She had not touched it.
She followed the wet line upward and saw a bright edge in the black hose. The cut was still narrow then, almost hidden. When Hammer squeezed the brake lever before starting, another drop formed.
Lucy tried to tell me.
The engines started.
She tried to reach Hammer from the side, but riders closed the gap. Then the procession began moving, and Daniel’s final instruction returned to her.
Move Ray first. Explain second.
So she pushed.
Officer Vega asked whether she had seen anyone near the motorcycle. Lucy remembered several people. Doc had placed Daniel’s memorial ribbon on the mirror. I had checked the route sheet inside Hammer’s windshield pouch. Sarah had touched the fuel tank while saying goodbye to her husband.
Another man had crouched beside the front wheel.
Gordon “Bishop” Hale.
Bishop was our vice president and Daniel’s closest friend before Hammer entered his life. He was fifty-eight, lean, silver-haired and so calm that judges, pastors and angry wives trusted him within minutes. A thick silver ring bearing a bishop chess piece never left his right hand.
He said he had been fastening a loose memorial ribbon.
Lucy remembered the ring tapping the brake caliper.
Bishop smiled when Officer Vega questioned him. “Kid’s been through hell. Memories bend.”
Hammer’s jaw tightened.
“Not hers.”
That was the first fracture in the brotherhood.
Bishop had ridden with us for nineteen years. He negotiated hospital bills for injured members, delivered groceries to widows and slept beside Hammer’s bed after Luke died. If Lucy had accused a stranger, we would have closed around her.
Instead, she had named one of us.
Several riders defended Bishop. Others backed away from him. A prospect named Kenny muttered that grief had confused the girl, and Hammer crossed the pavement before I could stop him.
He did not strike Kenny.
He removed his leather cut, folded it and placed it across the younger man’s arms.
“If her age makes truth smaller,” Hammer said, “you’re not old enough to wear that.”
Kenny stared down at the cut as though it weighed a hundred pounds.
Officer Vega searched Bishop with his consent. She found no knife, no cutters and no brake fluid on his clothes. His motorcycle had arrived after Hammer’s, and no funeral-home camera covered the side lot where our bikes were parked.
There was suspicion.
No proof.
The evidence technician examined the hose and confirmed the cut was clean, angled and recent. Whoever made it knew not to sever the line completely while the bike stood still. A partial cut would hold pressure once or twice, then open after heat, vibration and repeated braking.
The plan had not been to stop Hammer in the parking lot.
It had been to send him downhill.
Doc rolled Hammer’s Harley into an empty hearse bay and checked the entire braking system. He found the rear brake reservoir cap loosened and the rubber diaphragm disturbed. Enough fluid had been removed to make the rear pedal lose pressure after several hard applications.
Both brakes had been compromised.