he had not yet named. He looked at the red tank and then at the battered brass key lying on the bench. “This motorcycle belonged to a man named Frank Bell,” he said. “We called him Father Time because he could get an old engine running when all the experts said it was dead. He rode it until his hands were too weak to pull in the clutch. When he passed, I promised his daughter it would keep moving.”
Caleb listened. He had assumed the motorcycle’s value was measured in money and status, yet its owner spoke now like a man discussing a family member’s last possession. Ray had done that, too, though in his case the object had been the worn notebook Caleb carried. People placed their memories in machines because the machines gave them something physical to touch when the people were gone. The realization did not make Grip less frightening, but it made his fury easier to understand.
“Frank rebuilt this bike after a wreck in nineteen eighty-eight,” Grip continued. “He called it Red Mercy. Stupid name for something that loud, but it stuck.” He gave a humorless laugh. “You know how many people have worked on this machine since then?”
“No.”
“Plenty. I thought I knew every scar on it.”
“You knew the scars somebody let you see,” Caleb answered gently.
Grip looked toward the unpainted repaired section and nodded once. “And now?”
“The dangerous modification’s gone. I’ve made a structural repair, but Martin still needs to inspect it. The rest is reassembly and testing.”
Grip checked the clock. It read 8:20. Outside, the last glow of sunset was almost gone. “And the bike’s still in pieces.”
“Yes.”
“You told me it wouldn’t go out unsafe.”
“Yes.”
The older biker looked at his gloves, then at the engine and the open workbench. “What do you need?”
Caleb blinked. “What?”
“I asked what you need.” Grip pulled on a pair of black mechanics gloves. “You saved my life, or at least you kept me from getting killed on a bad frame. I’m not going to stand here while you do all the work. Tell me where to start.”