CHAPTER 2 — THE NIGHT THEY BURIED HIS NAME

The elderly woman did not sit.

She kept one hand on her cane and the other pressed firmly over the photograph.

“Then tell me.”

The gray-bearded biker looked toward the rain-streaked window.

For the first time since she entered, he seemed uncertain.

“My name is Grant Mercer.”

The woman swallowed.

“Eleanor Hayes.”

Grant nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.

“How?”

Grant looked back at the photograph.

“Because David talked about you.”

Her breath caught.

“You knew his name.”

“I knew more than his name.”

Grant’s voice became quieter.

“David Hayes saved my life.”

The men at the table exchanged uneasy glances.

Eleanor finally lowered herself into the empty chair.

“Thirty-five years.”

Her voice trembled.

“For thirty-five years, everyone told me David died in a motorcycle accident.”

Grant’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not what happened.”

Eleanor gripped the edge of the table.

“What happened that night?”

Grant leaned back.

“David rode with us.”

Eleanor looked around at the leather jackets.

“He was one of you?”

“We were younger then.”

Grant gave a humorless smile.

“Stupid enough to think loyalty could fix everything.”

He pointed to the motorcycle in the photograph.

“That bike belonged to him.”

Eleanor touched the faded image.

“He told me he worked at a repair shop.”

“He did.”

Grant paused.

“But the shop was also where our club met.”

Eleanor’s expression hardened.

“You’re telling me he lied to me.”

“He was trying to keep you away from our problems.”

“That’s what men always say after the lying is exposed.”

Grant accepted the words without arguing.

Then he reached beneath his jacket.

One of the bikers beside him quietly said,

“Grant…”

Grant ignored him.

He pulled out an old leather wallet.

Inside was a folded newspaper clipping.

He slid it across the table.

Eleanor opened it.

MOTORCYCLIST KILLED IN LATE-NIGHT HIGHWAY CRASH.

No photograph.

No body mentioned.

Only David’s name.

Eleanor stared.

“I’ve seen this.”

Grant nodded.

“It was false.”

Her eyes lifted sharply.

“What?”

“There was no crash.”

The diner seemed to become colder.

Eleanor whispered,

“Then why did the police tell me there was?”

Grant looked at the men around him.

Nobody spoke.

Finally, he said,

“Because someone paid them to.”

Eleanor’s grip tightened on her cane.

“Who?”

“That’s where the story gets dangerous.”

“I’m seventy-three years old.”

She leaned forward.

“I didn’t come through a rainstorm to hear half a story.”

Grant almost smiled.

David would have said the same thing.

The thought seemed to hurt him.

He looked at the photograph again.

“Three days before David disappeared, he came to me.”

“What did he want?”

“He’d found something.”

“What?”

“A ledger.”

Eleanor frowned.

Grant continued.

“One of our members was using the club’s repair business to move stolen parts, cash, and things we never agreed to touch.”

“Drugs?”

Grant nodded once.

Eleanor closed her eyes.

“David found proof?”

“Names. Payments. Dates. Police contacts.”

“And he planned to expose them.”

“Yes.”

Grant’s expression darkened.

“That was his mistake.”

Eleanor stared at him.

“Who was behind it?”

Grant hesitated.

A biker across the table suddenly stood.

“Grant, enough.”

Eleanor turned toward him.

He was heavyset, with a scar across his chin.

Grant’s voice became cold.

“Sit down, Mason.”

Mason didn’t move.

“You don’t know who followed her here.”

Eleanor looked toward the door.

“Followed me?”

Mason immediately realized he had said too much.

Grant stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

Mason’s face tightened.

“Nothing.”

“You said someone followed her.”

Grant stood.

The entire diner changed with him.

“Explain.”

Mason looked at the window.

Grant followed his gaze.

Across the road, through the rain, a dark sedan was parked beneath a dead streetlight.

Engine running.

No headlights.

Eleanor’s face went pale.

“That car was behind me at the gas station.”

Grant turned toward her.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it outside your house?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Grant looked at Mason.

“You knew.”

Mason said nothing.

Grant stepped closer.

“How?”

Mason finally sighed.

“Because it belongs to Victor Kane.”

Grant froze.

Eleanor whispered,

“Who is Victor Kane?”

Nobody answered.

She looked around.

“Who is he?”

Grant returned slowly to the table.

“The man David found in the ledger.”

Eleanor stared.

“You said one of your members was responsible.”

Grant nodded.

“Victor was our president.”

“And he killed David?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did he?”

Grant looked at her.

“I don’t know.”

Eleanor slammed her cane against the floor.

“Thirty-five years and you still don’t know?”

Grant flinched.

“I was there that night.”

Silence.

Eleanor stared at him.

“What?”

Grant’s eyes dropped.

“David called me from an abandoned service station outside town.”

His voice grew distant.

“He told me he had the ledger.”

“What happened?”

“When I arrived, Victor was already there.”

Eleanor stopped breathing.

“David?”

“Alive.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“You saw him alive?”

Grant nodded.

“They were arguing.”

“About what?”

“The ledger.”

Grant rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Victor told David to hand it over and walk away.”

“And David refused.”

“Yes.”

A faint smile touched Grant’s face.

“He always was stubborn.”

Eleanor almost laughed through her tears.

“Yes.”

Grant’s smile vanished.

“Then a car arrived.”

“Police?”

Grant nodded.

“Two officers.”

Eleanor looked confused.

“If David called the police—”

“He didn’t.”

Grant’s eyes darkened.

“Victor did.”

Eleanor understood.

“They worked for him.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Grant’s hand closed into a fist.

“One officer hit David.”

Eleanor covered her mouth.

“I tried to stop them.”

Grant stared down at the table.

“Victor pulled a gun.”

The bikers around him remained completely silent.

“What did you do?”

Grant looked at Eleanor.

“I froze.”

The admission was almost a whisper.

“For maybe three seconds.”

“But three seconds was enough.”

Eleanor’s eyes filled.

“Did they shoot him?”

Grant shook his head.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“They put him in the back of the police car.”

Eleanor stared at him.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

Her chair scraped backward.

“Then why did you let everyone tell me he was dead?”

Grant stood too.

“Because the next morning, Victor showed us David’s jacket covered in blood.”

Eleanor shook her head.

“No.”

“He said David tried to escape.”

“No.”

“And that the police had dumped his body somewhere we’d never find.”

Eleanor stared at the old photograph.

“You believed him?”

“At first.”

Grant’s voice cracked.

“Then Victor threatened you.”

Her head snapped up.

“Me?”

“He knew your address.”

Grant swallowed.

“He knew you were pregnant.”

Eleanor froze.

The diner disappeared around her.

“What did you say?”

Grant’s face changed.

“You never told David?”

Eleanor’s hands began trembling.

“I found out the morning after he disappeared.”

Grant stared.

“He knew.”

“No.”

“He did.”

Eleanor shook her head violently.

“No, he couldn’t have.”

Grant pulled another object from his wallet.

A tiny folded piece of paper.

“I found this in David’s motorcycle two weeks later.”

He handed it to her.

The handwriting was faded.

But Eleanor recognized it immediately.

DAVID.

The note read:

IF I DON’T COME BACK, TELL ELEANOR I KNOW ABOUT THE BABY.

Eleanor covered her mouth.

Below it was another line.

TELL HER I’M SORRY I COULDN’T KEEP THEM BOTH SAFE.

Eleanor looked up through tears.

“Both?”

Grant frowned.

“I always thought he meant you and the baby.”

Eleanor stared at the note.

“No.”

Grant watched her.

“What?”

Eleanor slowly reached into her handbag.

She pulled out the yellow envelope she had brought.

“There’s something you haven’t seen.”

She opened it.

Inside was another photograph.

Grant’s face changed immediately.

The picture showed David standing beside a young woman.

Not Eleanor.

The woman held a newborn baby.

On the back was a date.

Six months after David was supposed to have died.

Grant stood so fast his chair nearly fell.

“Where did you get this?”

“It arrived at my house three weeks ago.”

“From who?”

“No return address.”

Grant took the photograph.

His hands shook.

“David was alive.”

Eleanor nodded through tears.

“At least six months after that night.”

Mason moved closer.

Grant turned the photograph over again.

There was writing beneath the date.

Three words.

FIND MY SON.

Grant’s expression went blank.

Eleanor stared at him.

“You said David knew I was pregnant.”

“He did.”

“Then why would he write ‘my son’?”

Grant looked at the baby in the photograph.

Eleanor continued.

“My child was a girl.”

Nobody spoke.

Grant slowly looked toward Mason.

Mason’s face had gone pale.

Grant noticed.

“You know that baby.”

Mason stepped backward.

“No.”

Grant advanced.

“You do.”

Mason looked toward the door.

The dark sedan across the street suddenly turned on its headlights.

Grant grabbed Mason’s jacket.

“WHO IS THE BOY?”

Mason’s voice broke.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then make me.”

Mason looked at Eleanor.

Then Grant.

Finally, he whispered,

“David didn’t disappear because of the ledger.”

Grant froze.

“What?”

Mason swallowed.

“The ledger was only part of it.”

“Then what was the rest?”

Mason’s eyes moved to the photograph.

“He found out Victor had taken his son.”

Before Grant could speak, the diner window exploded inward.

Everyone dropped.

Eleanor screamed.

Grant pulled her beneath the table as glass scattered across the floor.

Outside, the dark sedan accelerated into the rain.

Grant looked at the broken window.

Something had landed beside the photograph.

Not a bullet.

A small black envelope.

Grant picked it up.

Written across the front were two words:

FOR ELEANOR.

Her hands shook as she opened it.

Inside was a recent photograph.

A gray-haired man stood beside a motorcycle.

Older.

Scarred.

But unmistakable.

David Hayes.

Alive.

And beneath the photograph was a message:

IF GRANT MERCER IS TELLING YOU THE STORY, ASK HIM WHY HE NEVER TOLD YOU HE WAS THE ONE WHO GAVE VICTOR MY LOCATION.