Seconds later Gabriel stepped outside holding a flashlight and a shotgun.
“Elena?”
The shotgun immediately lowered.
He crossed the yard.
His flashlight passed across her swollen eye.
Then her split lip.
Something terrible and quiet entered Gabriel’s expression.
“Who did that?”
Elena looked away.
“You already know.”
Gabriel did.
Everybody in Oak Haven knew Rick Dawson had a temper.
Nobody knew enough to do anything about it.
Or perhaps they knew exactly enough and had chosen convenience.
Gabriel unlocked the garage.
“Come inside.”
“I can’t stay.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I need to get away before he wakes up.”
Gabriel stared at her.
“How far?”
“I don’t know.”
“You got somebody waiting?”
“No.”
“Phone?”
“Rick smashed it last month.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“Car?”
Elena almost laughed.
“I have sixty-five dollars.”
He rubbed one hand over his gray beard.
“You’re planning this beautifully.”
“I didn’t exactly schedule it.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Then Gabriel became serious again.
“How much can you spend?”
Elena pulled the money from her pocket.
Rain had soaked through the bills.
“Forty.”
“Forty dollars doesn’t buy transportation.”
“It buys something.”
“Not anything that should legally move.”
“I don’t need legally.”
Gabriel stared at her for a long moment.
Then he turned.
“Follow me.”
They walked past shelves filled with carburetors, radiators and engine blocks until they reached the rear corner of the garage.
Something large sat beneath a gray tarp.
Gabriel stopped.
For a moment, Elena thought he had changed his mind.
Then he pulled the tarp away.
The motorcycle beneath it looked dead.
A 1974 Harley-Davidson Ironhead Sportster.
The gas tank had once been black but was now faded almost gray. Rust covered the exhaust. One mirror was missing. The seat was split along the middle, exposing yellow foam. Dents marked the tank, and the tires looked older than Elena.
She stared at Gabriel.
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke before sunrise.”
“Does it run?”
“Depends on your definition of run.”
Gabriel kicked the tire.
“Been sitting twelve years. Engine leaks. Clutch sticks. Brakes are more philosophical than mechanical.”
Elena touched the handlebar.
“Can you start it?”
Gabriel looked at the motorcycle.
Then at Elena.
Something passed behind his eyes.
Something she didn’t understand.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
Elena took out two wet twenty-dollar bills.
“It’s all I can give you.”
Gabriel looked down at the money.
His fingers trembled.
Just slightly.
Then he took it.
“I’ll need forty-five minutes.”
Elena frowned.
“You’re actually selling this to me?”
“Yes.”
“For forty dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Gabriel turned toward his workbench.
“Because sometimes a machine spends years waiting for the right person.”
She assumed he was being poetic.
Gabriel Stone was rarely poetic.
Forty-eight minutes later, the Sportster coughed.
Then coughed again.
Then roared awake.
The sound filled the garage.
Gabriel stood beside it, one hand gripping the workbench.
His face had gone pale.
Elena shouted over the engine.
“You okay?”
Gabriel nodded.
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at the motorcycle.
