James rubbed his wrist.
“Yep.”
Mercer looked at him.
“You with them?”
James answered, “I was supposed to meet them ten minutes from here.”
The lead Guard vehicle slowed.
Then slowed more.
The driver had seen the patrol cars.
The convoy did not simply stop in the travel lane. The lead vehicle continued to a safer wide area beyond the turnout while the following vehicles maintained spacing. A marked Guard security vehicle peeled carefully into the gravel area once it was safe.
A captain stepped out.
Then a staff sergeant.
The captain was a woman in her early forties named Amanda Reeves.
She saw James first.
Then the deputies.
Then the hand still rubbing his wrist.
Her pace increased.
“Sergeant Major?”
Mercer’s face changed.
James closed his eyes briefly.
“Morning, Captain.”
Reeves stopped in front of him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“We've been trying to call.”
“Phone's in the saddlebag.”
She looked toward the motorcycle.
Then at Mercer.
“What happened?”
Mercer straightened.
“Routine traffic investigation.”
Reeves nodded.
“Okay.”
She did not immediately accuse him of anything.
That mattered.
“Is he free to go?”
Mercer hesitated.
“We're verifying ownership of the motorcycle.”
James said, “Database isn't reading the antique plate correctly.”
Reeves looked at Holt.
“Is that right?”
Holt nodded.
“Appears to be where we are.”
Mercer added, “And there was a stolen Harley reported.”
Reeves looked at James’s motorcycle.
Then back.
“What year is the stolen bike?”
Holt answered, “2016.”
Reeves looked again at the old FLH.
She did not laugh.
That made it worse.
James finally said, “Captain, let them finish.”
Reeves looked at him.
“Sergeant Major—”
“Let them finish.”
Mercer glanced between them.
“Sergeant Major?”
James sighed.
“Retired.”
Reeves looked toward Mercer.
“Command Sergeant Major James Harris. Retired Army.”
Mercer’s face lost the last of its color.
James gave Reeves a look.
She understood immediately.
She had said more than he wanted.
“Sorry.”
Holt looked at James again.
The veteran patches.
The bearing.
The patience.
Everything suddenly fit differently.
But James did not seem pleased by that.
He looked toward Mercer.
“My rank isn't part of your investigation.”
Mercer opened his mouth.
James continued.
“You had a plate problem. Resolve the plate problem.”
The younger deputy looked confused.
Reeves folded her arms.
For the next two minutes, nobody said much.
Dispatch finally came back over Holt’s radio.
“Unit 314, VIN returns valid to registered owner James Walter Harris, Cedar Ridge address. Antique registration current through 2027. Plate query error appears related to legacy format. Vehicle not listed stolen.”
Holt closed his eyes briefly.
Then keyed the radio.
“Copy.”
He looked at James.
“You're clear.”
James nodded.
“Thank you.”
Holt handed back the license and registration.
Mercer said nothing.
James waited.
Holt looked at him.
“Anything else?”
James glanced toward the left saddlebag.
“Yes.”
He opened it himself.
Not because Mercer had won.
Because he had been going there anyway.
He removed the walnut box.
Reeves immediately recognized it.
Her expression changed.
James held it carefully.
“This is why I was going to Redstone.”
Holt read the name.
Thomas A. Harris.
Reeves said quietly, “His brother.”
Mercer looked at James.
“When did he die?”
“1968.”
“Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
Mercer’s mouth opened again.
James knew what was coming.
He stopped it.
“Don't.”
Mercer looked confused.
“Don't what?”
“Don't become polite because you learned something impressive about me.”
Silence.
James put the box on the motorcycle seat.
“You didn't know who I was ten minutes ago.”
Mercer swallowed.
“No, sir.”
“And that's fine.”
James pointed toward the cruiser.
“You shouldn't have to know.”
Reeves said nothing.
Holt looked at the ground.
James continued.
“You had a registration issue. You were allowed to check it.”
He looked at Holt.
“You checked it.”
Then at Mercer.
“You wanted my saddlebags because you decided uncertainty meant guilt.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened.
“I was doing my job.”
“Part of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Finding out whether the motorcycle was stolen was your job.”
James looked toward the old Harley.
“Proving to yourself that I was suspicious because I didn’t like your attitude was not.”
Mercer looked toward Reeves.
Perhaps he expected her to intervene.
She didn't.
James stepped toward his motorcycle.
His left hand shook slightly when he reached for the handlebar.
Not fear.
Age.
Adrenaline.
Reeves noticed.
“So what happened to your wrist?”
James looked down.
“Deputy grabbed it.”
Mercer spoke quickly.
“He blocked me from accessing the bag during the investigation.”
Holt said, “He didn't touch you.”
Mercer turned.
“What?”
Holt looked directly at him.
“He put his hand between you and the latch. You grabbed him.”
“You were standing behind me.”
“I saw it.”
The road went quiet despite the convoy idling beyond the bend.
Reeves asked James, “Do you need medical?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Holt said, “Mr. Harris, I need to document the physical contact.”
Mercer looked at him sharply.
“For what?”
“Because it happened.”
James looked toward Holt.
“Do what you're supposed to do.”
That sentence stayed with the older deputy.
Reeves checked her watch.
“We can delay the ceremony.”
James shook his head.
“No.”
“They'll wait.”
“My brother already waited fifty-six years.”