Chapter 3

I froze for a second, like a mouthful of rice had lodged in my throat.

Geoffrey had moved that fast?

"Ralph, that tensioner pulley of yours is shot. I've already ordered the part. How's anyone supposed to fix it otherwise?"

Ralph let out a sigh. "Maxwell... Mr. James just swapped in a bearing, thirty bucks. Your tensioner runs a hundred and eighty. Let's just forget it."

My chest jumped, the corner of my mouth twitched, and I sat there uneasy for a long while, torn.

In the end I chose to say it straight. "Ralph, the inner rim of the tensioner is worn. A bearing won't hold. It'll pop loose and smash the radiator."

Before Ralph could answer, Geoffrey cut in from the side. "What's this garbage you're spouting? You just can't stand to see anyone else do well. You won't be happy till you've unloaded your overpriced parts on somebody! Ralph, don't listen to him..."

I stared out at the green stretch of wheat, lost in it. So this was what it felt like, the cold in your chest.

That night I dug out my repair ledgers. Every household in the village had a tab.

But I'd never once gone chasing after any of it.

The year Ralph's son got married, his harvester died out in the field. I fixed it in the rain till past midnight and didn't take a cent.

And now they'd put their faith in some outsider.

I calmly dialed Foreman Lawrence. "Foreman Lawrence, I'll come by first thing tomorrow. I'll start on those machines over on the east end."

He was overjoyed. "Good, good, good, I'll be waiting for you."

Meanwhile, over on the other side, Mr. James's yard was packed with harvesters.

He worked with a young apprentice, run off his feet.

His face was practically creased with smiling. He bought every one of them a Red Bull.

Geoffrey lounged nearby with a cigarette between his teeth and a drink in his left hand, jabbing his finger and running his mouth.

"See that? Belt's just loose. Tighten it and you're done. If it were Maxwell, wouldn't he swap the whole set?"

"Clutch won't disengage. Just an adjustment. If it were Maxwell, guaranteed he'd hit you with his three-piece special."

"Look at this dead battery. Mr. James just finds a used one, you kick in a little extra, done. That's what a real craftsman looks like."

The crowd stuck their thumbs up, nodding along.

Toby said, "Right! Mr. James, real skill, and a good man too."

"We should've come over ages ago. All these years, how much has Maxwell fleeced us for?"

Mr. James's shop stayed busy all night, and the folks in Clearfield were all kicking themselves for showing up late.

Early the next morning I packed up my tools and headed for Sunnyvale.

Passing Mr. James's shop, I saw him standing in the doorway, waving off something Geoffrey was pressing on him.

I didn't give it a second look and went on to the east end of the village.

Foreman Lawrence had been waiting a good while. The moment I climbed out he pushed a pack of cigarettes into my hand.

"Mentor Bell, take a look at this one first. No power. Keeps bogging down."

I plugged in the code reader and ran the fault codes. Nothing.

Then I popped the cover and looked things over. Four injector nozzles, all newly replaced.

I asked Foreman Lawrence, "How long ago were these nozzles changed? Did it get any better?"

He ground his teeth and slapped his thigh. "Swapped a week ago. That time the machine stalled right out in the field, white smoke pouring off it."

"I called Roland James over to check it. Without a word he put in four new nozzles."

"But after he swapped them, same problem. Worse, even. I asked him what was going on, and the son of a bitch said the engine was blown."

"Damn it!" Foreman Lawrence swore, cursing up a storm.

I let it go — whether another man's work was good or bad, I don't pass judgment.

Since there were no fault codes, the only way in was through the data stream.

This harvester was a 3.5-liter. Worked out, the intake per cylinder should run somewhere between seven hundred and eight hundred milligrams.

But right now the intake was only half that. Plenty of fuel going in, not enough air.

No wonder it had no power.

First I pulled the air filter. No blockage.

Took off the intake pipe too. No problem there.

Working through it, I found the trouble fast. The mass air-flow sensor was filthy, choked solid with oily sludge.

So the intake readings were off.

Foreman Lawrence stood there dumbstruck. "That's all it was?"