Old Hondas.
Custom builds.
Touring bikes covered in highway dust.
Riders came from everywhere.
Some wore club colors.
Others wore plain jackets.
Many carried black ribbons tied to handlebars.
Nobody had officially announced the final count, but Russell stopped counting after six hundred.
Leo arrived with Claire at 7:15.
He froze when he saw the motorcycles.
“Whoa.”
Claire smiled.
“Technical term?”
“Yes.”
Jim met them at the door.
He looked different.
Clean black shirt.
Freshly trimmed beard.
Dutch’s old club pin attached above his vest pocket.
“Morning.”
Leo pointed toward the bikes.
“All for Dutch?”
“Most.”
“Some people just heard there was free coffee.”
Claire laughed.
Jim looked at Leo.
“You want to see the FXR?”
Leo nodded.
The motorcycle sat inside the front bay.
Clean.
Polished.
Ready.
Arthur’s small engraved tag had not been returned to the hidden location.
Leo had decided that.
Instead, it now hung from a thin safety wire beneath the seat where it could be found without disassembling the ignition.
Not on display.
Not hidden.
Exactly where Leo wanted it.
Jim handed him the key.
Leo looked at it.
“Me?”
“You found the problem.”
“It’s Dutch’s bike.”
Jim nodded.
“And?”
Leo thought.
Then inserted the key.
Turned it.
Lights came alive.
Jim pressed the starter.
The FXR started immediately.
The sound rolled through the open garage doors.
Outside, conversations stopped.
Hundreds of riders turned.
A cheer rose.
Leo stepped backward.
The noise overwhelmed him.
Claire placed her hands on his shoulders.
Jim let the motorcycle idle.
Then shut it down.
Russell walked over.
“Media’s outside.”
Claire frowned.
“What?”
“A local reporter heard about the bike.”
Jim’s expression hardened.
“How?”
Russell looked toward one of the younger club members.
The man immediately found the ceiling interesting.
Jim muttered something under his breath.
Claire looked at Leo.
“Do you want to talk to anyone?”
Leo shook his head.
“Okay.”
Jim nodded.
“No interview.”
Russell said, “They might ask about Arthur.”
“No.”
Jim’s answer was immediate.
Claire looked at him.
Jim softened.
“Unless you want it.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Then no.”
That mattered.
Dutch’s secret was not club property.
Arthur’s history was not publicity material.
Leo was not a memorial prop.
At 8:30, riders assembled.
Dutch’s FXR stood first.
Jim would ride it.
Behind him came Dutch’s closest friends.
Then the rest.
Leo stood beside Claire near the starting line.
Jim leaned down toward them.