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The bike had landed at an angle. I righted it before I straddled the frame. How would it feel once I got the motor running? The grumbling power between my legs.
A jolt hit me through the crotch, which made little sense. I frowned as I glanced down.
Forget the motor. Maybe I’d start with the electrical.
CHAPTER9
The next fewdays passed normally.
My bruises faded, my anxiety lessened, and my dog made the brave and bold move of woofing when the sweetest old lady insisted on dropping off her departed husband’s car along with a wad of cash if I’d agree to let her hit it a few times.
“You don’t have to pay me. I’ll take the car. It’s in decent condition.”
Mrs. Macpherson shook her head. “It won’t be after I’m done with it. I wanted to get it out of the way before I went at it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Bertram loved that damned car more than me.” Said in the cutest, little-old-lady voice.
How much damage could she do to the very clean Oldsmobile?
Apparently, she carried much pent-up rage. About the only thing she didn’t dent was the motor. Even the tires didn’t survive.
However, the widow beamed, and my dog wagged his tail as tiny-but-fierce Mrs. Macpherson pulled out a dog cookie from her massive purse. “Have a great day, dear.”
I’d rather have interesting nights. Ever since my attack, I was tucked into my house, doors and windows locked, well before dark, watching the boob tube.
Boring. Also an indication of just how badly those fuckers had scared me. I was missing out on hours that I could be working. Or, as I sometimes liked to call it, relaxing. Because my anxiety only eased when I kept busy.
By Friday of that week, the Plymouth was done, and Danny took it using a flatbed tow truck. He promised to have it painted within two weeks. With my shop empty, I was finally free for my next project.
The wolf bike. It took center position, sitting on the lift I’d splurged on to ensure that it wouldn’t fall again. I’d not touched it since I’d made that list of parts and ordered them. I’d known that once I got started, I’d get sucked in, and the Plymouth wouldn’t get finished. Now, though, it was mine to play with.
The jolt didn’t surprise me as much this time when I ran my fingers over the frame. I’d come to expect the electrical tingle every time I touched it. Soon, I’d pinpoint the culprit and fix it.
I started taking the bike apart, laying the pieces on a tarp in the order I removed them. A trick my dad had taught me. Once I had all the parts removed, I would clean them one by one and check for damage, replacing anything I couldn’t fix.
A sudden knock startled me, and I nicked my finger on the bracket for the muffler, tearing skin enough that I bled.
“Fuck.” I popped the cut flesh into my mouth but not before my blood smeared the bike.
The detective stuck his head in. “Is this a bad time?”
I shook my head and stood, removing my finger from my mouth—which, in retrospect, I should have washed first given the dirt and oil. “Nope, we’re good. What’s up?” I wasn’t one hundred percent bruise-free, but I no longer needed an eyepatch, and if one ignored the yellowing on half my face, I looked mostly normal.
“I was in the area and thought I’d check on you.”
“No news on my case, I take it?”
He shook his head. “I am keeping an ear open for any other similar attacks.”
“I did as you said and invested in some motion-sensor cameras.” Which, somehow, had missed the detective’s arrival. Fucking technology only worked when it wanted to.
“That’s a good start. Did you get something to defend yourself?”
“I did. I got the prod and some pepper spray.”
“Good, although it would be better if you never had to use them.”
