At 8:40, Dutch returned with a younger member in a dark vest. The man was perhaps twenty-six, narrow-faced and restless, with close-cropped hair and a small scar beside one eyebrow. Caleb knew without being told that this was Skinner. The young rider stopped at the edge of the bay and looked at the red Knucklehead. His expression shifted when he noticed the unpainted repair near the front of the frame.
Iron Jack intercepted him before he approached the workbench. “We need to ask you about the bike’s transport from Fresno,” he said.
Skinner tried to laugh. “What about it? I strapped it down like you told me.”
“Who else was there?”
“The painter. A couple of guys loading. Me.”
“Where did you leave the trailer that night?”
The answer came too quickly. Skinner said it had remained in a locked yard the entire time. Iron Jack asked how he knew if he had not personally kept watch, and the younger man’s gaze flicked toward Dutch. Caleb noticed the movement without knowing what it meant. He looked away and returned to his work, painfully aware that what he had found on the lift might now be deciding another man’s future.
Iron Jack took Skinner outside to continue the conversation. Nobody raised a voice, but the quiet was not reassuring. Caleb could hear the low rise and fall of questions through the open bay door. Another biker came in briefly and asked whether the repaired frame had been documented, then left when Grip told him to stay out of the way. The riders in the street remained mostly still. Several had removed their jackets and were sitting on low curbs, waiting in the July night like men stationed at an unexpected roadside stop.
At 8:52, a battered white pickup approached the outer group and slowed. Two riders stepped aside after speaking to the driver, and the truck rolled into the yard. Martin Vale climbed out, shorter and older than Caleb remembered, with silver hair flattened beneath a cap and a canvas tool bag over one shoulder. He glanced at the motorcycles, took in the atmosphere, and let out a tired whistle. “You didn’t tell me you were hosting a convention,” he said.
Caleb crossed the bay in four quick steps and shook the older man’s hand. Martin had been present at Ray’s funeral but had left early because he had a long drive home. Caleb had not seen him since. The simple presence of someone who knew his uncle, knew his work, and was not impressed by leather patches felt like having a weight lifted from his chest. Martin looked at his bandaged thumb and his stained shirt. “You look like you fought a combine harvester,” he said. “Show me the frame.”
Grip stepped aside. For once the sergeant-at-arms of the charter was not the most intimidating person in the room. Martin inspected the repaired section with an expression of concentrated skepticism. He asked about the original measurements, studied photographs of the damage, and checked the alignment of the frame before he said anything resembling approval. He was especially interested in what had been removed and whether the new work had introduced stresses of its own.