Avoidable Contact (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

1:30 A.M. | 12:40 HOURS REMAINING

I couldn't hear what Ed Grant was saying—I didn't think we even had audio in our pit feeds—but he was fuming. Red-faced and sweating, he held up a clenched fist in a menacing way, then turned to speak to the camera, jabbing a finger to emphasize his words. I presumed he was speaking directly to Colby.

A tire changer stood next to me, shaking his head. “Madder ‘n heck, but not frightening.”

I chuckled. Uncle Eddie was tall but soft. In contrast, the tire-changer hauled seventy-five pound tires around one-handed and had bench-pressed
me
once as a joke. I'd stay near our crew until the 54 car got back up and running.

At 1:30, the race went back to green. The undeniably skilled Arena team had fixed the 54 car, but they were eight laps down. I worried they'd be out to get us. Jack obviously shared my concern, because after the race went green again, he descended from the command center, sighed heavily, and set off to make peace.

I couldn't help myself. I followed, though I stayed at the entrance to the Arena tent, watching as Jack approached the big boss on his own command center pit cart—a larger, more opulent one than ours.

Jack wasn't one for warm fuzzies, and he didn't appear to offer them to Richard Arena. But his attempt to shake hands over a racing incident—one we hadn't caused—counted for something. Or would have, with any other team.

Richard Arena was stone-faced on his lofty perch as he looked down on Jack. He ignored Jack's proffered hand and spoke only a couple words. Jack said something else, was met with silence, and then left, shaking his head. Unfortunately, Jack walked past Ed Grant, who shoved in front of him and shouted. Uncle Eddie was turned away from me, and cars were passing on the front straight, so I couldn't hear his words.

I heard Jack's response clearly. “Grow up.”

Which made me laugh. The problem was, Uncle Eddie turned to watch Jack exit the tent and saw me laughing. His face went beet red. The look in his eyes turned vicious.

I didn't consider running, because I wouldn't cower in front of him—big money, “family,” and connected to Series brass? I didn't care. He was a bully.

He took four quick steps in my direction. Stopped, too close to me. Trying to intimidate. I could almost see the fury boiling out of him.

His face twisted with hate. “You little piece of shit.”

“You don't impress me.” I turned to walk away.

Uncle Eddie grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him again, snarling, “You're a conniving, interfering whore—same as your mother. Stay away—”

I didn't hear anything else, because my ears were full of a roaring sound. I pried his thumb off my bicep and yanked it back—and back and back. Not caring how much I hurt him. Wanting to hurt him. He grunted with pain and buckled into a kneeling position as I bore down on his thumb.

I looked him in the eye. “Leave. Me. Alone.” I let go and turned away.

He bellowed with rage. I spun quickly, ready for an attack. Instead, I saw Ryan Johnston restraining him and talking to him quietly. I tensed, ready for a fight. Ryan caught my eye and calmly shooed me away with one hand.

Surprised, I did as he indicated and got the hell out of enemy territory. But one last obstacle lurked outside the tent. Monica Frank glared at me, none of her earlier fake-pleasantness in evidence.

“What the hell is your co-driver thinking? Can she think? Because clearly she can't drive,” she spat.

“Did I hear correctly? Colby should have been
another
punching-bag for your car of inept drivers? Fix your own problems before you tell me I have any.” I shook my head. “I'm not going to listen to this.”

“You're only standing up for her because she's female. Same way you both get special dispensation around here. Everyone's afraid to say anything bad about you because you'll claim they hate women.”

I stared at her in disbelief.
It's exactly how Holly described her behavior to Greg—harassing me while claiming I'm bullying her.

“Don't bother denying it,” she went on. “It's plain as day.”

I found my voice. “I'm standing up for her because
she's right
, not because she's female. And I've never once claimed anyone hates women.”
Not officially, anyway.
I shook my head. “I'm not discussing this with you. Colby was right. You and your driver are wrong. Have a nice day.”

Without further confrontations, I made it back to my own team's pit space. I sat down in a chair and finally got the shakes. When Holly returned from her latest rounds, I described the scene for her.

She opened and closed her mouth three times before speaking. “I have no words vile enough to describe Ed Grant or that witch. You need to stay far away from both of them, sugar. She'll stab you in the back any chance she gets. He sounds unbalanced. Dangerous.”

“On-track and off.”

“Will you tell your father what Grant said?”

I was shaking my head before she finished the question.

“Why not?”

“My father and I haven't talked about my mother yet. I haven't been ready.”

“Seems like the kind of thing he'd want to know.” She saw my reaction and added, “Think about it. Meantime, let their psychosis and paranoia roll off your back. Focus on the car.”

I stood. “One interesting note. That Ryan guy seems all right. For a minute, I expected him to help the jerk come after me, but Ryan didn't even look angry.”

“Not everyone in that organization is a crook or crazy?”

I laughed and moved to stand in the entryway of our tent, where I could see both monitors and pit lane. “Maybe only some of them.”

“And then there are those two.” Holly gestured at Tug and Elizabeth, who were entering the Arena tent.

“It's hard to figure out exactly what game everyone's playing.”

Holly wandered into our tent, and I remained at my post watching the track monitors and occasionally glancing up pit lane to observe the comings and goings. A couple minutes later, I noticed Tug and Elizabeth standing in the entryway to the Arena tent, talking with someone I couldn't see. I focused on the monitors showing track feeds, willing myself not to stare at them.

Then Elizabeth was at my elbow. “Kate, I wanted to touch base and be sure there wasn't any lasting issue between your team and Arena Motorsports. I understand you and Jack both made the gracious gesture of going over there to apologize.”

“Jack did. I observed. I wouldn't have spoken to anyone if Ed Grant and Monica Frank hadn't both yelled at me.”

She made a face, something between a grimace and a pout. “We hope you won't take that seriously. I'm sure you know how high passions can get. The team has assured us they don't bear you any ill will.”

I raised an eyebrow.
How magnanimous—and what an about-face from a few minutes ago.
“May I ask who that message came from?”

“Richard Arena himself.”

I looked past her and saw Tug and Ryan Johnston speaking outside the Arena tent, Tug darting a furtive look behind him. Ryan reached out to shake Tug's hand, but it was Tug who bobbled the pass of a small piece of paper. Green paper. Money. He pulled his hand away, cupping it awkwardly, the bill visible perhaps only to me.

I snapped my eyes back to Elizabeth. “Interesting.”

Chapter Thirty-five

1:40 A.M. | 12:30 HOURS REMAINING

“You'll let bygones be bygones? Agree it's just good, hard racing?” Elizabeth sounded eager.

If she finds a personality, she could go far in this business. She's already got the platitudes at her fingertips. But Stuart would have handled this better.
I ignored the ache in my chest. “I have no desire to get into anything with that team. I've got no grudge.” I took a deep breath and offered her a half-smile. “No vendettas on top of everything else.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry this adds to such a terrible day for you. Grief is hard enough without trying to be polite to other people as well.” She touched my arm before she left, adding, “Thanks for not escalating things between teams. I'll check in later.”

I still wasn't sure I could trust her, but I felt comforted.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. An email from Zeke. I waved Holly over and started reading, unsure how to react. Zeke's information contradicted every word from Gramps, which made me sad if Gramps had been misled. On the other hand, my spirits lifted, because Zeke's source had come through with deeper background info on Arena that validated everything I felt in my gut.

Zeke's bottom line: Richard Arena was crooked up to his eyeballs.

The collective attitude in the media center toward Arena is mild suspicion,
Zeke wrote.
Like many other men with money, he's come racing. He's used to wielding influence and knows how to charm people who are important. But the list of “important people” doesn't include the media. As I mentioned before, Katie-Q, no one's gotten an interview with him. Ever.

Which isn't to say he's not polite,
Zeke went on.
He's polite to anyone he sees—from flunky to CEO. Except no one ever sees him—at least no one in the media. He hides away in his paddock complex until the Series comes calling. Because of all that, everyone here wonders what he's got to hide. The topic was never confirmed to be Arena when federal agencies talked to the Series. We all know better.

A check of the monitors told me I had seven minutes until I needed to be ready. I went back to Zeke's email.

The case against Arena is mostly hearsay—like those articles you said Calhoun talked about, which I found and read. But hearsay or not, how many voices do you have to have asking the same question before you believe it?
I smiled. Off-camera, Zeke had a tendency to get side-tracked into philosophical questions.

He stayed focused this time.
There's nothing to pin on Arena legally about those stories or companies. But there's enough to make you question his ethics. Which probably explains why he doesn't want random reporters asking him questions. No idea if the Feds came calling because of these issues—if there are serious complaints in multiple states, they might have. One guy up here seems to know more than the others, but he's not talking to me. Yet. Links to articles below. More later.

I looked at Holly. “Back to where we started.”

“Depending on who you decide to believe.”

“Gramps is the lone voice of praise in all of this, which isn't much compared to the rest.”

“I agree.” She studied me. “But I know how much you trust Gramps.”

I shrugged. “His is still second-hand information.” I dumped the phone plus my helmet and gloves in her hands. “Enough.”

My preparation for my stint started with drinking a last bottle of water and making a quick run to the port-a-potty. Exiting the plastic stall, I came face-to-face with my half-sister, Lara. She was bundled up against the night air, her long, blond hair tied back in a ponytail. I was disconcerted to see my own eyes—our father's eyes—in her face.

“Kate!” Her face was flushed. “I had a break—I came down here to say hello.”

I had no idea how to respond.
Is she going to hug me? Don't shake hands, you just left the outhouse. You've got no time for this now—it's time to focus on the car!

“Hi.” I held up my hands and flipped them front to back. “I need sanitizer.” I went past her to the Sandham Swift pits and one of the many pump containers of antibacterial gel.
Talk to her, Kate! Dammit, I would if I knew what to say.

She'd followed me and stood nearby as I slathered more gel on my hands than necessary. “You're about to get in the car again?” she asked. “How long this time?”

I glanced at the monitors. Thirty-five minutes left in the fuel window. I should be suited up by now, not dealing with awkward family issues. “About to get in for a double or triple stint—and I've got to be getting my gear on in about a minute.”
Give her something, Kate.
“You pulling the all-nighter with the team?”

“I'm going to try, anyway.” Her giggle reminded me she was a nineteen-year-old college sophomore. I felt a lot more than six years older.

I checked the monitors again. “I'm sorry. I have to get ready.”

“Sure. Sorry I'm bothering you. Could I—I mean, maybe we…” She bit her lip. “I wanted to talk with you a little, that's all.”

Jack waved at me from the pit box and crew members jumped up to prepare for a stop—my heart rate jolted into high gear.
Must be a problem with the car.

I reached past Lara and scooped up my gear. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Car's coming in now.” I dashed over to Jack, not looking back to see her leave.

Jack leaned down to me. “Colby's having an issue with her seat insert—one of her legs is going numb. Bringing her in to hand over to you.”

I pulled on my balaclava. “I'm ready. Anything else?”

“Status quo. Three laps down because of the issues earlier, P10. But the car's running fine. Push but don't be stupid. Plenty of time to make it up. We'll give you fresh rubber and fuel, then probably double- or triple-stint the tires. Let us know how it feels.”

Jack straightened up, refocusing on the monitors. Holly helped me sling the HANS over my shoulders and pull on my helmet. “Was that your half-sister, by the way?”

I held up a finger in front of my helmet to quiet her.

“No one heard. Poor kid looked disappointed.” Some of the frustration and guilt I felt must have shown in my eyes, because Holly held up a hand and spoke again. “I know you had to get ready.”

My voice was muffled under my helmet. “Too many people want too much from me this weekend. I can't take it.”
Focus on the car now.

The crew stepped up onto the wall, which meant three laps to go. I pulled on my gloves and looked at Holly again, feeling a thin current of shame wash through me. “I acted like a bitch.”

Holly raised a single eyebrow.

“Tell her I'm sorry, and I'll see her tomorrow. I'll make it up to her.”
Even if I don't really want to.

“I'll get her the message.” She tilted her head to the side. “I know it's a crappy day all around, and I know your family is a difficult topic. But she seems like one of the good guys, not a villain.”

I rolled my shoulders to slough off thoughts of family.
Focus on the car.

A moment later, the track went full-course caution because of a Ferrari stalled in the inner loop—driver's right before the Kink. The tension dropped as we waited now for a yellow-flag stop, instead of a full driver change and service under green.

I saw Holly tapping into a phone and sneaking glances at me, and I waved her over. I wanted to know if the reporter had any more information.

She forestalled my question. “It's Zeke again.”

I took the phone and held it up so I could see it through the opening in my helmet.

More about the missing witness. Not sure if testimony would have been about illegal businesses, fraud, money laundering, association with the Mob, or all of the above. Word is the kid was gotten rid of because he'd have talked about stuff Arena wants kept quiet.

I put my helmeted head close to hers. “The Mob?”

She took the phone back and shrugged. “I'll pass everything to the reporter. And if the reporter writes back, I'll let the cops know. You go out there and take a break from this.”

She pointed to the pit wall where the crew was gathered. The tire changers started to step up onto the wall, to be ready to leap into the hot side of pit lane when the car appeared. I had a couple laps to be ready.

I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply three times, concentrating on the car, imagining every shift and turn, every braking point and apex around the track. Thought through the driver change procedure. Refused to entertain a single thought about comatose boyfriends, crooked teams, pushy reporters, or terrible family members. None of them. Putting away all of that emotion, confusion, and…yes, I admitted it, fear.

The freaking Mob?

I pounded my fists on the sides of my helmet. None of those thoughts.

Up on the wall, waiting. Car stops, jump down, wait by the back. When Colby's out, settle my seat insert, climb in after it…
I got up on the wall next to Bubs and repeated the process silently over and over until Colby pulled up with a whoosh of carbon fiber brake dust.

Then I followed my own instructions. Bubs holding the door open. Right leg over the side frame, left leg follows. Grab the frame rail over the door and lower myself into the seat, twist to face front. Find right shoulder and lap belts, fasten them into center mechanism. Bubs fastens the other belts, then plugs in my radio cable and air conditioning helmet hose and fastens the window net. Meanwhile, I tilt the steering column down into place.

Bubs shuts the door with a thump. The tire changers move to their second tire—only seconds left. Watching the air-hose guy in the mirror. Reach up to make sure my shoulder belts rest on top of the shoulder pieces of my HANS. Tighten the belts. Air hose guy in motion. My hand moving to the ignition button.

Car bouncing down onto its tires. Fuel hose disengaged. Push the button. Car firing as I hear “Go, go, go!”

Wheel right, engaging clutch, throttle on. Tires chirping as I clear the pit box. Slot in behind a Porsche and in front of a BMW. Check the pit lane speed limiter is engaged. Fumbling for the drink tube as I head down the pits.

“Radio check,” says Bruce in my ear.

Push the radio button. “Copy.”

Breathing. Tightening belts as I navigate the twisty pit lane exit. Tightening wrist straps on my gloves. Testing the drink button gets me water. Breathing still. Onto the track. I get quickly through the inner loop and catch up with the field in a ragged, single-file line on the back straight.

I approached the Bus Stop on the caution lap and felt a wave of unease and grief for Ian.

How could that happen? Why did it happen? What if it happened to me?

My thoughts terrified me more than seeing Ian killed in front of me. Doubt couldn't be in the car with me—wouldn't be. Wasn't.

I talked myself through the laps as we circulated. I listened to the music and rhythm of the car. I centered myself with smooth, even breathing.

By the time the green flag flew five laps later, I was settled, focused, and happy. I felt at home.