Chapter 7 - The Ride That Refused to Leave Him Behind
They came for Gideon before sunrise.
The detective was polite enough to explain that a complaint had been made, but the two officers waiting on the porch made Zora hide behind the curtains. She watched her grandfather take down his flat cap from the hook and ask Maya, on the phone, to meet him at the station. Imani kept the child away from the front door.
“Is Grandpa going away too?” Zora whispered.
“He’s going to answer questions with Maya beside him,” Imani said. “And we know where he is.”
It was a promise she could keep. She called Gideon’s phone an hour later and heard his voice. He told Zora he expected her to save him a cinnamon roll.
Maya arrived with the hardware-store receipt showing Gideon had bought window glass at the time stamped on the photograph. A neighbor’s doorbell camera showed him returning home carrying the pane. The investigator agreed the timing needed checking and did not pursue detention on the complaint. Gideon left the station with Maya before lunch, though the false accusation remained a subject for investigation.
Outside, he found eleven motorcycles waiting beside the curb. Their riders wore different patches: Black women from the Mercy Miles group, mechanics from two neighborhood shops, and three older white members who had ridden with Gideon before Clint took power. They had not come to intimidate anyone. Their engines were off. A woman named Ruby Jefferson held out a thermos.
“Coffee,” she said. “And before you ask, yes, everybody knows you drink it too sweet.”
Gideon laughed despite himself. “Celeste told the whole town.”
“She told the truth.” Ruby touched the faded patch on her own vest. “We heard what happened to Zora. We’re doing the Christmas ride whether Clint wants us or not. The gifts are going to the kids, not into Northstar’s storage room.”
They coordinated with Pastor Lena and obtained the necessary permits. Imani watched the riders spread route maps across a church table. For the first time in days, she saw what the charity was supposed to look like: ordinary people carrying coats, repairing heaters, and delivering groceries to neighbors who knew their names.
The old club had never been only its president. That truth seemed to frighten Clint more than any threat Gideon might have made.
The first delivery went to the senior apartments off Linden Avenue. Ruby parked her motorcycle, switched off the engine, and carried a pair of thick socks to Mr. Henson, an eighty-three-year-old retired machinist who had taught Andre to rebuild a carburetor. He opened the package slowly and recognized the old club symbol stitched inside.
“Gideon still doing this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I still owe him twenty dollars from 1989.”
Ruby grinned. “With interest, you owe him a whole motorcycle.”
At the next stop, an older white rider who had once stayed quiet when Clint excluded Black members volunteered to carry groceries upstairs. Imani watched him through the church’s shared video call later that day. He did not ask for applause. He had apologized to Gideon that morning and offered to give a written account of the club’s older membership records. Gideon told him the testimony would matter more than the apology.
Back at the church, Pastor Lena put out a plate of leftover biscuits for volunteers. Imani noticed that none of the coats were labeled with the name of a donor. They were sorted by size and by the children who needed them. The difference was so ordinary it nearly made her cry. A charity could be a place where people were welcomed rather than displayed.
Maya called in the afternoon. An insurer had located a second set of garage photographs, including one showing the cabinet before cleanup. Its bottom drawer had a distinct dent in the corner. The photograph Evelyn supplied showed the same dent. That helped establish which cabinet had been removed and where it had gone.
“And the arrest complaint?” Imani asked.
“Being reviewed. More importantly, the court has ordered that the cabinet and relevant records not be destroyed or moved pending a hearing. Clint now has written notice.”
“And if he ignores it?”
“Then there are consequences. But we still have to find out what’s inside.”
Evelyn called next. She had told a separate investigator about her own role in the fraudulent entries and arranged counsel. She did not receive an automatic promise of immunity. She did, however, provide something useful: an unedited recording from the club’s security system, saved on her work computer before the cameras supposedly went offline.
It showed Clint grabbing Imani, Briggs striking the tire iron against the table, and Gideon retrieving the drawing. It did not show Zora’s face clearly, which Imani privately counted as a mercy. Maya arranged to submit the recording through proper channels.
At dinner, Zora asked if she could wear her father’s old red work gloves. They were far too big. Imani rolled the cuffs four times and fastened them with ribbon so Zora could hold the paper stars she was making for the ride.
“Did Daddy ever get scared?” she asked Gideon.
“All the time,” he said. “He was scared the first day he held you. Thought you were too little for his big hands.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He wanted you to feel safe.” Gideon paused. “But being scared isn’t something to be ashamed of. What matters is what we do next.”
The answering machine in the kitchen clicked. A message began without a greeting.
“Gideon, don’t open the red door,” a man said. “They’re watching Zora.”
Imani stopped breathing. She knew that voice. She had heard it ask her to marry him on a June afternoon beside a broken-down motorcycle.
“Andre?” she said.
The message continued. “Listen to me. The man who set the fire is still inside that building.”
May you like
A click ended the recording. Zora stared up at her mother.
“Mommy,” she whispered. “Why does Daddy sound like he’s cold?”
