chapter thirty-seven

I’ve been working on the report for days—with just five more to go until it needs to be finished. That will be a problem, since I’m currently only a fraction of the way through. It’s not that it’s difficult work. The facts are there; the numbers are there; and, in the name of research, I can plagiarize just about anything. The problem isn’t the information, the problem is the flow. No matter how I try, I can’t get my words to read with any genuine conviction.

The professor has called twice in the last two days. To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. It is, after all, his reputation that’s on the line. He even invited me over tomorrow for a Fourth of July barbecue—I’m guessing to interrogate me in person about what’s been going on. I’m sure he suspects something is amiss.

I turned him down. I told him I was working feverishly to finish the report. At last, my response was truthful.

The worst part is that I still haven’t been able to get in touch with Dave Riley. I call his home number about every two hours, but all I get is his machine. His office won’t give me his cell number, and they even claim they don’t know when he’ll return. I have something of such incredible value for him, and the man doesn’t realize it exists. As I go through the motions, as my mind drifts while I work, the whole situation causes me to question and wonder: Where are you, Dave Riley, and why don’t you call?

A roar of thunder followed each flash as streaks of light divided up the darkness of the western desert sky. It was more than just a light show—a pelting torrent beat against the ground.

For the time being, Dave was protected by the overpass off of I-80 where he’d taken refuge when the intensity of the rain had become dangerous. He pulled himself out of his sleeping bag for the third time and clicked on the flashlight that lay beside the bike. He removed his map from the open saddlebag, held it flat against the bike’s seat, and again calculated the mileage. The numbers hadn’t changed.

He flashed the light onto his watch and registered the time. It would be light in an hour. By his calculations, time was running out to reach the coast by tomorrow—and he had to get there tomorrow.

Ride across the bridge on the Fourth of July, the sun at my back, the wind blowing through my hair. That was what he’d told Meg so many weeks ago—that was how it had to be.

In a fit of frustration and fury, he tore the pages into pieces and threw them into the wind. He wouldn’t need the map. He’d checked it so often over the last few hours that he had the thing memorized.

He knelt down and rolled his sleeping bag, then stuffed it into the empty saddlebag on the bike. Next, he pulled on his helmet and mounted the machine. The rain continued to pour. He pushed the ignition and let the bike rumble to life. In controlled frustration, he rolled it toward the open side of the overpass where the assaulting rain strafed at the road just outside the bike’s reach. The sun should have already started to illuminate the eastern sky—instead, it remained dark and cold.

He revved the bike’s engine and waited.

It had to be by the Fourth of July.

• • •

Redd was in the middle of rebuilding a carburetor when Jenny, the receptionist, buzzed his phone.

“Redd, there’s a man here to see you. Could you please come out right away?”

He looked down at his grease-covered hands, at the coil spring he held in place. He called back through the speakerphone, “Jenny, I’m right in the middle of a rebuild. It’ll be a little while before I can finish. Can someone else help him?”

She sounded nervous. “Umm—no. He specifically asked for you. He’s talking with Chuck while he waits.”

“Chuck” was Charlie Holden, the owner of the Lakeshore BikeHouse franchise. This would be serious.

“That’s fine, Jenny. Let me get washed up and I’ll be right there, ’bout three minutes. Can you tell me who he is?”

“I’m embarrassed, Redd. When he first came in I didn’t recognize him. I mean, I should have known him from his picture on the annual report. It’s Mr. Wiesenberger, Redd. Mr. Jim Wiesenberger, BikeHouse’s CEO. He’s here in our store in person and, Redd, he’s asking for you!”