“Don’t celebrate.”
He stopped.
“Conditions.”
“Go.”
“Noah does not ride the Harley.”
Tank nodded.
“He rides in the support vehicle with me.”
“Okay.”
“We trailer the bike.”
Tank frowned.
“Why?”
She stared.
“Do you want the trip?”
“Yes.”
“Then trailer.”
“Fine.”
“Noah wears proper gear whenever he’s on any motorcycle even stationary.”
“Obviously.”
“You check in twice a day.”
“Fine.”
“No speeding.”
“Define—”
“Tank.”
“Fine.”
“No changing plans without telling me.”
“Fine.”
“And I’m coming.”
Tank blinked.
Noah shouted:
“Yes!”
His mother looked at him.
“Did you think I was letting you two disappear across three states?”
Tank smiled.
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Maybe.”
The road trip began in October.
Not on motorcycles.
Not the way Evan probably imagined.
But maybe better.
Pickup truck.
Enclosed trailer.
The Harley inside.
Noah.
His mother.
Tank.
Atlas came too after claiming somebody had to make sure Tank behaved.
Nobody believed that was the real reason.
He loved Evan almost as much.
The first stop was Prescott.
The map circle led to an old motel.
Room 18 had been demolished during renovation years earlier.
Tank assumed the stop was useless.
Then the motel manager heard Evan’s name.
“You’re late.”
Tank stared.
“What?”
The manager went into the office.
Returned with a sealed toolbox.
Evan had left it fourteen years earlier with instructions.
Give this to Mason Callahan if he arrives with a boy named Noah.
Noah touched the box.
“Dad knew?”
Tank shook his head.
“Apparently your father had trust issues with normal communication.”
Inside were three objects.
An old photograph.
A spark plug.
And a cassette tape.
The photograph showed young Evan and Daniel standing beside their father.
Behind them was the unfinished motorcycle project.
The rear wheel contained the blue hub.
On the back:
THE HUB WAS INSTALLED BEFORE THE FIGHT.
Tank looked up.
That contradicted Daniel’s story.
Daniel claimed the hub remained loose in the garage.
The cassette contained Evan’s voice.
Older.
Sick.
But clear.
“If you’re hearing this, good. Prescott proves memory is unreliable. Daniel remembers the hub loose. I remember it installed. One of us is wrong. Maybe both.”
Tank smiled.
Even dying, Evan refused certainty.
The message continued.
“Next stop knows which.”
Kingman.
A retired mechanic named Roy Alvarez.
Eighty-three.
Hands still strong.
He remembered Paul Price.
Noah’s grandfather.
Paul had brought the custom motorcycle to Roy’s shop months before his death.
Roy had balanced the wheels.
He pulled an old paper invoice from a filing cabinet.
The rear hub listed:
CUSTOM BLUE HUB — CUSTOMER SUPPLIED — INSTALLED
Date.
Four months before Paul died.
So Daniel’s memory was wrong.
Or the wheel had later been disassembled.
Roy explained.
“After Paul died, the boys brought the bike back.”
“They were fighting.”
“Bad.”
“What happened?”
“Daniel wanted the wheel removed.”
“Why?”
Roy looked toward Noah.
Then hesitated.
Noah said:
“I can hear it.”
His mother almost smiled.
Roy continued.
“Daniel said the hub was his.”