As she cuffed him, the biker gazed at the police officer’s nameplate, which was his daughter’s name.
When I saw Officer Sarah Chen’s face after she pulled me over on Highway 49 for a broken taillight, I was overcome with emotion.She shared my nose, my mother’s eyes, and the same birthmark—a crescent moon—below her left ear.
When she was two years old, before her mother took her away and disappeared, I used to kiss her good night.“License and registration,” she stated icily and professionally.
I handed them over with trembling hands. Ghost, Robert McAllister.
The name was unfamiliar to her; Amy had most likely changed it. However, I knew every detail about her.
Her weight was on her left leg when she stood. the tiny scar from falling off her tricycle, located above her eyebrow. When she was focused, she tucked her hair behind her ear.“Mr. I’ll need you to get off the bike, McAllister.
She was unaware that she was taking her father into custody. The father who had spent thirty-one years looking.
You must comprehend the significance of this event, so allow me to explain.
On March 15, 1993, Sarah—who was born Sarah Elizabeth McAllister—went missing.
I had been divorced from her mother, Amy, for six months. Every weekend, I had visitation, and we were managing.
Then Amy made a new acquaintance. A banker named Richard Chen assured her of the stability she claimed I would never be able to provide.
They were gone the day I went to get Sarah for our weekend. There was nobody in the flat. There is no forwarding address. Nothing. I completed everything correctly. Police reports were filed. I used money I didn’t have to hire private investigators.
Despite their inability to locate Amy, the courts declared that she had violated custody. She had meticulously planned it: cash transactions, new identities, and no digital trace.
This was before concealing became more difficult due to the internet.
I searched for my daughter for 31 years. Every face in every group. All the young girls with dark hair. All the teenagers who could be her. All young ladies with my mother’s eyes.My brothers, the Sacred Riders MC, assisted me in my search. In every state, we had contacts.
We glanced every time we rode. I kept her newborn photo in my vest pocket on every long haul, charity run, and rally.
Thirty-one years of caressing the picture to make sure it was still there had worn it mushy.
I never got married again. never had any more children. How was I able to?
Somewhere out there, my kid might have thought I had left her. Perhaps they’re not even considering me.
“Mr. McAllister?Officer Chen’s voice reminded me. “Please get off the bike,” I said.
I managed to say, “I’m sorry.” “You remind me of someone,” I said.
She stiffened, reaching for her weapon. “Get off the bike, sir. Right now.
My sixty-eight-year-old knees protested as I climbed off. Her current age was thirty-three. an officer.
Amy had always thought it was unsafe that I rode with a club, and she loathed it. I wasn’t blind to the irony that our daughter ended up in police enforcement.
She remarked, “I smell alcoholic.”
“I haven’t had any alcohol.”
“You must complete a field sobriety test for me.”I was aware that she didn’t actually smell like booze. I had spent fifteen years sober. However, she was frightened and distrustful of my response for some reason.
I didn’t hold her accountable. I probably looked like every unruly old biker she had ever encountered—acting weird, trembling hands, and staring too intently.
I looked at her hands as she walked me through the tests. Her fingers were as long as my mother’s. Mom used to say, “piano player fingers,” but none of us ever learned.
A tiny tattoo on her right hand showed through her sleeve. Chinese characters. likely the influence of her adoptive father.Mr. I’m going to put you under arrest for suspected DUI, McAllister.
I reiterated, “I haven’t been drinking.” “Test me. Blood, a breathalyzer, anything you want.
“All of that is available at the station.”
I smelled her as she cuffed me, a familiar scent that made my chest hurt, together with vanilla perfume.
Johnson’s infant shampoo. The shampoo she used remained the same. When Sarah was a baby, Amy had insisted on it, claiming it was the only thing that didn’t make her cry.
“That shampoo was used by my daughter,” I muttered.
She hesitated. “Pardon me?”
“Johnson’s.” The bottle that is yellow. My daughter adored it.
“Stop talking, sir.”
However, I was unable to. The stillness of thirty-one years was coming to an end. Her birthmark was identical to yours. directly beneath her left ear.
Instinctively, Officer Chen’s fingers moved to her ear before pausing. She squinted. For what duration have you been observing me?”
“I haven’t been. I promise. I simply—” What could I say? “You remind me of someone I lost.”
Rougher now, she shoved me toward her cruiser. “Reserve it for a reservation.”
The journey to the station was excruciating. I spent twenty minutes looking at the back of my daughter’s head, observing Amy’s unruly cowlick that was uncontrollable with gel.Probably worried whether she had a stalker in her backseat, she kept looking in the mirror.
She handed me off to another officer for processing at the station.
However, I noticed her observing from the other side of the room while they ran my record, took my photo, and took my prints.
Except for a few small items from the 1990s—bar fights in the irate years following Sarah’s disappearance—it is clean.
0.00 was the breathalyzer’s result. So would the blood test. Officer Chen scowled when he saw the outcome.
When she returned, I remarked, “Told you I was sober.”
“What was causing your weird behavior?”“May I present you with something? I have it in my vest. A picture.
After a moment of hesitation, she nodded to the desk sergeant who gave her my things.
She dug inside my vest pockets and found the knife, some cash, and the challenge coins I had from my Marine days. Then she discovered it. The picture is as soft as fabric.
Her face turned pale.
Sarah, who was two at the time, was sitting on my Harley, laughing at the camera while sporting my big vest.
Two weeks prior to their disappearance, Amy had taken it. Even after getting divorced, it was the last pleasant day we spent as a family.“Where did this come from?Her tone was professional and piercing, but there was more to it than that. Fear? Acknowledgment?
“My daughter is that. McAllister, Sarah Elizabeth. born at 3 AM on September 3, 1990. Two ounces and eight pounds.
She only stopped sobbing when I took her on a bike ride around the neighborhood during her three months of colic. “Vroom” was the first word she said.
Officer Chen looked at the picture for a moment, then at me, and finally back at it. I noticed the similarity as soon as she did. The same obstinate chin, the same nose.
Sarah Chen is my name, she said softly. “When I was three years old, I was adopted.”
“Adopted?”My biological parents perished in a motorcycle accident, according to my adopted parents. claimed it was the reason I was afraid of bikes.
The room whirled. She wasn’t simply taken by Amy. In Sarah’s imagination, she had killed us. killed us so she wouldn’t ever find us.
I said, “Your mother’s name was Amy.”
Previously, Amy Patricia Williams was married to me. She suffered an accident in the kitchen that left her left hand scarred. She had a strawberry allergy. In the shower, she sung Fleetwood Mac.
Now Sarah’s hand was shaking. When I was five years old, my adoptive mother’s sister, Amy, passed away. vehicle collision.
“No.” The word sounded shattered. No, you were taken by her. March 15, 1993. I have been searching“Stop.” Sarah took a step back. “This isn’t— Richard and Linda Chen are my parents. I was reared by them. They.
“Give them a call,” I said. Inquire about Amy. Inquire as to whether she was actually Linda’s sister. Find out why there aren’t any photos of you before the age of three.
“You’re telling lies.”
“DNA analysis. I’ll cover the cost. Hurry. Please.
This burly cop who had cuffed me an hour before was crying now.
“My biological parents were drug addicts, according to my parents.” riders who lost their lives due to foolish actions.“I have fifteen years of sobriety. Yes, I drank before that. However, never use drugs. Never. And I kept searching for you. In thirty-one years, not a single day.
She walked out of the room. Before she returned with her phone in hand and her face ruined, I languished in holding for three hours.
“They acknowledged it,” she said.
“My folks. adoptive parents. Whatever they are. Linda’s sister was named Amy.
She claimed that my father was dangerous and that we required new identities when she first appeared with me when I was two years old.
They assisted her in concealing us. They simply kept me when Amy perished in that automobile accident. maintained the falsehood.“Sarah—”
They claimed that you were a member of a motorcycle gang. that you were aggressive.
“The Sacred Riders is where I am. We generate funds for the children of veterans.
After looking for you, I donated every last cent I had to kids who lost parents in the military. I believed that you will return if I helped enough children.
This stranger, who was actually my daughter, took a seat across from me. Above my eyebrow, the scar?”
“Tricycle. Like you saw me do on my bike, you were attempting to pop a wheelie. Three stitches were required.
You showed such bravery by not crying at all. You received a Tweety Bird sticker from the nurse.
“I still have it,” she muttered. “In my baby book.” A Tweety Bird sticker from a hospital I had never heard of was the one oddity.Sacramento’s Mercy General. In 1995, it closed.
“Why didn’t anyone discover us? Why didn’t you?”
“Your mom was intelligent. Richard had money and contacts. They were adept at vanishing.
And there was absolutely no trail following Amy’s death. You were merely Sarah Chen, a devout woman’s adopted daughter.
She showed me a picture on her phone. Two small children. “My sons are these. Your grandsons, that is. Tyler is six years old. Brandon is four years old.
They resembled me. They both had the same crooked smile I saw in the mirror every morning, the McAllister chin.
She laughed while crying and remarked, “They adore motorcycles.”
“Make my husband crazy.” When we pass cyclists, they always ask to view the bikes. I never let them to. claimed that they were harmful.
“The person riding them determines how dangerous they are.”
“I became a police officer,” she abruptly declared. “I wanted to find dangerous bikers, so I became a cop.”
those who left their children behind. My parents said that you were one of them.
“Did you discover any?”
A few. More frequently, though, I saw bikers assisting drivers who were having trouble. Bikers are collecting money for children with cancer. Bikers defending victims of abuse. It didn’t match the narrative I had been given.
“Sarah—” I stopped as I reached across the table. Would it be okay if I touched your hand? Only to be sure you’re real?”
Slowly, she extended her hand. Our hands touched, hers solid and strong, mine worn and scarred from decades of searching. She gasped as soon as our skin met.
“I recall,” she muttered. “Oh God, I do recall. Before going to bed, you used to trace letters on my palm. The alphabet. It would make me smarter, you said.
“Before you could walk properly, you learned your letters.”
A song was played. Wheels, perhaps?”
“Wheels on the Bike.” I substituted the bus song with the original lyrics. I had to sing it every night because of you.This tough cop, my lost daughter, was crying now. “The phone calls. When I was younger, there were calls. Linda would end the call. Consider them to be telemarketers.
“I never gave up trying. I persisted in attempting even after the numbers changed.
Thirty-one years?”
The time frame is 31 years, 2 months, and 16 days.
Did you count?”
“All of them.”
The sergeant at the desk knocked. “Is everything in there alright, Chen?”
Sarah dabbed at her face. “Tom, I need a minute.”“The man’s prints were clear. A few antique bar items. Are you pressing charges?”
“No,” she said, glancing at me. No fees. misunderstanding
We sat in silence for a while after he went.
She said, “I’m not sure how to do this.” Although you’re a stranger, you’re not. Richard reared me, but you’re my dad. I’m a police officer, and you ride a bike.
“We move slowly,” I remarked. “Start with coffee. Lunch, perhaps. If you wish, you can bring your boys. Or not. You have an option. You have complete control over everything.
“My husband is going to lose his mind.”
“He is welcome to attend as well. I’ll respond to any inquiries.
“The Chens, my parents, are decent folks. They simply
“They cherished you.” You were raised by them. Even though they kept you away from me, I’m thankful for that. You looked fantastic. That’s what counts.
She got up and assisted me in getting up. “You still have your bike on Highway 49.”
“My brothers are going to get it.”
“Brothers?”
“The Riders of Sacredness.” They have also been searching for you. Every state, every run. Uncle Tango, Uncle Bear, and Uncle Whiskey also never gave up.
“I have uncles, right?”There are 27 of them. For thirty years, they have been preserving birthday gifts. Whiskey has an entire storage unit filled with whiskey. kept saying that you would have thirty-one birthdays all at once when we found you.
She chuckled, just as she had when she was a baby. “That is crazy.”
“That’s family.”
I was escorted out the station by her. She turned to face me in the glaring fluorescent lights of the parking lot.
“The test for DNA.” Let’s get started. Just to be certain.
“Of course,” I replied. “But we will do it.”
“How are you certain?”“Like my mother, you bite your bottom lip while you’re thinking. Like me, you stand with your left leg supporting your weight. You are thirty-three years old, but you still use Johnson’s baby shampoo. And you hummed while you were taking me into custody. The same song you used to hum as a newborn to focus.
What song?”
“Rhiannon,” written by Fleetwood Mac. The song that your mother loves the most.
At that moment, she lost it. My daughter—my lost daughter, my found daughter, and my cop daughter who had arrested me—fell into my arms as soon as I opened them.
“I apologize,” she cried. “I apologize for not finding you.”
“You were a newborn. When you were a child, you believed that we had passed away. There is nothing to feel sorry for.“I detested you.” hated a nonexistent person.
“You now understand the reality.”
“Dad?I almost died when she said, “Dad, I want my kids to meet you.” It was the one phrase I had been waiting for for thirty-one years.
“That would be nice.”
“Your bike will be loved by them.”
“I’ll instruct them on motorcycles.” the proper manner. safe method.
“A leather jacket is something Tyler has been pleading for.”
I chuckled. “I know a man.”
She stepped back and gave me a look. “You look exactly like your photo,” they said, giving me a serious look. The one owned by the Chens. from before.
Which picture?”
She showed me by taking out her phone. It was a 1973 portrait of myself as a Marine. Formal, young, and clean-shaven.
Did Amy keep that?”
It was discovered by the Chens in her belongings. She only had one photo of you. I used to gaze at it, pondering the character of my father.
“You now understand. Just an elderly motorcyclist who was constantly searching for his young girl.
“But I found her.”
In a technical sense, you located me. even got me arrested.
“My best arrest to date.”
Six months have passed since then. What we already knew was validated by the DNA test. My daughter’s name was Sarah Chen, and her name was Sarah Elizabeth McAllister.
It hasn’t been easy to integrate. At first, the Chens were upset and felt deceived by my appearance.
However, we managed to overcome it. Her parents are still her parents. They provided her with a decent life, education, and morals. Thank you.
Mark, Sarah’s husband, was dubious until he encountered the Sacred Riders. It’s difficult to be afraid of twenty-seven motorcycle riders who cry upon seeing your wife, who has been wearing her photo for thirty years.
For every year she missed, Bear gave her thirty-one birthday cards. Whiskey actually had a storage unit, complete with dolls, motorcycles, plush animals, and anything else a growing girl might possibly desire.
Sarah retained a few items, but we gave the majority to charity.
My grandchildren, Brandon and Tyler, are born riders. Tyler is already able to recognize bike models by their sounds.
We declared Brandon an honorary member, and he wears his small Sacred Riders vest everywhere.
Although Sarah is still concerned, she allows them to ride my bike as I teach them about engines, honor, and fraternity.
Sarah accomplished something last month that put an end to thirty-one years of pain. She arrived in uniform at our clubhouse.
during our weekly meeting at church.
She declared, “I have something to say.”Twenty-seven motorcyclists fell silent.
“When no one else would have, you searched for me. When faith looked foolish, you maintained it. You are the family I was denied, the uncles I never knew I had.
I was brought up to dread you and to arrest those who are similar to you. However, you are heroes. My heroes. I appreciate that you never gave up.
Then she produced a leather vest from behind her back. It’s a supporter vest, not a full cut. “I am aware that I am unable to join. However, perhaps.
Bear remarked, “You were a member from birth.” You are the daughter of Ghost. You are therefore royalty among the Sacred Riders.
Sometimes when she’s not on duty, she wears it. In her leather vest, my police officer daughter is connecting two worlds that shouldn’t be together.
These days, the Chens attend some family gatherings. We’re trying, but it’s awkward.They are decent people who acted badly for what they believed to be justifiable reasons. Compared to wrath, forgiveness is more difficult but more beneficial.
Amy believed she had saved Sarah from me when she passed away. The day I hugged our kid once more, I forgiven her. The living need our love, and the dead don’t need our rage.
Sarah and I occasionally ride together; I ride my ancient Road King, and she rides her department Harley.
One blood, two worlds, two generations. There isn’t much conversation on those rides. Not required. The stillness of thirty-one years spoke for itself.
She’s launching a program where police officers and motorcycle riders collaborate to find missing children. utilizing both networks and viewpoints.
It’s professional, she claims, but I know better. After thirty-one years of searching, she is attempting to save other fathers. Thirty-one years of lies and other daughters.She tells the groups she addresses, “I arrested my father.” “My greatest error to date.”
The arrest documents are framed and kept in my apartment. Robert McAllister is arrested by Officer S. Chen on suspicion of DUI.
The document that brought a 31-year search to a close. My daughter was brought home by the traffic stop.
The universe can be humorous at times. Sometimes the solution to a broken heart is a broken taillight. Sometimes the only way to be free is to be arrested by your daughter.
And occasionally—just occasionally—the lost are located in the most unlikely circumstances.
Last week, I was asked by Tyler, “Grandpa, why are you called Ghost?”
“Because I was haunting someone who was unaware of my existence for thirty-one years.”
“But ghosts don’t exist.”As Sarah assisted Brandon with his toy motorcycle, I looked at her and said, “No.” “But there is resurrection.”
She looked up, listened to me, and grinned—my mother’s, my, and her sons’ smiles. The smile I’d spent thirty years looking for in every gathering.
Baby girl, I found you. I’ve finally located you.
even if you first had to take me into custody.