I could see from here that there was no door in the doorway to be locked. I played the cellphone glow across the Wilderness, and saw a woodshed standing at the treeline to my right.
There was a spotty old padlock on it, and the key didn’t work, so I tried my keyring. It turned out to be the last one on the ring; when I got the door open I pointed the light inside and saw a work table with a modest array of tools lying on it and a C-clamp gripping the corner of a sliding closet door panel. Dried wood glue oozed out of a crack where the clamp was pinching it.
To my left, a canvas tarp covered some large and lumpy object the size of a sofa.
I pulled off the fabric and uncovered a 2002 Indian Chief Roadmaster with an aqua top and cream belly, leather seats and saddlebags.
I swore under my breath and sat on the machine, my shoes crunching on the oil-spotted refrigerator carton underneath it.
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