Rand
I heard the cell phone ringing in my pocket, but I ignored it. I had a wrecked Hyundai in the jaws of the loader as the snarling yellow beast lumbered its way to the crusher. I eased up to the car crusher and dropped the car inside, backup up slightly before lowering the jaws and pushing the car to straighten it. I paused, eyeing the clearance between the car and the top crusher plate, and decided if I found something low, something like a Civic or a Miata, I could probably fit a third car into the space.
The big diesel engine behind me snorted with a puff of black smoke as I backed away and searched the yard, looking for my quarry. Finding a first-generation Miata that had seen better days, I used the claw to move a rolled Chevy S10 pickup and a mangled Ford Escort out of the way, before swinging the grapple back and forth as I moved in for the Miata to batter a couple more cars aside to give me some room. I gripped the Miata by the nose and backed out, dragging the hulk with me. Once I had it out in the open, I use the grapple to push it around until I had it turned so I could pick it up.
The Mazda in the machine's grip, I returned to the crusher. It took a little knocking, banging, and shoving to wedge the car into the opening, but the metal on the Hyundai and Mazda folded and tore like paper under the might of the big Caterpillar loader. The Mazda finally in place, I backed up and then left the Cat idling as I jumped from the machine. I pressed the big red button on the crusher to start the compacting process, watching a moment as the heavy steel doors began to close to make sure the machine wasn't going to fault. As soon as the big crusher ram began to squeeze, I pulled the phone from my pocket and returned to the relative quiet of the Cat's cab.
The screen said I had a voice mail, so I swiped and tapped, putting the phone on speaker.
You have one new voice message
the phone began. Before the woman that lived in my phone could complete her instructions on how to listen to my voice mails, I pressed one.
First voice message, received today, at 11:36 am.
"Rand, this is Vicki," the voice said. I pursed my lips. It had been ten days since Stu crashed, and the hurt was still fresh, for all of us, and I could hear the crushing sadness in Vicki's voice. "The police called and said I could pick up... pick up Stu's motorcycle..." She coughed out a sob. "That I could pick it up any time," she continued, clearly struggling with her grief. "You said you wanted to see it, so..." She sobbed again. "Yeah... so anyway... if you want to go it get..." She paused for a long moment. "So... that's it. Thanks."
The message ended and I pressed the button to deleted it, my lips pressed firmly together. I hadn't seen Vicki since the day after Stu's crash. I'd stopped by and tried to comfort her the night of the crash, and then tried again the next day. She'd been so grief stricken she hadn't wanted to see me the first time, and I'd left to go home without speaking to her. Normally I didn't drink much, not wanting to follow in my father's footsteps, but that night had been the exception. Before I tumbled into bed, I'd emptied the last quarter of the bottle of the Jameson whiskey Patrick had given me with I turned twenty-one.
The next day, after I'd mostly recovered from my hangover, I'd tried to pay Vicki another visit. She'd raged at me, blaming me for Stu's death. I'd stood there and took it as she screamed, hurled curses at me, and pounded her fists against my chest before the rest of the wives could calm her down. I'd murmured my apologies and left.
My brothers had started calling almost immediately as word spread over Vicki's actions, assuring me she didn't mean them and everyone, even Vicki, knew it wasn't may fault. Three days later, Vicki had called and apologized, but her words had cut deep because I wondered if I deserved them. That's when I asked her to let me have Stu's motorcycle. When she found out I'd asked for the bike because I wanted to try to find the cause of the crash, she'd readily agreed, apologized again, thanked me, and asked, no, begged me to find out what happened. I'd decided then I'd find the cause of the crash if I had to examine every millimeter of the bike with a magnifying glass.
I stared through the windshield of the loader, watching the crusher cycle. After the doors opened, I reached into the machine with the loader and gripped the flattened cars. The three cars that I'd loaded into the bay had been reduced to less than the height of one, but that didn't make them weigh any less, and the loader snarled as it hefted the tightly compressed cars. Backing out, the loader rocking like a ship with the heavy load, I carried the cars to the pile of already crushed cars. Tomorrow a flatbed would arrive for me to load with the remains of the cars before they were taken away to be melted down and made into something else.
I eyed the pile I'd accumulated. The semi would carry between ten and twelve cars, in two stacks of six so long as the load wasn't too tall. I licked my lips. I had ten cars crushed. Most of the cars had been compacts and had compressed nicely, and I thought one more set of cars through the crusher would complete the load. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel before making up my mind. I'd do that later. Now I needed to get the rollback and go get Stu's bike.
I backed away, flooring the throttle on the loader as it whined and rocked its way to the office. The Cat was faster than walking, but not by much. I braked the big Cat to a stop beside the machine shop, where it stayed when it wasn't in use, killed the engine, and crawled down from the cab. I walked to the office located in what had been the living room of a house.
"I'm taking the rollback to pick up Stu's bike," I said to the man inside as I entered.
Patrick glanced up from the desk. "The police said you could have it?"
I nodded. "Vicki just called and said they'd called her and said she could pick it up any time."
He nodded slowly. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked softly.
He didn't have to explain what he meant. He was afraid if I discovered it was my fault, I'd never forgive myself. He had a lot of experience with that and knew what he was talking about. "I have to. I have to know."
He nodded again. "I understand."
"I should be back in an hour or so. I'll finish the load of cars when I get back."
"Take your time and do what you have to."
I smiled slightly in gratitude before turning on my toe and hurrying to the big white International roll back with
O'Neill Auto Recycling
painted on the doors. I hefted myself into the seat and started the engine.
I stopped first at Vicki's and had her sign the form that allowed the police to release the motorcycle to me. My next stop was the Bayport police department where I filled out another form that released the bike from police custody. This wasn't the first time I'd done this, and Nancy, one of the women that served as the dispatcher, clerk, and secretary knew me on sight.
"Where is it?" I asked as I signed the form and slid the paper back to her so she could sign.
Bayport contracted its towing, so the wrecked or abandoned vehicles were kept at whatever garage provide the towing service.
"Triple A."
"Got it," I said, forcing a smile as I pulled my two copies of the form back to me.
"You doing okay?" Nancy asked. Everyone knew Stu and I were close.
"As well as can be expected, I guess."
She nodded once as she smiled in sympathy. "Hang in there. It'll get better."
"Yeah... thanks."
"Take care."
"You too."
My next stop was AAA garage. The mangled bike was sitting in an empty lot beside the main garage, flanked by a badly bent Chevy Impala, and an old Ford F100 with its hood removed and no engine. I backed up to the bike. After dropping off the paperwork that allowed AAA to release the bike to me, I lowered the bed and winched the Yamaha onto the truck with the sound of metal sliding on metal. I threw two heavy chains over the hulk and boomed it down tight.
When I arrived back at the yard, I backed the truck into the bay where we tore cars down to salvage their useable parts, lowered the bed, and then hooked a heavy chain to the bike and secured it to the bottom of the lift. I carefully pulled the truck out, dragging the machine off the bed and to the floor. I backed the truck against the motorcycle to slide it back so there'd be some slack in the chain, unhooked it, and then parked the truck back where it belonged. I considered going work on the Yamaha immediately, but it wasn't going anywhere, and I needed to get the rest of the cars crushed and ready to load. I waffled a moment, but then forced myself to do what I had to do before I did what I wanted to do.
An hour later I returned to the garage bay. This was the first time I'd seen the bike in good light. The bike was a total write off, suitable only for crushing, but hopefully there would be a clue somewhere in the twisted and mangled metal to what happened. Stu was too good a rider to crash like he had. Something had to have happened to the bike, some kind of catastrophic failure that occurred without warning.
I'd thoroughly checked over the bike at Stu's house before he'd ridden it to the Green Hell. I'd followed in the support truck, hauling tires and tools. Stu said the bike had felt fine and I'd given it only the most cursory check before sending Stu out for the first run.
After the first lap Stu had reported no issues, and though I'd made some adjustments, I hadn't inspected the bike before sending him out again. It was clear I'd missed something. I should have been more cautious and checked the bike between the runs, but I hadn't. Now Stu was dead, and Vicki was a widow... possibly because of me.
I slowly walked around the bike. Everything was so mangled it was going to be hard to tell what had broken before the crash and what was broken as the result of the crash, but I'd given Vicki my word I'd find out what happened, and I wouldn't rest until I did.
The massive rear swing arm was broken, almost certainly the result of the crash, but the pivot point, while badly deformed, was intact. I continued to circle the bike, taking it all in. The front forks were so badly twisted and misshapen there was no way to know if something happened there, but Stu would have felt the looseness and reported it long before the failure would have caused him to crash. Even if both fork tubes blew out, as unlikely as that was, the walls of the tubes would have held the assembly together, and the tubes, though twisted and bent, were still intact. Stu might have shit himself if that had happened, but he likely wouldn't have crashed.
I continued with my slow circuit of the bike. Nothing made sense. No oil was sprayed all over the rear of the bike that would indicate engine failure, oil that would have coated the rear tire and could have caused Stu to crash. Everything pointed to rider error, but I couldn't accept that, not with Stu, and not on a near straight bit of road.
I continued around the bike. The answer was there, buried somewhere in the pile of metal and plastic. I just had to find it. I finished my second orbit around the bike before I moved to the toolbox. I opened the deep bottom drawer and pulled out the reciprocating saw. I pulled down the power cord from the reel mounted to the ceiling, plugged it in, and then squeezed the trigger briefly to make sure it worked. Holding the tool, I tried to decide where I wanted to start. I finally decided to start with the engine.
Donning my earmuffs and safety glasses, I first cut away the seat, then snipped the fuel line with a pair of wire cutters, draining the gasoline from the fuel tank into a bucket. Once the tank was empty, I quickly cut it away. I picked up the spotlight and slowly ran the beam over the engine, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The engine looked fine... considering it hit a tree at probably eighty miles an hour, if not more.
The radiator was a distorted mess, and I quickly used the saw to cut away the mounting brackets and hoses, knowing the radiator had long since leaked all its coolant. I tossed the radiator to the floor beside the tank and seat. I placed the saw aside and wiped away some of the dried mud and grass stuck to the engine before looking at my fingers as I slowly rubbed them together. There wasn't even a trace of oil on them.
I picked up the saw again and wormed the blade into the bike. Being careful to not damage the engine, I cut away one of the engine mounts. I was trying to figure out how to best cut away the second mount when I noticed a hole in the front of the engine. I placed the saw aside and examined the cavity. My brows furrowing, I pulled off my earmuffs and glasses as I lay down on my side. I examined the area around the damage more closely. Twisting with a soft grunt, I worked my hand in and stuck my little finger into the hole.
"What the hell?" I muttered to no one.
