The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (5 page)

It was a plausible scenario, b
ut
for it to be true, the Ducati rider must have been waiting for the rally to catch up. W
here had he waited?

Ben kept
going, his eyes
shifting
left and right
, scanning
both
side
s
of the road.
The
stranded
riders
had left too many tire tracks o
n the gravel shoulder
s
, making it impossible to
see
any
evidence of a single Ducati that might, or might not
,
have waited here earlier
.

Half
a mile down the road,
Ben
ga
ve up
,
twisted the throttle,
and
accelerat
ed
away.

But a moment later a
trailhead
flew by, barely registering in
his
peripheral vision.

He hit the brakes
,
slowed
down, and made
a U-turn. Back a short distance uphill, he stopped on the side of the road and dismounted the
GS.

It was
an unmarked fire trail
. J
udging by the weeds
, it was getting little use, which made it easier for Ben to notice the fresh
tire marks
.

Out of habit,
he
used his camera to scan the ground, taking photos as he
proceeded.

A
single track
went
in from the main road. He walked beside it
to avoid
disturb
ing
the
evidence
.
I
t
stopped
after ten feet or so
,
the weeds g
rowing evenly across the trail.

He noticed
a depression where the
motorcycle’s
kick
stand
had
rested on the
ground
. Because
a
kick
stand
was
always on the left side, Ben realized that
the rider had backed in off the main road and
had
waited here, ready to ride
out easily.

Up close, the
im
print left by the
kick
stand
—
a
bout the size of a
toddler’s
foot
—
was uneven. Ben’s own bike, like most others, had a small plate welded to the bottom of the
kick
stand
, and it
usually
left a flat depression in the ground. This one was mostly flat, but
with
a wiggly line along the middle, which must have been sharp as it
had
sliced the weed stems
and
pushed down on the ground
with the weight of the bike
. He trace
d
the line
.
It was about the length of a
finger
, but
its
shape
resembled
his favorite road sign—
Sharp T
urns
Ahead
. He figured it could be a welding
line, or perhaps the
plate
at the bottom of the kick
stand
was cracked, which would be unlikely with steel but possible if
the
Ducati
manufacturer
had
cut costs
by using
plastic
plates
.

After snappi
ng a few photos of the odd kick
stand depression, he
retreated toward
the road
slowly while
s
earching
around for additional clues
.
A light-color
ed
speck
in the bushes attracted his attention. He reached in and picked it out. It was a
cigarette
butt
. Up close, t
he brand was unfamiliar to him
:
Prince
. The
tiny
logo
was some kind of a
royal crest
with the word
Denmark
.

Was this a trace left by the
Ducati rider
? There was no way to know. He chucked it.

The tire track
itself
provided little information
because t
he dirt was packed and the flattened weeds
ha
d not acquire
d
the form of t
he
exact tire
thread.
Back near the road,
the dirt
was dug in
where the D
ucati’s rear wheel must have spu
n freely before connecting with the blacktop.

Ben returned to the site of the accident. An oversized tow truck
equipped with a massive
hitch and a
crane
had
backed up to the edge of the
overlook
. Long
chains
dangled down to the
stars-and-stripes Harley
a
t the bottom
. A few police officers
were
watch
ing the process
, but the unmarked F
ord was gone. Ben parked the GS
, removed his helmet and jacket, and took photos
of
the Harley slowly
rising
through the air
.

The truck driver maneuvered the crane to position the motorcycle
on
the flatbed,
unhooked the chains,
and began to tie down his sad-looking cargo. The police officers, meanwhile, put out
the flares and clear
ed
the road.

Ben approached the truck and snapped a few photos up close.
The Harley
was equipped
with
large stereo speakers front and back.
A
built-in
Sony
music
system
in the center of the dashboard had
a
docking
bay for
a
n
iPod
or another type of a player
. But the bay was vacant
, and
as
Ben walked back to his motorcycle, he
recalled
Stephen Cochran
blaring from the Harley when it had sped by him earlier
.

He noticed the blinking light on
his iPhone
and found
three missed calls from Keera.
His girlfriend, in the midst of her fourth year in medical scho
ol, didn’t have time to follow
the news. But s
he must have
overheard the TV at the nurses’ station or
in
a
patient’s room, reporting
the
fatal
accident
at the
v
eterans
’
r
ide
.

Before
Ben
had a chance to call
Keera
back,
his iP
hone rang and h
er
photo popped up on the screen
, her teeth glistening white against her dark-chocolate skin
.

He answered, “H
ey, Beautiful
.
”

“Are you okay?”

“
Sure. And you
?”

“
I got worried.
What happened?”

“
One of the
guy
s
was going too fast
, lost control on a turn
. Did you see
my reports on
NewZonLine
?
”

“
I saw the photo
.
It’s awful
!”

“Could have been worse,” Ben said. “
Ray
wanted me to un-blur the face.”

“
I’m not surprised. She’s
a pimp.”

“
What does it make me?
”

Keera
sighed. “A cute guy with potential.
”

“
Where are you?”

“Still at the hospital. Just finished rounding in the ICU with Professor Lichtenwalt. These patients are so complicated—everything’s going wrong at the same time, all systems crashing, and
he’s
totally
calm
.” She imitated him. “
We’ll
adjust oxygen
to X
, change med
Y
to
Z,
and watch for A, B, and C.
”

“Sound
s
simple. Child’s play.”

“
H
e’s such a
g
od
.
I’ll never be able to handle—”

“
You will. There’s still
residency and fellowship and—”

“Board exams.”

“
Which you’ll ace
.
Listen, e
very
cocky
professor
was
once an anxious
student
like you
.
”

“Sorry,
coach.”
Keera
laughed. “Must’ve left my self
-
confidence in the locker room. Where are you
?”

“
Still at the site. P
ok
ing
around a little.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.
See you later
, okay?”

The last police car drove off
, and Ben was finally alone
.
He
strapped on his camera bag and made his way downhill.
His riding boots were the wrong footwear for the rocky, steep path, and
he slipped a few times
.

The large boulder where Zachariah Hinckley had landed bore no physical scars. Ben gave it a thorough search, just in case.
He notice
d
moisture
in one area and bent down to sniff it.

Urine.

Scanning the boulder, Ben did
n’t
find anything else
t
o indicate that a man had died
here only a short time earlier.

It wasn’t hard to
locate t
he spot where the Harley had hit the ground.
It was a shallow gulch where soft soil had accumulated.
The dirt was
im
printed with depressions left by the handlebar, foot pegs, and saddlebag.
Dark blotches showed where engine oil
and brake fluid
had soaked in
. R
ed and blue paint
had
scraped onto small rocks, and a few pieces of broken plastic
dotted the area.

Ben
used rocks to
mark a square
of
about ten steps across. He went down on all four
s
and
began his search. M
oving methodically from one end to the other
, back and forth
, he
peered at the ground. Wherever he saw any manmade debris, he checked it carefully and put it away outside the search area. He passed dirt through his fingers, feeling for anything that could have come from the accident.

After an hour-
long search, with half the area covered,
he had collected
a handful of plastic shards, three bolts, and part of the Harley David
son insignia.