Chapter 2 - The Number Beneath the Seat
The man at my door introduced himself as Special Agent Lucas Reed.
Not sheriff.
Not state police.
Federal.
Margaret stopped breathing normally the moment he showed his credentials.
Beverly stood behind her.
Trevor stayed near the kitchen.
He had gone from loudest person in the house to quietest.
That interested me.
“Mr. Bennett?”
Agent Reed was about fifty.
Gray suit.
No tie.
A face that looked like it had spent too many years delivering news people didn’t want.
“Yes.”
“We need to speak privately.”
Margaret stepped forward.
“I sold the motorcycle.”
He glanced at her.
“I know.”
“You took it from the dealership?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I need to discuss with your husband.”
“This is my house.”
Reed looked at me.
I opened the door wider.
“You can speak here.”
His eyes moved past me toward the kitchen.
Then settled briefly on Trevor.
Something passed through his face.
Recognition?
No.
Maybe suspicion.
“Do you have the documents your father gave you?”
Margaret looked at me.
“You told him about documents?”
“I’ve never met him.”
Reed nodded.
“That’s correct.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because your father told someone else.”
The air changed.
I let Reed inside.
Margaret started asking questions.
He ignored most of them.
I led him toward my workshop.
Trevor followed.
Reed turned.
“Family only, please.”
Trevor laughed nervously.
“I am family.”
“Immediate family.”
“I’m his brother-in-law.”
Reed’s expression didn’t change.
“Then stay in the kitchen.”
Trevor didn’t like that.
Neither did Beverly.
Margaret and I entered the garage with Reed.
The empty patch looked different now.
Like a crime scene.
Reed stood over it.
“This is where the motorcycle was stored?”
“For forty-three years.”
“Anyone besides you regularly work on it?”
“No.”
“Anyone else have access?”
“My wife.”
Margaret crossed her arms.
“And apparently half the federal government.”
Reed ignored the remark.
“Mr. Bennett, did you know the number 273814 was stamped beneath the seat?”
“Yes.”
His eyes sharpened.
“How?”
“My father showed me.”
“When?”
“1983.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Never remove it.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Reed studied me.
“Did he ever mention a man named Samuel Crowe?”
“No.”
“Walter Keene?”
“No.”
“Arthur Vance?”
That name did something.
Not because I knew the man.
Because I had seen it.
On the clipping.
I turned toward the metal cabinet.
Margaret noticed.
“You know that name.”
“I’ve read it.”
“Where?”
I unlocked the bottom drawer.
Empty.
I froze.
The envelope was gone.
My father’s ownership envelope had been sitting beside the toolbox when I came home.
I had looked at it.
I had touched it.
But the thicker brown envelope containing the documents had always been inside this drawer.
Now it wasn’t.
Reed stepped closer.
“What’s missing?”
“A brown document envelope.”
“What was inside?”
“Old papers.”
“What papers?”
I looked at Margaret.
“I don’t know exactly.”
She stared at me.
“You’ve had secret documents in our garage for thirty-six years?”
“I had my father’s papers.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It was to me.”
Reed crouched beside the cabinet.
“No forced entry.”
“There wouldn’t need to be.”
Margaret’s voice hardened.
“Are you accusing me?”
“No.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
“I’m wondering who had the spare key.”
Beverly heard me.
She entered immediately.
“If you’re talking about me, I only opened the top drawer.”
“Why?”
“Margaret wanted the ownership papers.”
“The ownership paper was in the top drawer.”
“Yes.”
“The brown envelope was in the bottom.”
“I never touched it.”
Reed stood.
“Who knew it was there?”
“No one.”
“That you’re aware of.”
“Yes.”
Trevor appeared behind Beverly.
“I don’t like where this is going.”
Reed turned slowly.
“Mr…?”
“Pike. Trevor Pike.”
For the first time, Reed reacted.
Very small.
But I saw it.
“You said Pike?”
“Yes.”
“Spell it.”
Trevor frowned.
“P-I-K-E.”
Reed stared at him for two seconds too long.
Then reached into his coat and took out his phone.
“Excuse me.”
He walked toward the driveway.
I watched through the open garage.
Margaret moved beside me.
“What is happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
I finally turned toward her.
“You sold my father’s motorcycle while I was at a doctor’s appointment.”
Her face tightened.
“You forged my signature on a bill of sale.”
“I did not forge—”
“You told Trevor I approved.”
She stopped.
“You entered a locked cabinet.”
“I was trying to solve a problem.”
“The motorcycle wasn’t a problem.”
“For you.”
“No. For you.”
Beverly stepped between us.
“Margaret did something useful for once.”
My head turned.
“For once?”
She realized the mistake.
Margaret did too.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Beverly shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been pushing her to sell it for years.”
“So?”
“Why?”
“Because it was ridiculous.”
“Why did it matter to you?”
“It took up space.”
“In my garage.”
“Your garage is attached to my sister’s house.”
“My house.”
“Both of your house.”
“Then why were you interested in my bottom drawer?”
Her face changed.
“I wasn’t.”
Trevor walked forward.
“This is getting stupid.”
Reed came back inside.
His attention went immediately to Trevor.
“Mr. Pike, what was your father’s name?”
Trevor laughed once.
“What?”
“Your father’s name.”
“Why?”
Reed waited.
Trevor glanced at Beverly.
Then at Margaret.
“Donald.”
“Full name?”
“Donald James Pike.”
“Born where?”
“This is insane.”
Reed took one step closer.
“Born where?”
Trevor’s jaw tightened.
“Tennessee.”
“What town?”
“I don’t know. Outside Knoxville.”
Reed’s eyes didn’t move.
“What did he do?”
“Construction.”
“Before that?”
“How would I know?”
“You never asked?”
Trevor shrugged.
“He died when I was twenty.”
Reed nodded slowly.
“Do you have a photograph of him?”
Beverly looked confused.
“What does Trevor’s father have to do with Harold’s motorcycle?”
Reed answered without looking at her.
“Possibly nothing.”
That meant possibly everything.
I thought of the newspaper clipping.
A grainy photograph outside a courthouse.
Four men.
One identified as Arthur Vance.
The others unnamed.
My father had circled one face.
I had never known why.
“Agent Reed.”
He looked at me.
“I may have a copy.”
“Of what?”
“The documents.”
Everyone turned.
Margaret’s voice rose.
“You said they were missing.”
“The originals are.”
I walked to the workbench.
Pulled out a small black binder.
Inside were maintenance receipts, photographs, parts invoices.
And one flash drive.
My son Jason had given it to me ten years earlier.
He’d told me paper could burn.
So I scanned anything I cared about.
I plugged it into the old laptop on my bench.
Reed stood beside me.
Trevor stayed back.
The folder was called DAD.
Inside were photographs.
My father in uniform.
My mother at twenty-five.
Me beside the motorcycle.
Then scans.
A handwritten letter.
A receipt.
The 1972 newspaper clipping.
Reed leaned toward the screen.
“Open that.”
I did.
Headline:
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CLEARED AFTER WAREHOUSE FIRE INVESTIGATION.
Arthur Vance was photographed walking from the courthouse.
I zoomed in.
Four men stood behind him.
My father had circled the man on the far right.
Reed’s face changed.
Margaret whispered, “Who is he?”
I looked at Trevor.
Because suddenly I knew why Reed had reacted to his surname.
The circled man had the same narrow eyes.
The same heavy brow.
The same crooked left ear.
Trevor stepped backward.
“No.”
Beverly looked from the screen to her husband.
“What?”
Trevor shook his head.
“That isn’t my father.”
Reed asked, “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t seen a photograph yet.”
Trevor realized what he had said.
Silence.
Beverly turned slowly toward him.
“What do you mean?”
Trevor didn’t answer.
Reed pointed at the screen.
“The man your father circled was Donald Pike.”
My wife gripped the edge of my workbench.
Trevor’s face drained of color.
Reed continued.
“Donald Pike disappeared in 1974.”
Beverly whispered, “You told me he died in 1981.”
Trevor snapped, “That’s what my mother told me.”
Reed ignored him.
“Donald Pike was suspected of helping Arthur Vance move stolen property through several western North Carolina warehouses.”
Margaret sat down.
“What does that have to do with the motorcycle?”
Reed looked at me.
“Your father was a mechanic for the Henderson County Sheriff’s Department.”
I nodded.
“For twelve years.”
“He also worked as a confidential witness.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father hated police politics. He quit.”
“That’s why he quit.”
My mouth went dry.
Reed pointed to the motorcycle photograph.
“The number under the seat wasn’t a factory number.”
“What was it?”
“An evidence designation.”
Margaret whispered, “Evidence of what?”
Reed hesitated.
“A case that never went to trial.”
I stared at the empty concrete.
Forty-three years.
Every Sunday.
My hands had moved over that motorcycle thousands of times.
I had thought I knew every bolt.
Every cable.
Every scratch.
Apparently I had known nothing.
“What did they find under the seat?” I asked.
Reed looked toward Trevor.
Then back at me.
“The number led us to a sealed evidence index.”
“What evidence?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“You seized the bike.”
“Yes.”
“So look.”
“We did.”
“And?”
Reed’s answer came slowly.
“There’s a compartment welded inside the frame.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
Beverly stared at Trevor.
Trevor suddenly moved.
Not toward us.
Toward the back door.
Reed called out.
“Mr. Pike.”
Trevor stopped.
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m going outside.”
“No.”
Trevor turned.
“For what?”
“Until we clarify a few things.”
“You can’t detain me.”
“I didn’t say I was detaining you.”
“Then get out of my way.”
Reed didn’t move.
Trevor looked at Beverly.
Then Margaret.
Then me.
His expression wasn’t anger anymore.
It was fear.
My phone buzzed on the workbench.
Unknown number.
I looked down.
A photograph had arrived.
My missing brown envelope.
It was lying open on someone’s passenger seat.
Underneath the image was one sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LET THE BIKE STAY BURIED.
I looked up.
May you like
Trevor was staring at my phone.
And before I could ask why, someone outside started running.
