Avoidable Contact (6 page)

Chapter Ten

3:50 P.M. | 22:20 HOURS REMAINING

Colby had a quiet first stint—escaping danger by inches when a prototype behind her went into the braking zone for Turn 1 too hot and spun into the runoff area.

I spent the hour with thankfully few interruptions, which gave me time to process the day. I started by checking in with Polly at the hospital—no news on Stuart. I tried to replace the fear and worry I felt for him with visualizations of his successful recovery. Then I mulled over the questions Detective Latham had asked after he broke the news, specifically, who had a grudge against Stuart.

I'd interpreted the question as “who'd want to kill Stuart?” I couldn't answer that. But “who might be mad at him?” could be easier to consider, starting with anyone angry about not having a role in the new, combined series—whether that was a team owner, a driver, or a member of Series staff.

I sat down next to Holly on a cooler near the food. “I'm thinking about Grand-Am or ALMS people who didn't make it to the new series and who might blame Stuart for it, since he was so involved in assigning new roles for USCC. Whatever happened to that Shane guy? I haven't seen him around.”

“He's here. Went to work for Wicked Oils, which mostly does support race stuff. When I saw him yesterday, he looked great. Said moving to a supplier was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

That's one off the list. “
What about…who was the guy in charge of sponsor stuff from the ALMS?”

“Jonathan Charles. I didn't tell you about him. There was some last meeting of staff from both series, and—to hear Jonathan tell it—the guy who'd gotten Jonathan's job gloated nonstop. Got in Jonathan's face. Taunted him so much, Jonathan hauled off and punched him, then walked off the job then and there.”

“The merger of the two series was more contentious than I thought. Where's Jonathan now?”

“No idea. You think he could be here?”

“Make a list of names for Latham, would you? Starting with his.”

She pulled out her phone. “We haven't thought about sponsors or manufacturers.”

“I haven't heard complaints, have you?”

“Other than the high-level manufacturer politics, nothing but small supplier wins and losses. Except the guy from Elias Tires has been stomping around mad he can't run his tires this year.”

“He could in GTLM.” That was the only class where teams could choose their own tire supplier. All other classes ran a specified brand.

“He can't find a partner there like he did in the ALMS GTC class last year.”

“That's a technical decision, not anything Stuart did.”

Holly shrugged. “You asked. That's all I've heard.”

“Back to staff, any idea how Tug accepted working for Stuart?”

“I don't know, but he came up with his own assistant in record time.”

“Who is she?”

“She was Tug's junior staffer in Grand-Am Operations last year, doing the grunt work. When Stuart got the big job, our showy friend Tug was demoted down to grunt, and Elizabeth was out of a job.”

I blinked at Holly. “She was on the spot to step in today. It's been three or four hours since Stuart was hurt?”

“Guess she was still in town. Not that she looked excited to be back.” She paused. “Tug looked plenty pleased to step into Stuart's shoes.”

“If he can.”

Holly snorted. “He thinks he can, that's for sure. Speaking of capable…what do you think about Raul?”

I grinned at her. “What's his story?”

“Seems like I'd better find out.” She pulled out her phone.

By the time Colby came in for a smooth, green-flag pit stop, collecting new tires and a full load of fuel, I was ready to focus on the car. The “real” world of angry people and violent acts seemed much more unreal than the race in front of me. I handed my phone to Holly and spent half an hour watching Colby's view out the windscreen via the in-car camera feed.

On my return from a run to the port-a-potty, my father, James Hightower Reilly III, was waiting for me at the entrance to our team tent. Our relationship was still tentative. It wasn't something I wanted to deal with on race day.

Raised by my maternal grandparents after my mother died within days of my birth, I'd only met my father three years ago. We'd only become friendly in the last year. He was the twenty-years-older male version of me: short and slight, with black hair, blue eyes, and a pointy chin. But while my uniform was a firesuit, his was a suit and tie.

I spoke before my father could. “I'm in the stop window. I've got to get ready.”

“I know. I heard about Stuart, and I wanted to see how you were doing.” As the chairman and CEO of Frame Savings, James represented a major sponsor of the new United SportsCar Championship, and as such, he was up and down pit lane, in and out of team tents all race long.

He followed me to the back corner of the Sandham Swift tent, opposite the food tables, where Holly waited next to some open, plastic shelving. Mike and I usually had small lockers in one of the pit carts, but for this race, all drivers used temporary shelves for our gear, partly because Sandham Swift was fielding a dozen drivers, up from its regular four. In addition, the extra equipment required to service three Corvettes for twenty-four hours straight meant our crew needed a lot more tools and car parts on hand. Those occupied all the locker space in all three carts.

I took the bottle of water Holly had waiting for me and slugged down half of it in one go. I could lose as many as five pounds in sweat during a single stint. Overhydration was vital before I got in the car.

My father studied my face. “How are you handling Stuart's situation, Kate?”

The concern in his eyes and voice made me feel like weeping for the first time in a couple hours. “Fine. I have to think about the car.” I sounded curt, bordering on rude, but I couldn't afford to get emotional, not with my shift in the car coming up. I drank the rest of the water and set the empty bottle on my shelf, then inserted my earplugs and put tape over my ears to hold them in.

“If there's anything I can do, please tell me,” James said.

I nodded at him, before pulling on my fire-retardant balaclava and tucking it into the neck of my firesuit. Despite my own statement, all I could think about was Stuart as I zipped up my firesuit and pressed the Velcro collar closed.

Holly took my head and neck system, or HANS, from me and slid it onto my shoulders. I paused with my helmet above my head. “James, you could find out what's going on with Stuart. And if anyone knows why. Tell Holly. Please.”

“I'll find out whatever I can.” He wished me well and left the tent.

I turned to Holly as I fastened my chinstrap. “Don't tell me anything about Stuart while I'm out there.”

She knew what I meant. “Don't think about it. It's all going to be okay.”

Five minutes later, Holly interrupted my visualizations of the driver-change and the track by pointing to the monitors. The track feed showed a prototype high-centered on curbing at the outside of Turn 5. If the prototype couldn't get off the curb, Race Control would throw a yellow flag to retrieve him.

As I grabbed my gloves, the double-yellow flew in the twilight, bringing out a full-course caution. I hurried across the pit space to Jack for last-minute instructions. Three steps up the side of the command center, and I was eye-to-eye with him.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “You ready to drive?”

“Ready to do my job.”

He looked back at the array of monitors above his head. “Not sure if it's going to really rain or not.”

“You giving me slicks?”

“Slicks are ready. Racing line's still dry. Be careful if you move offline.”

I stepped back down to the floor of the pit space and went around to the other side to check with Bruce, our car chief. He assured me the Corvette's handling hadn't changed much—only what I might have expected from a couple hours of running and a track growing cooler and damp. “But the traffic is brutal,” he added.

“How'd the prototype go off?”

“Someone must have laid down fluid, because four different cars slid off the road in the infield, but continued. The fifth got stuck.”

“Fluid, not rain?”

He shrugged. “Colby says not rain.”

Our crew was perched on the pit wall, tools and tires in hand. I pulled on my gloves as I hurried to join them. Bubs helped me step up on the adjacent metal bench and then onto the wall in the center of the crew lineup. He handed me my custom-molded seat insert. I took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Cleared my mind of everything but the Corvette C7.R and Daytona International Speedway. Visualized the driver-change process. Breathed deeply again.

The lollipop swung down, and I knew the car was coming down pit lane. I ran through the steps of our driver-change over and over, focusing on the car. Ready to leap into action.

It's all going to be okay.

Holly had better be right.

Chapter Eleven

5:35 P.M. | 20:35 HOURS REMAINING

Colby stopped the car smoothly, turning off the engine and tilting the steering column up to give us space to get in and out. The car was already up on its jacks and fuel was flowing. She released her belts and hauled herself through the doorway Bubs had already opened. The near tire-changers finished their job as she pulled her seat insert clear of the car. They moved to the right side of the car, and I settled my own insert and climbed inside.

Bubs leaned in to help me fasten my five-point safety harness and plug in my radio cable and helmet air-conditioning hose. I lowered the steering column back into place. The car bounced down onto its tires—tire change done. Waiting on fuel.

Bubs snapped the window net in place and slammed the door shut. I heard Bruce's voice. “Five more seconds.”

I tightened my belts quickly, ready with both feet on the pedals. Though Series regulations allow teams to keep cars running during pit stops, for safety reasons, we chose to turn off our Corvettes while fuel flows and sparks fly from tire changes. My finger rested on the ignition button.

A tug at the back of the car. The crew member at the front waved me on.

“Clear. Go, go, go.”

I was in motion as Bruce spoke. Push the button. Car starting. Throttle down, steer right out of the pit box. Check mirrors for other cars. Be sure the pit lane speed limiter was engaged. Tighten belts more.

Bruce's voice in my ear again. “Radio check, Kate.”

I pushed the radio button on the steering wheel with my left thumb as I approached the end of pit lane. “Copy.”

“Great. Easy out of the pits. Remember that exit's tricky, and you've got new tires on damp track.”

We'd seen plenty of drivers be overly ambitious on cold tires and run into the wall of the pit lane exit. I had the possibility of wet pavement on top of that. I was cautious.

Once out on track and in the lineup behind the pace car, I found the drink tube and inserted it into the front of my helmet. Pressed the button to make sure it worked. Pressed the radio button again. “Who ended up around me?”

“Ferrari jumped us in the pits,” Bruce reported. “BMW is P1, four cars in front of you.” I could see the BMW ahead, a couple prototypes between us. “That Ferrari in front of you is P2. You're P3. Two prototypes behind you. The Porsche-Corvette-Porsche sandwich after them are P4 through P6.”

“Lap times?” I asked, as I turned left through Turn 6 and swung up onto the banking of the oval part of the track.

“Hard to tell for sure with so much traffic, but Ferraris seem to have the speed by a couple tenths, though the Porsches and factory Corvettes have shown flashes. We're in there. Mike and Colby held their own.”

“Copy, thanks.” I usually knew our competition's lap times even before I got in the car, but I didn't get to those today. Not with Stuart in the hospital fighting for his life and text messages from strangers.

Stop it! Nothing but the car!
I yelled at myself inside my helmet.

I wove in and out of the Bus Stop. Keyed the mic. “It's the most damp on the backstretch, but I wouldn't call it wet.”

A new voice on the radio. Male. “Kate, your spotter here. To confirm, you want ten lengths' warning of overtaking cars?”

“Yes, please, Cooper.”

“And you want ‘inside' and ‘outside' as indicators, rather than ‘right' and ‘left,' correct?”

“You are correct, Spotter. Thanks.”

Cooper and Millie had spoken with all of the 28 car's drivers earlier in the weekend to understand what each of us wanted in terms of warning about other activity on the track. A couple teams had started using a new radar system that integrated with our rearview camera displays to warn drivers of overtaking cars. Though Jack had investigated it, he hadn't sprung for the new system yet. We were using the original, low-tech spotting method: humans with binoculars, stationed up high.

“Copy that, be careful out there,” Cooper returned. I knew he was standing on top of the ten-story building in the cool air and mist—or even rain—with no cover. It wasn't only the drivers who worked hard in a twenty-four hour endurance race.

We'd cross our fingers for clear skies and sun tomorrow morning, but first we had a dozen or more hours of cool, and possibly wet, night ahead of us. The stadium lights had been turned on an hour ago and were already helping illuminate the pavement all the way around the track.

Bruce radioed. “Race Control says going green in two laps.”

“I'm ready.” I pulled my belts tighter. “Who's in the prototypes near me?” I knew the drivers in the Ferrari, BMW, Corvette, and at least one of the Porsches were professionals, but I wasn't sure about the faster prototypes.

“The two ahead are a pro and an amateur—Andy Padden in front and Roger Lee behind. Roger's pretty good.”

Sportscar racing was a mix of pros and amateurs—the gentlemen drivers, who paid their own way to race cars. They had to qualify for a racing license with training or seat time in lower-level races, but those guidelines still allowed for a wide range of skill level. It was the rare amateur who had the hours of experience a pro had—and mostly it was seat time that was crucial. Given a set of on-track conditions, from weather to other cars, I knew how a pro would react. An amateur wasn't as predictable, which could easily make him, or her, dangerous.

Bruce came back on the radio. “Right behind you is a NASCAR guy, Sam Remington, and behind him is a rookie amateur, Francis Schmidt. Careful of him. That's the red car.”

Has to be Sam behind me.
I shook off the distraction and focused on the guy in the red prototype. He was sure to want to pass me in the first lap, as would Sam. The difference was the amateur might not know how to do it well.

We rolled under the starter's stand in our orderly line. I glanced left, found our pits. Noted a Porsche with its hood up in the massive pit complex two spaces up from us.

“Lights out on the pace car,” Bruce said. “Green next time by.”

I spent the last yellow lap thinking about braking points, turn-in points, apexes, and moisture on painted areas. Watching the rain, looking for puddles. Time to go to work.

The green flew as I exited NASCAR 4. I got on the throttle as much as I could, given the traffic ahead. The Ferrari right in front of me was sluggish, but I wouldn't do anything rash to get around. Not yet.

As expected, Sam was past me by the start/finish line. The red prototype—with the amateur, Schmidt, at the wheel—didn't start as quickly, but zoomed up as we curved down toward Turn 1.

“Prototype moving inside. Inside,” Cooper said in my ear.

As Cooper warned, Schmidt pulled to my left, coming even with my rear wheels—then ahead of them. Making a very late move.

“Ready for you, jackass,” I muttered. I braked early and wide, giving him space to shoot by. Which he did, carrying too much speed into the corner and breaking his rear tires loose. He saved the slide, wobbled dramatically, and continued.

If I'd taken my normal line, he'd have punted me straight into the tire wall.
I shook my head. I focused on getting my tires up to pressure and catching the Ferrari in front of me.

From the left edge of the track, I braked for Turn 3 at the end of the pit exit blend line. Late apex through that 180-degree turn, unwinding the wheel on exit, tracking all the way to the left edge of the track.

Cross back to the right side of the track before the Kink. Where the white stripe in the road turns right onto an access road, I turn left to the Kink's apex. Lift slightly at apex—only this lap, only because of cold tires. No braking, no lifting there usually. Brush the apex curbing with left-side tires. Check mirrors. Track out to the right side of the track.

Ready for Turn 5, the West Horseshoe, a long right-hander. Braking. Wide entry. Turning tighter, tighter. Brush the curb late in the corner. Throttle out of the corner. Look ahead.

Closer to the Ferrari in front of me. I must be faster through there than he is.

Accelerating to Turn 6, staying right on track. Mirrors. Braking, turning as early as possible. Getting back to the throttle as early as possible. Stay to the left of the black line of asphalt sealer—leave the outside for the faster cars coming up behind.

“Two prototypes outside. Outside on the banking,” Cooper told me. Then, as the first one passed, “One more prototype outside. Now clear.”

Onto the banking. On the throttle, set my hands. Stay low.

I took a breath. Took a moment to enjoy the sweep of the banked track—even the weird, early dusk caused by overcast and mist. Around the curve, the track flattened out. I drifted right. Brake hard starting at the “2” marker for the Bus Stop. Onto the left curbing at apex. Feed throttle on. Curbing on the right. Build speed slowly. Second curbing on the right. More speed. Point the car at the banking, over the curbing on the left. Out of the Bus Stop, back to banking. Full throttle. Around NASCAR 3 and 4. Cooper in my ear, prototypes flashing past. Ready for the dip in the track over NASCAR 4 that makes the car wiggle. Through the tri-oval, passing a GTD car, flashing over the checkers on the pavement.

I stayed low on the approach to Turn 1, touching the left side of the track by the patch of grass near pit lane exit. Braking, then turning left, touching the inside of the turn at the stack of tires. Curving through the narrow Turn 2. Mist lighter here, less damp offline. I radioed that information to Bruce. Then I focused on chipping away at the two car-lengths between me and the Ferrari.

In the next fifteen laps, I used every bit of skill I could muster, pushing my limits in damp corners, weaving through traffic, trusting my tires, trusting the car. Two-thirds of the way through my hour-long stint, I was up on the Ferrari's back bumper, itching to get past him, when a yellow sent us back to the pits for service.

Not long into my second stint, I got through the traffic and took the battle to the Ferrari again. Ten laps of precision driving later—from both of us—I was grinning under my helmet.

“Who is this guy?” I radioed to Bruce.

“Raul Salas, new guy out of open-wheel, going to run for Redemption all year.”

Well, Raul, you're good. And this is fun.

I managed a pass four laps later, only to have him return the favor on the next go-round. I was working on my next opening when I suddenly had a front-row seat to all hell breaking loose.