The biker gazed at the cop’s nameplate when she cuffed him. It was the name of his daughter.
Officer Sarah Chen stopped me on Highway 49 because my taillight was broken. But as she came up to me and I saw her face, I couldn’t breathe.
She had my mother’s eyes, my nose, and the same crescent moon-shaped birthmark on the side of her left ear.
I used to kiss her goodbye on the birthmark when she was two. Then her mother took her away and never came back.
“License and registration,” she said in a cold, businesslike voice.
I shook my hands as I handed them over. Robert “Ghost” McAllister.
She didn’t know the name; Amy probably changed it. But I knew everything there was to know about her.
The way she stood with her weight on her left leg. The small scar above her eyebrow from when she tumbled off her bike. How she pushed her hair back behind her ear while she was working.
“Mr. McAllister, I’m going to need you to get off the bike.
She didn’t know she was arresting her father, who had been missing for thirty-one years.
Let me go back a little so you can understand what this event signifies.
Sarah Elizabeth McAllister, whose full name was Sarah, disappeared on March 15, 1993.
Amy’s mom and I had been divorced for six months, but we were getting along and I saw him every weekend.
Then Amy met Richard Chen, a banker. He offered her the safety that I said I could never provide her.
I went to get Sarah for our weekend one day, but they were gone. The apartment was empty, and there was no address to mail it to.
I did everything right. I called the police and paid private detectives with money I didn’t have.
The courts said Amy had broken the terms of custody, but they couldn’t find her. She had planned it out perfectly: new names, financial transactions, and no digital trail.
This was before it was harder to keep things secret online.
I looked for my daughter for thirty-one years. I saw her in every black-haired woman, every teen, and every young woman that looked like my mom.
I got support from my brothers in the Sacred Riders MC. We knew folks in every state.
We looked at each other every time we rode. I kept her newborn picture in my vest pocket for every charity run, rally, and long haul.
People had touched the painting for thirty-one years to make sure it was still there, which made it soft.
I never got married again or had any more kids. How could I?
My child was out there somewhere, and she might have assumed I had deserted her and not even thought about me.
“Mr. What about McAllister? “Get off the bike,” Officer Chen said. That brought me back.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You just look like someone I know.”
She felt tight and put her hand on her rifle. “Sir, get off the bike.” “Now.”
I got off, and my knees hurt. They are sixty-eight years old. She was thirty-three and a police officer.
Amy had always hated that I rode with a club because she thought it was dangerous. I thought it was humorous that our daughter became a police officer.
“I can smell alcohol,” she said.
“I haven’t had a drink.”
“Please take a field sobriety test.”
I knew she didn’t really smell like alcohol. I had been sober for fifteen years. But the way I acted worried her and made her distrust me.
I didn’t blame her. I probably looked like every crazy old biker she had ever met because I was looking too hard, shaking hands, and acting strangely.
While she was giving me the exams, I gazed at her hands. Her fingers were long like my mom’s. Mom used to call them “piano player fingers,” but none of us ever learned how to play.
There was a small tattoo on her right hand that was showing through her sleeve. It was of characters from China, which was probably because of her adoptive father’s influence.
“Mr. “McAllister, I’m arresting you because I think you were driving while drunk.”
“I haven’t been drinking,” I repeated again. “Try me.” “Breathalyzer, blood, whatever you want.”
“You’ll get all of that at the station.”
I could smell her vanilla perfume and something more, something that made my chest hurt, when she cuffed me.
Johnson made the baby shampoo. She still used the same kind. Amy said it was the only one that didn’t make Sarah cry when she was a baby.
I said softly, “That shampoo was for my daughter.”
She halted. “What did you say?” “
“Johnson’s. The yellow bottle. My daughter loved it.
“Sir, please stop talking.”
But I couldn’t do it. There was a break in thirty-one years of silence. “She had a birthmark that was just like yours,” right below her left ear.
Without thinking, Officer Chen’s hand went to her ear and then stopped. Her eyes got smaller. “How long have you been watching me?”
“I haven’t. I promise. I just—how could I explain? You look like someone I lost.”
“Put it away for later,” she said as she tugged me farther toward her cruiser.
It hurt to go to the station. For twenty minutes, I glanced at the back of my daughter’s head and saw Amy’s persistent cowlick that no amount of gel could tame.
She kept checking in the mirror, maybe to check if someone was behind her.
She gave me to another officer at the station to be processed.
But I saw her looking at me from across the room while they got my fingerprints, picture, and record.
There are only a few tiny things from the 1990s, such bar fights that happened during the turbulent years after Sarah went missing.
The breathalyzer said 0.00, and the blood test would too. Officer Chen didn’t like the results.
When she got back, I said, “I told you I was sober.”
“Why did you act so strange? “
“Can I show you something?” “There’s a picture in my vest.”
She pondered about it for a bit, then nodded to the desk sergeant, who gave her my stuff.
She searched my vest pockets and found a knife, some money, and some challenge coins from when I was in the Marines. Then she found it. The picture felt soft, like cloth.
Her face went pale.
Sarah, who was two years old, was sitting on my Harley, wearing my huge vest, and laughing at the camera.
Amy had it for two weeks before it went missing. We all enjoyed a great day together the last time we were together, even though we were divorced.
“Where did you get this?” Her voice was sharp and professional, yet there was something else there. Are you scared? Acknowledgment?
“That’s my girl,” Sarah Elizabeth McAllister said. It was 3 AM on September 3, 1990, and she weighed two ounces and eight pounds.
She had colic for three months and only stopped crying when I rode her around the neighborhood on my bike. Her first word was “vroom.”
Officer Chen stared at the image, then at me, and then back at the picture. I saw the moment she realized how much they were alike. Their noses and chins were the same and wouldn’t budge.
She remarked in a quiet voice, “My name is Sarah Chen.” “I was adopted when I was three.”
“Adopted?” “
When I was scared of bikes, I said, “My adoptive parents told me that my real parents died in a motorcycle accident.”
The room shifted. Amy didn’t simply take her; in Sarah’s mind, she had killed us. She killed us so she wouldn’t have to seek for us.
I told them, “Amy was your mother’s name.”
“Before she married me, Amy Patricia Williams had a scar on her left hand from an accident in the kitchen. Strawberries made her nauseous. “She sang Fleetwood Mac in the shower.”
Sarah’s palm was shaking now. “My adoptive mother… Amy, her sister… “She died when I was five.” “Car crash.”
“No.” The word came out incorrect. “No, she took you.” The 15th of March, 1993. “I’ve been looking—”
“Stop,” Sarah said, stepping back. “This isn’t—My parents are Linda and Richard Chen.” They looked after me. They—
I told them to “Call them.” “Talk to them about Amy.” “Find out if she was really Linda’s sister.” Ask them why they don’t have any pictures of you before you were three.
“You’re not telling the truth.”
“Test of DNA. I’ll pay for it. Hurry it up. “Please.”
This tough cop had placed me in handcuffs an hour ago, and now she was crying.
“My parents told me that my true parents were drug addicts. Bikers who died because they were stupid.
“I’ve been clean for fifteen years.” I drank before that. But never drugs. Not a chance. And I never stopped looking for you. “Not one day in thirty-one years.”
She got up and left. I waited there for three hours for her to come back with a phone in her hand and a face that looked terrible.
“They said it,” she added in a quiet voice.
“My parents. Parents who adopt. It doesn’t matter what they are. Amy was Linda’s sister.
She came with me when I was two and informed my dad he was a threat and that we needed new names.
They helped her keep us secure. After Amy died in the car crash, they merely kept me. “Kept the lie.”
“Sarah—”
“They said you were in a motorcycle gang and that you were violent.”
“I’m a member of the Sacred Riders.” We raise money for veterans’ kids.
After looking for you, I contributed all cash I could spare to youngsters who lost parents in the military. I thought that if I helped enough kids, you would come back to me.
My daughter, who was a stranger, sat down across from me. “The mark over my eyebrow?”
“Tricycle. You were trying to ride your bike like I do when I pop a wheelie. You needed three stitches.
You were very brave and didn’t cry. The nurse gave you a Tweety Bird sticker.
She muttered, “I still have it.” “In my baby book.” The only item that didn’t make sense was a Tweety Bird sticker from a hospital I’d never heard of.
“Mercy General in Sacramento.” It closed in 1995.
“Why didn’t you… Why did no one locate us? “
“Your mom was smart. Richard had friends and money. They knew how to escape.
There was no sign of a trail after Amy died. You were just Sarah Chen, the adopted daughter of nice people.
She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture. Two kids, both young. “These are my boys.” Your… your grandsons. Tyler is six. Brandon is four years old.
They were just like me. I saw the same crooked smile and McAllister chin in the mirror every morning.
“They love motorcycles,” she said with a giggle through her tears.
“Make my husband go crazy.” He always wants to see the bikes as we pass people on bikes. I never let them. “They said they were dangerous.”
“The only thing that makes them dangerous is riding them.”
She added, “I became a cop.” “I became a cop so I could find bikers who were dangerous.”
The people who left their children behind. The ones my parents said you were.
“Did you find any?”
“Some.” But I saw bikers help drivers who had broken down more regularly. Bikers are raising money for kids who have cancer. People who have been abused are getting aid from bikers. “It didn’t match what I had heard.”
“Sarah—” I reached across the table and stopped. “Can I… can I touch your hand? Just to see if you’re real?”
Slowly, she reached out. We touched hands. Mine were weathered and damaged from years of searching, and hers were strong and steady. When our skin touched, she gasped.
“I remember,” she responded in a quiet voice. “Oh God, I remember.” You used to write me letters on my hand before I went to bed. The letters that make up the alphabet. You said it would make me smart.
“You learned your letters before you could walk well.”
“There was a song.” It was about wheels, I think.
I changed the words to the song about the bus to “Wheels on the Bike.” You had me sing it every night.
This tough detective, who was my daughter, was now crying. “The calls. There were calls when I was a youngster. Linda would hang up and say they were individuals who called to sell items.
“I never gave up.” I kept going even when the figures changed.
“Thirty-one years?” “
“Thirty-one years, two months, and sixteen days.”
“You counted?” “
“All of them.”
The sergeant at the desk knocked and said, “Chen, is everything okay in there?” “
“Tom, I need a minute,” Sarah said as she washed her face.
“The prints on the guy came back clean.” Just some old bar stuff. Are you going to file charges?
She looked at me and answered, “No.” No charges. “Misunderstanding.”
We were quiet for a bit after he went.
She said, “I don’t know how to do this.” “You are a stranger, but you are not.” You are my father, yet Richard raised me. “I’m a cop, and you’re a biker.”
“We’re going slow,” I said. “First, coffee. Maybe during lunch. You can bring your sons if you want to, but you don’t have to. It’s up to you. You can select anything.
“My husband is going to lose it.”
“He’s welcome to come too.” I’ll answer any questions you have.
“My parents, the Chens, are good people.” They just…
“They loved you and took care of you. I’m thankful for that, even if they kept you away from me. You turned out fantastic. That’s all that matters.
She stood up and helped me stand up. “Your bike is still on Highway 49.”
“My brothers will understand.”
“Brothers?” “
“The Holy Riders.” They’ve been looking for you too, in every state and every run. Uncle Bear, Uncle Whiskey, and Uncle Tango never gave up either.
“Do I have any uncles?” “
“Twenty-seven of them.” They’ve been saving up birthday gifts for thirty years. Whiskey has a whole storage unit full of them. They kept adding, “When we find you, you’ll have thirty-one birthdays at once.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, laughing like she did when she was a baby.
“That’s family.”
She took me out of the station and turned to me in the parking lot, where the harsh fluorescent lights were.
Let’s do “the DNA test.” “Just to be sure.”
I answered, “I’m already sure.” “But we’ll do it.”
“How can you be sure? “
“You bite your bottom lip when you think, much like my mom. You place your weight on your left leg, just like I do. Even though you’re 33, you still use Johnson’s baby shampoo. And you hummed while you were taking me into custody. The same melody you hummed as a newborn to help you concentrate.
“What song?”
Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon.” The song that your mom enjoys the best.
At that time, she completely lost it. I reached out my arms, and my lost daughter, my found daughter, and the cop who had arrested me all fell into them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t look for you.”
“You were just a baby.” You were a kid who thought we were dead back then. “Don’t feel bad.”
“I hated you.” I disliked someone who wasn’t real.
“You know the truth now.”
“Dad?” “Dad, I want my kids to meet you,” she replied. That one word, the one I had been waiting thirty-one years to hear, almost killed me.
“I’d like that.”
“They’ll love your bike.”
“I’ll teach them the right way to ride bikes.” “Safe way.”
“Tyler wants a leather jacket.”
I thought that was humorous. “I know someone.”
They pulled back and peered at me. “You look just like your picture,” they said. The one that belonged to the Chens. “From before.”
“Which photo?” “
She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of me as a Marine in 1973. I was young, clean-shaven, and dressed up.
“Amy kept that? “
The Chens found it in her things. It was the only picture she had of you. I used to look at it and wonder what type of person my dad was.
“Now you know.” A motorcycle rider who was always looking for his little girl.
“Found her, though.”
“You found me, in a way. They even arrested me.
“Best arrest I ever made.”
That was six months ago. The DNA test confirmed what we already knew. Sarah Chen was my daughter. Her full name was Sarah Elizabeth McAllister.
Putting everything together hasn’t been easy. The Chens were upset at first and thought I had let them down.
We made it through, though. They are still her mom and dad. They gave her a wonderful life, a good education, and good values. Thanks.
At first, Mark, Sarah’s husband, didn’t believe her, but then he met the Sacred Riders. It’s hard to be scared of twenty-seven bikers who cry when they see your wife and have been carrying her picture about for thirty years.
Bear gave her thirty-one birthday cards, one for each year she missed. Whiskey really did have a storage unit filled of stuffed animals, dolls, bikes, and other items that a girl her age would have adored.
We gave away most of it, but Sarah kept some of it.
Tyler and Brandon, my grandkids, are natural bikers. Tyler can determine what kind of bike it is just by the noise it makes.
We made Brandon an honorary member, so he wears his little Sacred Riders vest all the time.
Sarah is still anxious, but she lets them sit on my bike and lets me teach them about engines, honor, and brotherhood.
Sarah did something last month that healed thirty-one years of pain. She wore her uniform to our church, which is where we meet every week.
“I need to say something,” she said.
Twenty-seven bikers stopped talking.
“You looked for me when no one else would have.” You kept the faith even when it seemed crazy. You’re the uncles I never knew I had and the family members I was never allowed to have.
I was taught to be terrified of people like you and to arrest them. But you’re a hero. The people I admire. “Thanks for always being there.”
She slipped off her back and pulled out a leather vest. A vest for supporters, not a full cut. “I know I can’t join, but maybe…”
Bear stated, “You were born a member.” “You are the daughter of Ghost.” This means that you are a member of the Sacred Riders royal family.
She wears it sometimes when she’s not working. My daughter is a cop and wears a leather vest. She lives in two worlds that shouldn’t meet but do.
The Chens are now coming to some family events. It’s hard, but we’re doing our best.
They are wonderful individuals who did something terrible for what they thought were good reasons. It’s harder to forgive than to be furious, but it helps more.
Amy died thinking she had kept Sarah safe from me. The day I hugged our daughter again, I forgave her. We don’t need to be angry with the dead; we need to love the living.
Sarah rides her department’s Harley, and I sometimes ride my ancient Road King with her.
One blood, two generations, and two worlds. We don’t chat much as we ride. There’s no need to. The thirty-one years of silence said it all.
She’s starting a program where officers and bikers work together to find youngsters who have gone missing. They will use both their own networks and those of others.
She says it’s professional, but I know it’s not. She wants to spare other fathers thirty-one years of searching for their children who have been lied to for thirty-one years.
She says to the people she talks to, “I arrested my father.” “It was the best mistake I ever made.”
I have the arrest papers framed in my flat. Officer S. Chen arrested Robert McAllister on suspicion of driving while drunk.
The paper that ended thirty-one years of searching. The police stopped my daughter and took her home.
Sometimes the universe is hilarious. A broken taillight can sometimes help heal a broken heart. Getting jailed by your daughter is frequently the only way to be free.
And every now and again, people who are lost are found in the most improbable places.
Tyler asked me last week, “Grandpa, why do they call you Ghost?” “
“Because I was haunting someone for thirty-one years and they had no idea I was there.”
“But ghosts aren’t real.”
I responded “no” while looking at Sarah, who was helping Brandon with his toy motorcycle. “But coming back to life is.”
She heard me, looked up, and smiled. It was the smile of my mother, my grin, and her boys. It was the smile I had been seeking for in every crowd for 30 years.
I found you, my love. I finally found you.
Even if you had to arrest me.