Avoidable Contact (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

10:10 P.M. | 16:00 HOURS REMAINING

I waved a hand up the walkway. “Don't let us stop you from rushing away. Please, carry on.”
Out of my sight. Out of my life.

Holden, the dark, brooding one of the duo, took a step before realizing Billy wasn't moving. A gaggle of cars went by on the front straight, momentarily stopping all communication. I itched to be in one of them so I didn't have to deal with my irritating pseudo-family members.

Billy was planted, arms crossed over his chest. I wondered if others saw malice in his smile. “We've got a moment to visit with
family
. How have you been, Kate?”

I played along. “I've had better days. Yourself?”

“Fine, thank you. How's the race been for your car?”

Why are you here and what do you want?
“We're holding our own so far. Are you here with your father?” I'd known of the possibility my father's brother Edward would drive in this race. But I hadn't seen his name on the official driver roster, which had relieved me. Disappointment was a mild word for what I felt as I faced my cousins.

Billy glanced at Holden, who still hadn't said a word—this too, according to script. “Here with my father,” Billy confirmed. Maybe his father was here but not driving.

Billy lifted his nose higher in the air. “We're also here as official representatives of the bank, which is sponsoring two cars, as well as the entire United SportsCar Championship.”

As if I hadn't noticed?
I looked at Holly, who seemed content to observe the farce playing out in front of her. I turned back to Billy and fake-smiled. I didn't speak, merely looked at him and his cousin.

“Billy, come
on
.” Holden finally opened his mouth.

I raised my eyebrows at them. “Don't let us keep you from whatever deals you need to make. People to see, all that.”

Billy followed Holden down the walkway, with a look back over his shoulder at us. “We'll talk more later. See you, Kate.”

“Not if I can help it,” I replied, for Holly's ears only.

“It's too bad they're such jerks, because they're damn finelooking.”

“What do you suppose that was about?”

“Clear as the day is long. They want something—at least Billy does.”

“I'm not giving them anything. This is not the day to mess with me. I've had enough already.” I pulled my phone out—no new information about Stuart.

We started walking again. As we passed the big tent, I was dismayed to observe my father inside talking to Monica and three men: the man I assumed was Richard Arena, along with the fiftyish, gray-blond man who'd nearly run us over earlier in the evening—who I suspected was my father's brother—and Raul Salas.

My stomach churned as I considered the timing. Not thirty minutes ago, I'd sent my father a request for information on Richard Arena. The next thing I knew, he was talking to the man himself.

Is my father ratting me out? Should I feel guilty wondering that about him?

Yes, he was my father, but I didn't know him very well. Didn't know who or what came first in his loyalties. I assumed he'd help me and keep my secrets, but was I sure?

Calm the hell down, Kate.

I forced myself to breathe deeply as Holly and I finished traversing the length of the Arena pits and arrived at Sandham Swift. I waved her into the tent and moved to the fence side of the walkway. I took three more breaths of race-scented air, thinking about why I'd leapt so quickly to assume betrayal.

I heard Grandmother's voice in my head.
Betrayal's all you can expect from that family.

I didn't know for sure what had happened at the time of my birth between my grandmother and my father's family—or even who had been involved besides my father and his father. All I knew was my parents had met, fallen in love, gotten pregnant, and gotten married while attending Boston University. My mother had died in the hospital two days after I was born, and my maternal grandparents had raised me in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I'd met my father for the first time three years ago, only because the racing world had brought us together.

My grandparents' side of the story—via Gramps, because Grandmother refused to discuss it—was my father and his family hadn't cared about me, didn't want me, and didn't have the decency to see me in the hospital. I had photographic evidence the latter wasn't true, as well as my father's word he and his father had cared.

A cautious relationship with my father was one thing, trust was another. While I had two years of my father offering support and affection—at arm's length, by my own choice—I had a lifetime of
knowing
the only people I could count on were myself and my grandparents.

I'd grown to trust Holly and Zeke. But I'd also trusted Sam, and he'd let me down. Was it too soon to be sure of my father? He'd given me no reason to distrust him—except for his continued association with my scheming cousins. Could I blame him for his family?

And what was Raul doing mixed up with those guys? He'd seemed like a good guy, but maybe he wasn't to be trusted either. Or maybe he was as big a flirt with everyone as he'd been with me, and he was trying to get close to Monica.
Which shouldn't be hard, right?

I'm turning into a hypocrite.

I saw members of our pit crew stand up, stretch, and start to move to hoses and other equipment. I shook off my gloomy thoughts. Time would make my father's actions clear. Until then, I had better topics to focus on. Like the race. Or Stuart. Or trying to figure out who hurt him.

I pulled out my phone. Still no news. I texted Polly again for an update and got a prompt reply of no change in Stuart's condition. I moved across to our tent to think about my job.

Colby shifted to make room as I joined her in front of the monitors. I quickly located Mike in our 28 car coming through the tri-oval. I ducked down to look at the small section of track we could see and spotted him as he passed.

I spoke to Colby. “We're still on schedule? You'll be in after Mike does a triple?” My next turn in the rotation, a planned triple stint, would come after Colby did a triple—probably somewhere between one and two in the morning.

“That's the plan.” She paused. “Kate?”

I transferred my gaze from the monitors to her, and she continued. “I know we're all trying to deal with what happened to Ian, but you've got extra to deal with. You're clearly coping. I know you'll be as tough as you need to be to finish this race. But let me know if I can do anything.”

I smiled, feeling pleasure in Colby as a friend and a fellow warrior. She knew exactly what it was to be a woman in the male-dominated racing world. To be tougher than many men, but still feminine. To bury emotion. To always have something to prove.

I hugged her. “I've got your back too, whenever you need it.”

We stood together watching the monitors for the next fifteen minutes, until Mike brought our car in for a green-flag stop—our ninth of the race. The crew, including our Michelin tire representative, inspected the tires carefully, but didn't change them. They filled the car with fuel, cleaned the windscreen, and sent him away again.

After the stop, I climbed onto the pit cart to get an update on the car from Jack and Bruce. Their verdict: everything working fine so far, brake wear within expected levels, and double-stinting tires now that the track was dry and cool. We were still on schedule—which I took to mean something would go wrong soon, simply because nothing ever went according to plan in a race as long as this one.

Not two minutes later, another team's plans stuttered to a halt at the side of the racetrack as Race Control threw a double-yellow to retrieve a stalled car. The Mazda of our next-door neighbor, WiseGuy Racing, had no “go.” I knew their crew would hustle out of the pits, up the lane, and back to the garage to meet and fix the car. Tough break.

“Full-course caution, Mike,” Bruce radioed. “Stopped car driver's right between the International Horseshoe and the Kink. You'll stay out, since we just pitted.”

I gave Bruce and Jack a thumbs-up and climbed down from the cart. I could have kicked myself for moving when I did. When I reached the ground, there was Sam Remington again.

Chapter Twenty-one

10:15 P.M. | 15:55 HOURS REMAINING

Sam was as focused on me as he'd been the last time he walked into my team's pit space, but he wasn't likely to start a conversation I wanted to avoid. This time he had his fiancée and an older gentleman with him.

“Kate.” Sam put a hand on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to Mr. Jimmy Baker. Mr. Baker, Kate Reilly.”

I smiled with real pleasure as I offered a hand to the trim, smiling gentleman in front of me. He was taller than me—taller than Sam and Paula also—sporting salt-and-pepper hair and a blue-and-yellow striped bow tie.

“A pleasure, Mr. Baker.” I pegged him as five or eight years younger than Gramps, but possessed of the same cheerful, feisty spirit. It was the twinkle in the eye that gave him away.

Paula stood to the side looking as if she'd eaten a lemon. The other two didn't notice, and I chose to ignore her.

“Call me Jimmy, please, Kate. Lovely to meet you as well.”

Sam patted me with the hand still resting on my shoulder. “Jimmy's here with one of my sponsors—Belcher's Supply.”

I was familiar with the supplier of everything necessary to build, wire, or control a physical object. The brand featured prominently in my grandfather's creations. After early days in sales and then as a race-shop apprentice, Gramps made a career out of weaving wiring harnesses for racecars, work he continued to the present day. More than one of his products circled the track at Daytona, including in my own car.

“He especially wanted to meet you,” Sam went on.

Jimmy smiled even wider. “I've been working for Belcher's for thirty years, and I've handled your grandfather's orders for twenty-five of them.”

“You go way back with Gramps. Come to think of it, he's talked about a Jimmy plenty of times.”

He chuckled. “That's likely me. We go back to when you'd just arrived on the scene. I've hoped to run into you on the circuit someday, and here we are, finally.”

We chatted briefly about how often he got to races and what the track was like. Sam chimed in, obviously familiar with Jimmy from sponsor activities throughout the full racing season. Paula continued to stand aside and scowl at me.

I walked the three of them to the tent opening to continue their tour and encouraged Jimmy to return to our pits or visit our driver lounge. They set off up pit lane, but almost immediately, Jimmy returned and tapped my shoulder.

He spoke in a low voice. “Your grandfather put the call out to his network a couple hours ago for us to watch out for you.”

To his network? Good grief.
“I don't—”

“You probably
do
need watching out for.” Jimmy smiled. “Besides, I'll thank you to humor a couple old men who'd like to pretend they're being helpful.”

I laughed. “Fair enough.”

“Call or get word to me if you need anything at all.” He pressed a card in my hand. “Information, assistance—anything.”

A new voice caught our attention, and we turned to see Tug fawning over Sam and Paula. Jimmy heard my sigh.

“I've had my doubts about that Tug Brehan,” he muttered.

“Why's that?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I suppose I should judge on the present, not the past, but I've been skeptical of his character since I saw him manipulate and backstab his way into a higher position—at the expense of someone else's career.”

It was all I could do not to turn and stare at Tug. “Where was that?”

“In his early days with Grand-Am—six years ago now. Mind you, he's never done anything like it again, not that I was aware of. But as a stand-in for your grandfather, I suggest you be careful placing your trust in him, Kate.”

I assured Jimmy I would and sent him away again with a kiss on the cheek. To my relief, Tug continued up pit lane with them. The list of people I could trust was dwindling.

The GT class cars pitted, including the 29 car, which came in for a driver change. The cars in first and second place in the GTLM class stayed out with Mike, who was still in third. I watched the 29 car's stop from an out-of-the-way corner of the tent. Then I returned to the monitors to watch the rest of the stops taking place up and down pit lane—including the Arena mega-team servicing six of their seven cars at once.

Four laps later, the field was collected again, and we went back to green. Sadly, we proved the old saying “cautions breed cautions” true once again.

This time, it was two GT cars in Turn 3, the International Horseshoe. The result was one damaged Porsche trailing a bumper, but continuing around the track back to the pits under its own power. The BMW it tangled with, however, was off-track driver's left, stuffed into the tires. The live SGTV feed replayed the accident. Anyone who hadn't caught it the first time reacted with winces and gasps.

The Porsche, one of the Arena fleet, had completely and obviously misjudged the braking zone. It had barreled out of control through the turn, slamming into the BMW and sending it spinning into the tires—not unlike Ian's accident. SGTV focused on the wounded Porsche entering the pits, identifying the car as one of the pro/am combinations and the driver as an amateur, Ed Grant. Which figured.

Grant had been involved in two different incidents this year already, both resulting in multiple damaged cars. The accident at the winter test days, three weeks before this race, was clearly Grant's fault, but no one was too outraged because we all knew amateurs made mistakes. Especially in the first practice session, when dozens of newcomers had only excitement to draw on, rather than experience.

But then Grant got mixed up with a prototype during practice on Thursday before the race. That mistake sent the prototype into the wall of the tri-oval at nearly 200 mph. The extremely charitable might have called it a racing incident. The rest of us began to suspect that particular driver was a menace.

“Not him again.” Bubs stood with me, watching the mess. “He's a one-man wrecking ball.”

Lars Pierson arrived for his on-deck shift in the 29 car and asked what happened. I pointed to the replay.

Bubs jerked his thumb in the direction of the Arena pits, where we heard engine noise. “Back for repairs already.”

Lars narrowed his eyes at the screen. “They should stand that driver down. He should no longer be allowed to race. He is a plague.”

Leon Browning, fresh from the 29 car, walked over from a debrief with his crew chief and overheard Lars. “You're right on that front.”

“Weren't you right there for this one, Leon?” I asked.

“Aye, what a stupid git,” Leon bit out. “Totally Grant's fault. You could see it coming yards away. I'm with Lars, Grant ought to be stood down.”

“Have either of you ever seen that happen?” I hadn't witnessed a series pulling a driver from a race because of poor skills—that problem usually took care of itself, with accidents that damaged cars beyond repair. But Leon and Lars both raced in Europe—Leon nearly full-time, only moonlighting in the States.

Leon shook his head.

Lars lifted a shoulder. “I know they can do it. I think the ACO—” he meant the Automobile Club de l'Ouest, the organizer of the 24 Hours of Le Mans “—pulled someone out a few years ago at Le Mans.”

“I guess he's bringing big money for the ride—extra, since he has to keep buying more car parts,” I offered. “The suppliers can't hate that.”

Leon snorted. “I don't care how much he's pouring into coffers. When he's taking other cars out and endangering everyone on the track around him? Money can't make up for someone who's incapable of racing at this level.”

I agreed, though I thought half a dozen amateurs had escaped the same fate as Grant only through sheer good luck. Dozens of amateurs competed in the 24 Hours of Daytona—and their skill level varied dramatically. But that's what this race was all about.

In silence, we watched the cars circle behind the pace car for three more laps. Leon shook his head, rousing himself. “I'll be off to clean up. You two are in next?”

“After Paulo's double-stint,” Lars agreed.

“One more stint for Mike, Colby for a triple. Then me. Maybe around one.” I did some rough calculations. “You'll be back in around four or five tomorrow morning?”

“Aye, something like that. I'm away now for a wee bit of a meal and sleep.” Leon waved and set off up pit lane.

Lars went to talk to his crew chief. I moved forward to the pit wall to take a look at the damaged Arena car. The biggest problem was the torn-up radiator, which had leaked fluid all the way from the point of impact and now bled onto pit lane.

The team opted to push the car back to the garage to make the repair—which shouldn't take more than a few minutes, assuming no other damage. Back on track a few laps down didn't seem like justice, not when the BMW might be out of the race through no fault of its own. But justice wasn't up to me. Besides, I should know life was hardly fair these days.

Grant had climbed out of the car. As I watched, he stripped off his gloves and unfastened his helmet, all the while talking with a member of his crew. He waved off an SGTV pit reporter and turned to observe the crew rolling away the car he'd wrecked. Then Grant pulled his helmet and balaclava off and accepted a towel from a young, blond man, clapping a hand to the towel-delivery guy's shoulder.

I sat down hard on the wall. The two men were carbon copies of each other, separated by twenty or thirty years.

The younger man was my cousin, Billy. Which made Ed Grant, the scourge of the paddock, my uncle.