The first half hour was deliberately boring. Caleb checked fluid levels, inspected the plugs, listened for unusual mechanical noise, and examined the ignition connections without disturbing more than necessary. He looked for obvious signs of fuel starvation and vacuum leaks. He checked that neither wheel had a hidden defect that might create a dangerous oscillation, and he looked along the frame for evidence of recent damage. The machine was beautifully assembled in most respects, which only made the problem harder to isolate.
The rear tire was new, its tread deep and evenly worn at the edges. The wheel bearings moved smoothly under inspection, and the steering head did not reveal the play he feared. The fork was straight, and the fasteners he could reach had been tightened carefully. Caleb found nothing that explained why the bike could behave perfectly for miles and then turn vicious at one narrow band of road speed. A rider might have called it cursed. Ray would have called it an invitation to ask a better question.
At two o’clock, Evelyn appeared at the open door carrying a second bottle of water. She stopped when she saw the red machine and the empty space where the customer usually stood. “That’s a serious-looking piece of equipment,” she said.
“Old Harley,” Caleb answered, distracted by the wiring near the tank. “Customer’s in a hurry.”
“What kind of hurry?”
“The kind with an exact deadline.”
She set the bottle on the counter and saw the handwriting on the job card. “Henderson?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Silas Henderson?”
“You know him?”
“I know people who know him. That’s enough for me.” She glanced toward the road. “Did you agree to something you shouldn’t have?”
Caleb almost told her about the threat, the five thousand dollars, and the bank balance. Instead he said, “I agreed to look for the problem.”
Evelyn studied him for a moment. “Then look for the problem. Don’t let somebody else’s clock make you careless.”
It was precisely what Ray would have said, and that made Caleb feel both grateful and irritated. He took the water anyway. When Evelyn returned to her office, he shut the bay door halfway to keep out the worst of the sun and began making a diagram of the systems that could fail only under sustained speed. Fuel, ignition, vibration, heat, loading: he wrote each one on the back of a discarded invoice. Then he drew lines between them and marked what he had tested and what remained unknown.
He called Donovan’s shop and asked for the mechanic who had worked on Grip’s machine. The receptionist placed him on hold, and the wait seemed impossibly long with the wall clock ticking above him. Donovan himself eventually answered, sounded annoyed, and became more annoyed when he learned the call concerned Henderson’s red Knucklehead. He said he had checked the carburetor and fuel supply thoroughly, and he did not appreciate having his work questioned by someone barely old enough to buy a drink.