The first thing Kuda Diorien noticed was that the little girl had no business being alone.
The second was the leather vest dragging through the dust behind her.
It was Saturday afternoon at the Iron Mesa Veterans Ride outside Red Rock, Nevada, and nearly two hundred motorcycles filled the county fairground with chrome, heat, and the low thunder of engines. Riders had come from Reno, Carson City, Sacramento, and farther south, raising money for a local veterans’ housing program.
Kuda stood beside his black Harley Road Glide talking to three old friends when a child’s voice rose above the noise.
“Sir!”
He turned.
She couldn't have been more than eight.
Her blond-brown hair was tangled around a narrow face streaked with sweat and dirt. One shoelace had come undone. She wore an oversized gray T-shirt, faded shorts, and sneakers that had seen better summers.
And she was carrying a man's leather riding vest.
Or trying to.
It was so large that she had wrapped both arms around it while the bottom edge dragged across the gravel.
She stopped directly in front of Kuda.
“Are you the man who buys motorcycle things?”
Kuda glanced at Ghost Mercer beside him.
Ghost shrugged.
Kuda lowered himself into a crouch.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Mara.”
“Okay, Mara. I'm Kuda.”
“I know.”
That surprised him.
She lifted the vest.
“I need to sell this.”
Kuda’s expression changed.
“Does it belong to you?”
“It belongs to my dad.”
“Does he know you're selling it?”
Her mouth tightened.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then:
“He won't wake up.”
Kuda stood.
The casual sounds around him seemed suddenly distant.
“What do you mean he won't wake up?”
“He's sick. He was talking this morning, but now he won't open his eyes.”
“Where?”
“At the motel.”
“What motel?”
“The one with the broken horse.”
Kuda knew it. The Silver Spur, six miles east on Route 50.
“Did you call 911?”
Mara looked confused.
“We don't have a phone anymore.”
“Did you tell the motel office?”
The child looked down.
“The lady said we owe money.”
Kuda felt something cold settle behind his ribs.
“How long has your dad been sick?”
“A few days.”
“And you're there alone with him?”
She nodded.
Then she pushed the vest toward him again.
“Please. I only need enough for another night. Maybe medicine too.”
Kuda reached for the vest.
That was when he saw the patch.
At first it was only a flash of faded thread beneath road grime: a stylized winged eye over a black highway disappearing into flame.
Then he saw the words beneath it.
ALL WATCHED — EYLIAN.
His hand stopped.
Ghost saw it too.
The older biker's face drained of color.
“Where did you get that?”
Mara flinched.
Kuda shot Ghost a warning glance before looking back at her.
“Your father wore this?”
“Yes.”
“What's his name?”
She hesitated.
“My dad said I'm not supposed to tell strangers.”
“That's a good rule.”
“He said there was one man I could tell.”
Kuda felt his heartbeat change.
“What man?”
She searched his face.
“He said I'd know him because his beard turned gray before the rest of him did.”
Ghost made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
Kuda didn't.
Because only one man had ever said that about him.
A man who had supposedly died twelve years earlier.
Kuda slowly took the vest from Mara.
Inside the collar, almost hidden beneath a repair stitch, were two faded initials.
E.R.
His mouth went dry.
“Mara,” he said quietly, “what's your father's name?”
The girl looked at him for several seconds.
Then she whispered:
“Elias Reed.”
The fairground seemed to lose all sound.
Ghost stepped backward.
Another old rider nearby, Buck Hanley, heard the name and turned sharply.
“No,” he said.
Kuda stared at the child.
Elias Reed.
His closest friend.
His road brother.
The man whose empty coffin Kuda had helped carry twelve years earlier.
The man whose burned Harley had been found in the Nevada desert beside enough blood to convince investigators he could not have survived.
Mara reached into her pocket.
“Daddy said if something happened, I should show you this too.”
She handed Kuda a small brass key.
Around it was a strip of cloth bearing the same winged-eye symbol.
Kuda closed his fist around it.
“Take me to him.”
Mara's eyes widened.
“Are you going to buy the vest?”
“No.”
Her face fell.
Kuda put one hand gently on her shoulder.
“I'm going to return it.”
Twenty minutes later, seven motorcycles pulled into the Silver Spur Motel.
The broken neon horse above the office flickered in the desert heat.
Mara jumped from Ghost's sidecar before anyone could stop her.
“Room twelve!”
Kuda was already moving.
The motel manager came out shouting about payment, but June Hanley intercepted her with a credit card and the sort of look that ended arguments.
Kuda reached Room 12.
The door wasn't locked.
He pushed it open.
The curtains were closed.