displacement shaking the gravel shoulder and
whipping James's vest. Neither James nor the
motorcycle moved an inch.
Boyd stepped closer to the bike, leaning down
to examine the heavy steel frame. He wasn't a
historian, but even he could tell the machine was
highly unusual. It didn't look like a classic civilian
cruiser; it looked like something that belonged in a
museum exhibit about the Second World War. He
traced a finger over the faded white numbers
stenciled beneath the olive paint on the fuel tank.
"Where did you get this thing?" Boyd asked,
standing back up and crossing his arms.
"Government surplus auction," James
answered.
"When?"
"1959."
Boyd laughed again, louder this time. He
looked back at Sergeant Ruiz as if inviting him to
join in the joke. Ruiz did not smile.
"You expect me to believe you've had this
piece of junk since 1959?" Boyd sneered.
"I did not ask you to believe it," James stated
plainly. "I simply answered your question."
The younger officer’s expression hardened
instantly. The smirk vanished, replaced by the
defensive anger of a bully who felt his authority was
being challenged by someone refusing to act
intimidated.
"You have an attitude, old man," Boyd warned,
taking a threatening half-step forward.
"No," James replied softly.
"You're being smart with me."
"I am answering your questions directly and
truthfully."
James Harris exhibited none of these traits. He
stood beside his ancient motorcycle with the
profound, immovable patience of a man who had
waited through situations far more dangerous than a
routine traffic stop on a Georgia highway.
Ruiz’s eyes drifted to James’s hands. They
were the hands of a man who had worked hard all
his life. But they were also marked by specific,
brutal violence. A thick, raised scar curved from the
base of James’s left thumb down to his wrist.
Another jagged white line crossed the knuckles of
his right hand. And Ruiz noticed that a small portion
of James’s left index finger was entirely missing,
healed over smooth and round.
"You work on motorcycles?" Ruiz asked
quietly, adopting a more conversational tone than his
partner.
James looked at the Sergeant, recognizing a
different kind of cop. "Among other things."
"What did you do before retirement?"
James looked away, staring toward the low
hills masking Fort Kendrick. "Transportation."
Boyd, overhearing the exchange, scoffed.
"Truck driver?"
James didn't look at Boyd. "Sometimes."
The radio on Boyd's shoulder suddenly
crackled to life, breaking the tense silence.
"Unit Twelve, plate returns valid to James
Franklin Harris. No wants. No warrants. Motorcycle
is registered and insured."
Boyd pressed the transmit button on his
microphone, refusing to let it go. "Any stolen-
vehicle reports in the region matching an old
military-style motorcycle? Maybe an antique?"
"Negative, Unit Twelve," the dispatcher
replied, a hint of confusion in her voice.
There was a brief pause on the radio.
"Sergeant Ruiz," the dispatcher’s voice
returned, "confirm subject’s middle name."
Ruiz reached for his own mic. "Franklin."
Another, longer silence followed. The only
sound was the wind rushing through the tall grass
along the shoulder.
"Stand by," the dispatcher finally said, her
voice entirely devoid of its previous casual tone.
Ruiz frowned deeply. A 'stand by' on a routine
identification check was never a good sign. It meant
the system had flagged something requiring
supervisor intervention.
Boyd, however, looked pleased. The arrogant
smirk returned to his face. "Maybe we found
something after all."
James simply glanced through the window of
the cruiser at the glowing green numbers on the
dashboard clock. It was 9:28 AM.
"What time is it?" James asked aloud,
confirming what he had seen.
Boyd tilted his head. "Why do you care?"
"I am expected at the Fort at ten o'clock,"
James said mildly.
"You'll get there when we're finished with our
investigation," Boyd retorted, crossing his arms.
James looked back toward the west. The
ceremony he was due to attend would begin in
exactly thirty-two minutes. He had planned this
morning perfectly. He had not expected to be held
hostage on the shoulder of a highway by a young
patrolman desperate to find a crime where none
existed.
Chapter 4
A Manufactured Suspicion
Boyd paced slowly around the motorcycle, his
boots crunching loudly on the gravel. He was
agitated, searching for any minor infraction to justify
the prolonged stop. He checked the tread on the
tires, inspected the brake lights, and examined the
exhaust pipes. Finding nothing wrong, he stopped in
front of the second, right-side saddlebag.
"What is in the saddlebags?" Boyd demanded.
"Tools, rain gear, and a folded uniform," James
answered truthfully.
Boyd stopped pacing. He turned to face James,
his reflection distorted in the mirrored lenses. "What
kind of uniform?"