Chapter 13

It was ten o’clock when Zeke regained consciousness. He stayed on the couch, still and silent. His thoughts roiled in his mind like catfish in a feeding frenzy. What was he doing here? This was crazy. His family name was Clay, not Clayton. This was a serious case of mistaken identity. Luther Clayton was obsessed and delusional. No fortune was worth all this ... this freakiness. Nobody was going to force God on him simply because his middle name was Jabez. God hated him. Why should he believe in this Jabez Prayer thing? God would never hear him anyway.

It’s all a coincidence—his name, this verse in the Bible, his mother’s stories. It’s all just—crazy. Pure craziness. This man who claims to be Zeke’s uncle, was crazy. His mother was very, very sick. Maybe she was a bit crazy, too. Somehow, these two people had the same ... delusion?

How is that possible?

None of this made sense.

He thought about the letter, the story, the folklore. This really was a scavenger hunt. Did he have all the pieces? Could he complete the puzzle, figure things out? The strangest piece was his tattoo. Why would it bleed after three and a half years? It never once caused him any irritation. Why was it doing this now? Was it coincidence? Bizarre.

Surely there was a logical, scientific explanation. Maybe something in the pollen caused a weird reaction with the ink. The red ink must have had a different compound than the blue. That’s why it reacted differently and caused the irritation. The irritation caused the bleeding. That must be it. Sure. A logical explanation.

But how could he deny the legend, the folklore, and the Indian story? They all mention a bleeding crown of thorns. Zeke closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Coincidence!” He shouted. “Pure, unadulterated, unexplainable, coincidence.”

He threw back the blanket and stalked to the great room. He dug out his gym bag from the pile he’d made. Really ought to put these somewhere. He glanced at the stairs. Should he claim a bedroom? He’d slept on the sectional two nights in a row. Probably about the time he took up residence, at least for the remainder of the week.

He lifted the laundry basket and the plastic bag with the clothes from the John Martin fiasco. He wrinkled one side of his upper lip. Ugh, laundry. He dropped them in the utility room and returned to the great room. He hooked the duffle and gym bag over his shoulder, picked up a trash bag, and ascended the stairs. Considering the four extra bedrooms, he settled on the only right choice.

“If I’m going to figure you out, Luther, I might as well walk in your shoes, so to speak.” He entered Luther’s room and piled the bags against the open wall beside the wardrobe. A couple of trips later he had everything in the master suite. He hung what he had brought on hangers in the closet. Once again he picked up his gym bag and set it on the bed. He unzipped it, retrieved a black vinyl shaving kit and the nylon net shower bag that held his towel, bath soap, and beard trimmer. He walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

Freshly showered, head and goatee trimmed up nicely, he was a new man.

Zeke took a deep breath, picked up the discarded clothes, and walked downstairs. Keys clinked as he dumped the clothes on the laundry room floor. He picked up the pants and removed them. His own and Luther’s.

Better hang these back up. He walked to the garage. As he slid the key ring on the hook, a faded green tarp caught his eye. Why didn’t he notice it last night? Hmm. He pulled up one corner and exposed a chrome spoke wheel.

“Cool!” He pulled the tarp off with a flourish like David Copperfield revealing his next amazing trick. Dust and the tarp floated to the concrete floor in slow motion.

In its place sat a 1957 Harley Davidson XL Sportster motorcycle, two-tone pepper red and black with chrome everything.

“Sweet!” He squealed like a teenage boy at Christmas. Then again, this was better than any Christmas he had ever experienced. “Luther, baby. Please be my uncle!”

Sure enough, in the key box hung the familiar chrome-plated black and silver bar and shield logo of Harley Davidson.

“What you want to bet this is the right key?” he asked with a wry smile.

Since he was about to start up an ancient motorcycle, he hit the remote door opener on the wall. As the angle of sunlight widened in the musty garage, he pushed the motorcycle key into the starter. Shifting his weight to his right side, he planted his left knee in the seat. Taking a firm grip on the soft rubber handles, he pulled the starter pedal out and with one swift motion. He rose on one foot and pushed down with all his weight, forcing the chrome pedal down.

Plaaaa, the motor sputtered.

He did it again and twisted the throttle.

Plaaaa.

Again. Plaaaa.

Again. Plaaaa.

He planted both feet on either side of the bike and shook it from side to side. He could hear sloshing sounds. There’s gas. He twisted off the painted gas cap and leaned over the tank. How old was this gas?

A chest-high stainless steel Craftsman tool chest stood to his right. “Nice. Uncle liked stainless steel and chrome. I like you better all the time, Luther.”

He rolled the tool chest over next to the bike and pulled out drawers until he found some pliers and the socket wrench set. Snapshot memories flickered in Zeke’s mind of Evan restoring the ‘67 Impala with him. He switched off the gas and used the pliers to slide off the clip-on gas hose. He sat the hose on top of the toolbox and lifted a socket to the bolt. It was too big. He lifted the next size down and it fit. He loosened and removed the two bolts.

He pulled up and backward on the gas tank, then he pulled back and upward. The tank grudgingly came off in his hands.

“Okay.” He scanned the floor. Several white buckets were stacked near where the tool chest had stood. He balanced the tank on his hip and snagged a bucket with his free hand. He turned the tank upside down over the bucket and let the gas spill into the plastic pail. It filled the bucket about halfway.

The gas looked clean, but the smell was weak. He moved the tank back and forth, side to side to get as much gas out as possible. He gently set the gas tank on the concrete and found a red plastic gas can. It was full. He screwed it open and pulled out the spout. It smelled like gas, not diesel or kerosene. He poured a small amount into the tank and shook it all around until he felt it had thoroughly scrubbed out the insides. He untwisted the lid and poured the contents into the bucket.

Working in reverse, he reattached the tank to the bike and filled it with the clean gas. He tried to kickstart the motor again.

Plaaaa.

“Nah, that would be too easy.” Evan would have said the same thing, and then they would have chuckled.

Cars rumbled down the county road although he could not see them. He pursed his lips and glanced around the garage. The hair on his neck lifted and he rubbed them down with his left hand. His eyes settled on the bike.

He squatted down next to the engine and located the air intake. Twisting the thumb screw, he removed the filter. It was okay, maybe a little dirty. He blew in it and banged it against the floor for good measure. The noise caused a shutter in his gut. A small cloud of dirt billowed from the paper baffles. The dust settled back to the concrete and he glanced at the door to the house. Why was he letting himself get creeped out? He shook his head and reattached the air filter.