The Last Ride

 

The sound of a Harley Davidson engine is distinct. It’s a low, guttural rumble that shakes the windows and rattles the teeth. In the pristine, silent parking lot of Saint Jude’s Hospice Center, it sounded like a declaration of war.

I lay in bed, my body a withered husk of the man I used to be. Stage four lung cancer had taken my breath, my strength, and my dignity. But it hadn’t taken my hearing.

“He’s here,” I whispered, a small smile cracking my dry lips.

My nurse, Brenda, looked out the window and sighed. “That loud gentleman again? Mr. Sterling, are you sure? He looks… well, he looks like trouble.”

“He’s the only trouble I have left, Brenda,” I wheezed. “Let him in.”

His name was Silas. He was six-foot-four, covered in leather and denim, with a beard that reached his chest and tattoos that climbed up his neck like ivy. He smelled of gasoline, tobacco, and the open road.

My children—Robert, David, and Elena—would have been terrified of him. They would have locked their car doors. They would have called the police.

But my children weren’t here.

They hadn’t been here in six months.

“Hey, old timer,” Silas said, walking into the room. He didn’t tiptoe. He didn’t use the ‘sad whisper’ voice everyone else used. He pulled a metal chair up to my bed, scraping it loudly against the floor.

“Silas,” I rasped. “Did you bring it?”

He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a small, hidden flask. He dipped a cotton swab into it—aged single-malt scotch—and rubbed it on my cracked lips.

It tasted like fire and memories.

“Thanks,” I breathed.

“Don’t mention it,” Silas grinned. “How are the heirs today? Any show?”

I looked at my phone on the nightstand. It was silent.

“No,” I said. “Robert is ‘closing a deal’ in Tokyo. David is ‘renovating the summer house.’ And Elena… Elena is ‘too emotional’ to see me like this.”

Silas scoffed. “Too emotional to see you, but not too emotional to cash the checks you send for her kids’ private school?”

“Exactly.”

I looked at Silas. We had met only a week ago. He was part of a volunteer group called The Final Mile—bikers who sat with terminal patients who had no one else. He was a stranger. And yet, in seven days, he had shown me more respect and love than my own flesh and blood had in twenty years.

“Is the lawyer coming?” Silas asked, his face turning serious.

“He’s in the lobby,” I said. “He’s waiting for my signal.”

Silas took my hand. His hand was rough, calloused, the size of a baseball mitt.

“You sure about this, Arthur? It’s the nuclear option. Once you sign, there’s no going back. They’ll hate you.”

I looked at the empty chairs in the room. I thought about the birthdays I spent alone. I thought about the times they called only to ask for a loan, or a down payment, or a connection.

“They don’t hate me, Silas,” I whispered. “To hate someone, you have to care about them. They don’t care. I’m just an ATM with a pulse. And the ATM is out of order.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Bring the lawyer in.”

---

Chapter 1: The Vultures Gather

 

I died three days later.

It was peaceful. Silas was there. He was reading me a magazine about vintage cars. I closed my eyes during a description of a 1967 Mustang, and I just… didn’t open them again.

The funeral, however, was not peaceful.

It was held two weeks later at the most expensive funeral home in the city. My estate paid for it, of course.

I wasn’t there to see it, obviously, but Silas told me what would happen. And according to the video recording I had arranged, he was right.

Robert, David, and Elena sat in the front row. They wore designer black. They wept into silk handkerchiefs. They accepted condolences from my business partners, shaking hands and saying things like, “He was our rock” and “We are devastated.”

They were performing. They were waiting for the main event: The Reading of the Will.

They assumed it would be a simple affair. Split three ways. My real estate holdings, my stock portfolio, my vintage car collection. A total value of roughly fifty million dollars.

After the service, they gathered in the conference room of my attorney, Mr. Henderson.

Silas was there, too.

He sat in the back corner, arms crossed, wearing his cut. He looked like a wolf sitting among sheep.

“Who is he?” Elena hissed, pointing a manicured finger at Silas. “Security! Remove this… person.”

“He stays,” Mr. Henderson said, looking over his glasses. “He is an invited guest of the deceased.”

“Dad knew a biker?” David laughed nervously. “Dad hated motorcycles. He said they were dangerous.”

“Your father,” Mr. Henderson said coldly, “changed a lot in his final months. You wouldn’t know. You weren’t there.”

The room went deadly silent.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Robert said, checking his watch. “I have a flight to catch.”

“Very well,” Mr. Henderson said. He opened the heavy leather folder.

“I, Arthur William Sterling, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all prior wills.”

The siblings leaned forward. The greed was palpable. It radiated off them like heat.

“To my eldest son, Robert,” Henderson read. “Who was too busy to visit me during my chemotherapy, but not too busy to use my name to secure his partnership…”

Robert stiffened. “What?”

“…I leave my gold cufflinks. The ones you always admired. May they remind you that appearance is not substance.”

Henderson slid a small velvet box across the table.

Robert stared at it. “That’s… that’s it? Cufflinks?”

“To my middle son, David,” Henderson continued. “Who was renovating the summer house while I was unable to walk…”

David went pale.

“…I leave the deed to the summer house.”

David exhaled. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. That’s worth two million.”

“However,” Henderson interrupted. “The house is bequeathed with a Life Estate condition. It may not be sold, rented, or leveraged for loans. It must be maintained by you, personally. If the property falls into disrepair, ownership reverts to the state. Good luck mowing the lawn, David.”

David’s jaw dropped. “I can’t sell it? It’s a money pit!”

“To my daughter, Elena,” Henderson read. “Who said she was too emotional to see me die…”

Elena began to cry again. “I loved him!”

“…I leave you a box of tissues. Since you are so prone to tears, you will need them.”

Henderson placed a box of Kleenex on the table.

Elena screamed. She actually screamed. “This is a joke! Where is the money? Where are the accounts?”

Henderson turned the page.

“The residue of the estate,” Henderson read, his voice booming. “Including the liquid assets, the portfolio, the city properties, and the vintage cars… is bequeathed to the only person who held my hand when I was afraid. The only person who didn’t ask me for a dime. The only person who treated me like a man, not a bank account.”

All three heads turned to the back of the room.

They turned to the biker.

---

Chapter 2: The New King

 

“Him?” Robert shouted, standing up. “That… thug? Dad was coerced! Undue influence! We’ll sue! We’ll bury you!”

Silas didn’t flinch. He stood up slowly. He walked to the table.

“Your dad wasn’t coerced,” Silas said. His voice was deep, rough, and calm. “He was lonely. And he was heartbroken.”

“You manipulated him!” Elena shrieked. “Who are you?”

“I’m Silas,” he said. “I’m a mechanic. And a volunteer. I sat with your dad for six hours a day. We watched Jeopardy. We talked about cars. He told me about you guys.”

Silas looked at them with pity.

“He told me how he paid for your colleges. Your weddings. Your divorces. He told me he waited every day for the door to open. He told me he kept his phone on loud, just in case.”

Silas reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a phone. My phone.

“He gave me this,” Silas said. “He told me to show you something.”

He unlocked the phone and placed it on the table.

It was the call log.

Robert: 0 Incoming.

David: 0 Incoming.

Elena: 0 Incoming.

Then he opened the text messages.

Draft to Robert: “I’m scared, son. Can you come?” (Unsent)

Draft to Elena: “The pain is bad today. I just want to hear your voice.” (Unsent)

“He didn’t send them,” Silas said softly. “Because he knew you wouldn’t answer. Or worse, you’d answer and tell him you were busy.”

“We have lives!” David yelled defensively.

“So did he,” Silas said. “Until he didn’t.”

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat. “The Will is ironclad. Mr. Sterling underwent a psychiatric evaluation the day he signed it. He was lucid. He was specific. The estate belongs to Mr. Silas Deane.”

Silas looked at the paperwork.

“I don’t want the money for myself,” Silas said.

The siblings perked up. Hope flickered in their eyes.

“Then give it to us!” Elena cried. “We’re family!”

“No,” Silas said. “Arthur and I talked about this. We have a plan.”

Silas looked at the lawyer.

“Mr. Henderson, please execute the Phoenix Protocol.”

---

Chapter 3: The Haunted Legacy

 

“What is the Phoenix Protocol?” Robert asked, terrified.

“Mr. Deane,” Henderson explained, “has instructed that the entire fortune be liquidated and placed into a charitable trust.”

“Charity?” David groaned.

“Specifically,” Silas added, a small smirk playing on his lips. “The Arthur Sterling Foundation for Abandoned Seniors.”

Silas leaned over the table, looking each of them in the eye.

“We’re going to build hospices,” Silas said. “Free ones. For old folks whose kids are too busy to visit. And we’re going to name the wings after you.”

He pointed to Robert. “The Robert Sterling Wing for the Neglected.”

He pointed to Elena. “The Elena Sterling Center for the Ungrateful.”

“You can’t put my name on that!” Elena gasped.

“It’s in the Will,” Henderson confirmed. “A condition of the trust. If you contest the Will, the names get bigger. And we buy billboards.”

Silas picked up the keys to my 1967 Mustang—the only physical item he kept for himself.

“Your dad was a good man,” Silas said. “He deserved better kids. But since he couldn’t change you, he decided to teach you.”

He walked to the door.

“Oh,” Silas turned back. “Arthur left one more thing. A letter. For all of you.”

He handed a sealed envelope to Robert.

Robert opened it with shaking hands. He read it aloud.

“Dear Kids,

If you are reading this, you are likely angry. You are likely looking for someone to blame. Don’t look at Silas. Look in the mirror.

I spent my life building a fortune to protect you from the world. But I forgot to protect myself from you.

I leave you with the one thing you gave me in my final days: Nothing.

Love, Dad.”

Silas walked out of the room. The rumble of his Harley started up outside, shaking the windows one last time.

My children sat in the silence of the conference room, surrounded by fifty million dollars worth of paperwork that they couldn’t touch, holding a pair of cufflinks, a deed to a money pit, and a box of tissues.

They were finally visiting me. But it was too late.