Chapter 3

Besides the fact that the lake I thought I'd climbed out of in the dark turned out to be a river, there was only one thing of note outside my tent, apart from the trees and nearby campers. A motorcycle: a Harley Davidson Road King, saddlebags and all, though I wasn't sure of the year. I took the wet pants and shirt I'd stripped out of the night before and hung them where the sun would dry them, then headed over to check out the bike.

I'd been a Harley fan in my younger years. My affection for the machines had grown out of my nickname, which was a corruption of my name Harold Lee. Grandma Williams had called me Harley almost from the day I was born, and over the years, the rest of the family and then my friends had taken to calling me Harley as well. I'd even been called Harley by the rest of my unit when I was in the military.

Even that damned voice had called me Harley, and where the hell was it when I needed it? All in my face when I was trapped in a hospital bed, but now that I'd somehow gone down the rabbit hole? Pulled the Cheshire cat act and disappeared.

The bike had an electronic ignition and locking saddlebags, as well as a helmet, painted to match the bike's colors, which was locked into a spot on the back of the seat. I had no keys. I made an immediate trip back into the tent and found the keys in a jacket hanging from a hook on the back tent pole. It had been there the whole time and I hadn't noticed. That bothered me; for some reason I didn't like missing details, despite having spent the past twenty years with fading vision, bad eyes and non-existent reflexes.