Leo immediately said, “Not yet.”
Frank turned.
The senior mechanic’s patience was thinning.
“What now?”
Leo pointed beneath the plate.
“You need to check the spacer.”
“Why?”
“If it moved, twelve degrees won’t matter.”
Frank stared.
Jim said calmly, “Check it.”
Frank removed two fasteners.
Russell held the light.
The plate came free.
Behind it sat a small machined spacer.
Frank touched it.
Solid.
Correctly seated.
Then Leo leaned closer.
Something metallic reflected inside the housing.
He stopped.
Russell noticed.
“What?”
Leo pointed.
“There’s something behind there.”
Frank looked.
“I see it.”
He reached toward it.
Leo spoke quickly.
“Wait.”
Frank stopped.
The object was wedged beneath an edge of the housing.
Not part of the ignition.
Too small.
Too flat.
Leo looked at Russell.
“Can I?”
Russell hesitated.
Then handed him a pair of long needle-nose pliers.
“Only that.”
Leo carefully inserted the tool.
His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he concentrated.
He caught the edge.
Pulled.
A tiny metal tag slid free.
It was smaller than a dog tag.
Darkened by oil and age.
One corner had a drilled hole with a short piece of broken safety wire still attached.
Leo set the pliers down.
He wiped the tag against a rag.
Letters appeared.
His expression changed.
Jim stepped closer.
“What is it?”
Leo looked at the engraving.
Then he whispered.
“That shouldn’t be there.”
Jim’s face tightened.
“What?”
Leo turned the tag toward the light.
Two words had been engraved into the metal.
ARTHUR HAYES
The color disappeared from Jim Mercer’s face.
Leo looked up.
He expected confusion.
Maybe surprise.
Instead he saw fear.
Real fear.
Jim reached for the tag.
Leo instinctively pulled his hand back.
The movement stopped Jim.
The garage became silent again.
Leo looked from the tag to Jim.
“You knew this was here.”
Jim’s hand remained halfway extended.
“No.”
“You know what it is.”
Jim did not answer.
Russell stepped between them slightly.
“Jim?”
Jim lowered his hand.
His eyes stayed on the tag.
“I know what it might mean.”
Leo’s voice became smaller.
“What?”
Jim looked at the boy.
Then at the motorcycle.
For the first time in decades, the man known for never hesitating seemed unsure what he was allowed to say.
“Your mom know you’re here today?”
Leo frowned.
“She knows I come here every day.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes.”
“What time she finish work?”
“Six.”
Jim checked the clock.
4:17.
Leo closed his hand around the tag.