James said, “Good.”
“But the registration still isn't matching clean.”
“Then check the VIN.”
Mercer stared.
“You telling me how to do my job?”
“No.”
“You just told me to check the VIN.”
“Because the VIN will match the title.”
Mercer stepped toward him.
“You seem real confident for somebody on a bike with a questionable plate.”
James said nothing.
Mercer continued.
“Take your hands out of your pockets.”
“They aren't in my pockets.”
“Keep them where I can see them.”
James raised them slightly.
Holt sighed.
Mercer walked around the motorcycle.
“Open both bags.”
James looked at him.
“You have a reason to search them?”
Mercer stopped.
“I asked you to open them.”
“I heard you.”
“Then do it.”
James looked toward Holt.
The older deputy did not immediately intervene.
James said, “My registration was in the right one. You've seen that. What's your reason for the left?”
Mercer’s jaw tightened.
“We have a motorcycle with a questionable plate.”
“A registration error doesn't give you my bags.”
Mercer smiled.
“Now you're a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then don't explain search law to me.”
James remained calm.
“I didn't consent.”
Holt finally stepped forward.
“Cole.”
“What?”
“Let's get dispatch to run the VIN first.”
Mercer stared at him.
“We can verify ownership faster if we look.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don't know.”
Holt’s eyebrows rose.
“That's the problem.”
James almost smiled.
Mercer did not.
For the next several minutes, the stop remained in an uncomfortable middle ground.
The deputies had a reason to investigate the unusual plate return.
James had no problem with that.
What bothered him was the way Mercer seemed determined to transform uncertainty into suspicion.
The younger deputy walked back to his cruiser again, returned with a notepad, and asked James where he bought the motorcycle.
“Fayetteville.”
“When?”
“1981.”
“From who?”
“A man named Leonard Price.”
“He still alive?”
“No.”
“Bill of sale?”
“Not in my pocket after forty-three years.”
Mercer laughed.
“Convenient again.”
James looked at him.
“You use that word when you don't have another question?”
Holt turned away to hide a reaction.
Mercer’s face reddened.
“Watch your attitude.”
James folded his hands in front of him.
“I've answered every question.”
“You're getting smart.”
“That's not illegal.”
Mercer stepped closer.
“You want to make this difficult?”
“No.”
“Then quit acting like you know everything.”
James looked down the highway.
“Son, I don't know everything.”
Mercer visibly disliked the word son.
James continued.
“But I've been pulled over before.”
The deputy’s hand moved toward his belt.
“Don't call me son.”
“Fine.”
“Deputy Mercer.”
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
James stared at him.
Holt stepped between them slightly.
“That's enough.”
Mercer looked at Holt.
“What?”
“Run the VIN.”
Mercer muttered something under his breath.
Then he crouched beside the motorcycle to locate the number.
The plate discrepancy had a simple explanation, though none of them knew it yet.
The DMV database entry associated with James's antique registration used an older formatting convention that omitted one character in some query systems. Dispatch had searched the plate exactly as displayed and received an uncertain return instead of a straightforward match.
It was a database problem.
Not a stolen motorcycle.
Not a fake registration.
Not a dangerous eighty-two-year-old fugitive.
But before dispatch resolved that, another piece of information entered the call.
A stolen motorcycle had been reported in the county two days earlier.
Also a Harley.
Also dark-colored.
Also ridden by an older man seen near a gas station.
That was enough for Mercer.
He came back quickly.
“We're going to detain you while we sort this out.”
James looked at him.
“For what?”
“Possible stolen vehicle.”
Holt’s head turned.
“Cole.”
“What?”
“Description on the stolen one is a black Road Glide. 2016.”
Mercer pointed at James’s motorcycle.
“Still a Harley.”
James looked down at his machine.
“This is a 1978 FLH.”
Mercer said, “Most people can't tell the difference.”
James almost laughed.
Holt answered instead.
“Which is why we can.”
Mercer looked irritated again.
Then his attention shifted to the left saddlebag.
“Open it.”
James said, “No.”
“I'm ordering you.”
“On what basis?”
“We're investigating a stolen motorcycle.”
“This motorcycle predates the stolen one by thirty-eight years.”
“You can argue later.”
James remained still.
Mercer reached toward the saddlebag himself.
James moved one hand between Mercer and the latch.
Not touching the deputy.
Blocking access.
Mercer immediately grabbed James’s wrist.
“Don't.”
James pulled back reflexively.
Mercer tightened his grip.
“Hands behind your back.”
Holt stepped forward.
“Cole, stop.”
“He interfered.”
“He's eighty-two.”
“He grabbed me.”
“No, he didn't.”
James said calmly, “I did not touch you.”
Mercer still held his wrist.
For a second, the entire stop balanced on that moment.
The younger deputy could continue.
Holt could let him.
James could pull harder.
Any of those choices could have turned an irritating roadside stop into something much worse.
Then they heard engines.
Not one.
Many.
Deep diesel engines.
The sound began faintly beyond the bend east of the turnout, growing steadily louder.
Mercer glanced toward the highway.
“What the hell?”
James did not.
He knew.
The convoy was early.
Or James was late.
Probably both.
The first vehicle around the bend was a North Carolina Army National Guard security truck with headlights on.
Behind it came two LMTVs.
Then another tactical vehicle.
Then a bus.
Then more trucks.
All moving in disciplined spacing.
Small American flags had been mounted on several vehicles for the memorial event.
Mercer released James’s wrist.
Holt stepped toward the road.
“Military convoy.”