The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (34 page)

“Hi
, baby
.” She smiled. “How’re you feeling?”

He tried to stretch
,
and the pain made him stop immediately. He groaned.

“I thought so.” She held
out
two pill
s
. “These will take the edge off
and help with
any
inflammation
.
T
ake a hot shower
and do some stretching, but carefully.”

“I love you,” he said, but she was already running downstairs.

Everything hurt, but not to the point of paralysis. Ben skipped the hot shower and the stretching
, instead slipping into a sweat
suit and medicating himself with
a tall cup of steaming coffee.

On the TV, news analysis of recent
opinion
polls showed Joe Morgan running an average of 6
percent
ahead of the incumbent president. A
report
showed
the GOP candidate
at a
campaign
stop on a factory floor
in Pennsylvania
. He was standing on a wooden shipping crate,
propped up by a forklift.

“The current administration
,” Morgan
declared, “
has no faith
in American exceptionalism! Th
is country is ready to reject the
socialist ideology
of
government bailouts
, handouts,
and
takeovers
that destroy the true spirit of competition and keep
good people out of work and out of hope
!
As your future president, I pledge that r
estoring faith in American manufacturing
will be
my number
one
mission
! I believe
that
you and I
can do it
together
!”

The crowd of workers applauded him, and the camera returned to
a
smiling n
ews anchor.

In his study, Ben
saw the plastic bag of debris from Zachariah’s Harley Davidson and felt lucky to be alive. He picked up the cap of the gas tank, unscrewed the two bases, and examined
each one
.
He remembered what
Rex had
said about
Zachariah
’s insistence on filling up
every sixty miles
, a habit Rex attributed to per
fectionism
. But was there a different reason? Had Zachariah modified the gas tank?
Could the real floppy disk be hidden on the Harley?

Browsing the photos on the Can
on, he found the tow truck with the remains of the
stars-and-stripe
s
Harley
Davidson
on its bed. There was a telephone number stenciled on the door
of the truck
.
He dialed it.

A woman answered.

“Hi,” Ben said. “I’m calling to find out where
you guys took
my
friend
’s motorcycle after an accident
on
Sunday. It happened at the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
.
L
ast name Hinckley.
”

“Spell it, honey.”

He did.

“
Let’s see
,” she said. “A
’
ninety-f
ive
Harley
?”

“That’s it.”

“It says here that it was taken to the police yard.”

“The one in Pikesville.”

“
Correct
.” Her fingers hit some keys. “Wait. There’s a second
entry
. Yesterday. The police were
done with it, so
they called us to pick it up and take
it to a shop.”

“Which one?”

“
Ironman
Cycles
in Gaithersburg
.”

Before riding to Gaithersburg, Ben stopped at Bob’s BMW Motor
cycles in Jessup
. The service manager came outside with a writing board and
balked at the sight
.
“Ouch! What happened to you?”

“Hit a deer.”

“Looks pretty bad.”

“The deer looks worse.” Ben beckoned him over
and showed him t
he indicator for the ABS
, which
was blinking
. “
I
t
malfunctioned,
and
the front wheel locked up on me.”

He
knelt by the GS and poked
around
near the engine. “
There,” he said. “
I see it.
”

“What?”

“Wire
’s
detached
from the ABS module.” He drew a screwdriver from his breast pocket and
fiddled with it. “The bracket’s still tight.
Looks like s
omeone pulled
out the
wire.
Whoever did it knows what he’s doing. Did you cheat on your wife or something?
”

“I’m not married.”
Ben watched him reattach it.
“Maybe it got caught on a branch while I was off-roading.”

“
Unlikely, but you never know.
”
He
stood and turned the ignition
off and on
. “
Should work fine now
.”

“
Thanks.”
Ben pointed to the left side of the GS, which was scraped badly.
“
Please
go over
everything else,
make sure
it’s safe to ride. I’ll bring it back next week to fix the damage.
”

“What insurance company do you have?”

“
Progressive.
”

“
Let’s
verify it’s
mechanically sound.
Give me thirty
minutes or so.
”
The s
ervice manager
push
ed
the GS into the shop and maneuver
ed
it onto a lift.

“I’ll be in the showroom,” Ben said.

Lined up across the
showroom
were over twenty
new BMW motorcycles,
ranging from
a l
ight
off-road model to a
luxury
tour
ing bike
. The walls were covered with shelves of
parts and accessories
. In the rear was
Bob’s museum of classic motorcycles and racing paraphernalia
, which Ben never tired of ogling
.
But today’s visit was all business.
He
needed new gear to replace
what
had been ruined by the crash.

One of the guys came over to
the apparel section
and helped him
pick
out
new boots, pants
,
jacket,
and a Schubert
h
helmet
. He
pa
id
with a credit card
, cringing at the amount
.
But it was
better
to
buy new
protective gear than to
fix broken bones and torn muscles.

He changed into the new riding outfit, discard
ed
the taped-up boots and torn suit, and
went back to the service area to
watch through the glass
wall as
his wounded GS
was
being tended to
.

The rear
part
of the building at
Ironman
Cycles, behind
the service area, was a cavernous warehouse filled with new and used motorcycles of various makes—Harley Davidson, Yamaha, Kawasaki, Ducati,
and
BMW.
Some were still in shipping crates, others a
ssembled and ready for the show
room up front. Price tags d
angled from used bikes, whose owners must have traded them in for a new ride.

The far-back corner was reserved for wrecks. A
makeshift cardboard sign
showed a
sad
face
,  the
mouth curved down
, the
eyes dripp
ing
with tears. About ten
wrecked
motorcycles, some standing, some
too
bad
ly damaged to
remain upright
, lying
on the
ground like maimed horses
.

Zachariah’s
stars-and-stripes Harley Davidson was no longer
the proud motorcycle it had been pri
or to flying off the Camp David Scenic Overlook
.
It was a heap of twisted metal.
Two plastic bins held the m
any parts
that
had been
broken off in the crash or were
removed
by
the police
during its
search. The seats
had been
sliced
open
, the inner padding strung out
. The side bags were open, the leather cut in long lines
.
Even t
he
tires were cut, their
internal
lining
exposed.

But Ben
had come here to look at one thing.

The filling hole on the gas tank was missing its cap
. T
he odor
of gasoline
was still strong
. Ben
tried to fit in
the
cap
he had found at the accident site. The oversized thread matched the size of the hole, but the tank had been deformed by the impact, and he could not screw
o
n the cap. A close examination of the thread confirm
ed
his suspicion that Zachariah had modifie
d the tank to enlarge the hole.

Ben
tried to
insert his hand through the opening, but the sharp edges
cut
into his skin. The next bike
over was a sporty
Yamaha with a smashed front end. It was equipped with a chain drive, which was properly greased. Ben rubbed his hand against it until it was smea
red with dark grease. Trying Zachariah’s
gas tank again, with a bit of force he managed to slip his hand into it.

Watching his ha
n
d disappear
into the
hole
, Ben cringed, expecting to feel a snake bite or mouse nibble, but there was nothing
inside but a puddle of liquid at
the bottom of the tank. Turning his hand, he felt up the inside of the tank
all
around. There was nothing other than
a thi
n
layer of goo from fifteen years of sealed
containment.
He felt
the sharp edges
inside t
he
bent-up metal
tank
, which until days ago had
been a perfect
,
teardrop
-shaped
gas tank
in
a
shining American
flag
pattern
.

Voices came from the other end of the warehouse.

Pulling his hand out, Ben
shook it to get rid of the drops of
gasoline.

The v
oices were
gett
ing closer.

Glancing at Zachariah’s Harley for the last time, Ben saw no other place where a floppy disk could have been hidden safely and not been discovered by Porter’s thorough search.

Walking away, his shoulder rubbed against the cardboard sign with the sad face, and he paused. Zachariah Hinckley had not been the kind of a man to modify a well-desi
gned cap without a good reason.