Blind Spot (9 page)

“SO YOU SAY THEM
old boys just took off without you?” the man said. He had the name Boyd on his work shirt and wore a sweat-stained John Deere hat. His lower lip stuck out, and he spit some brown juice into the dirt by the side of the road. Tim had started walking on a road near the interstate, and the man stopped his motorcycle and walked it alongside him.

“Took my tickets, too,” Tim said.

“What are you gonna do when you get there?” Boyd said. “That race was sold out months ago, wasn’t it?”

“I know,” Tim said. “I just can’t see coming this far and not at least trying to get in.”

“If that don’t beat all,” Boyd said, shaking his head. “And you think they
spiked your Coca-Cola?” He spat again. “That’s downright criminal is what that is.”

The sky had turned a deep blue, and Tim squinted at the sun. “At least it’s not raining. Looks like the weather’s going to be good. How much farther you think it is?”

Boyd told him, pointing out where he’d need to go under the interstate, then talked about a time when he had been wronged.

Tim tried to concentrate, but all he could think about was Jeff and his buddies. Why would Kimberly introduce him to Jeff if she knew he was a jerk?

The sign for the Daytona International Speedway came up as Tim walked and traffic slowed to a crawl above him.

“Sure am sorry they treated you like that, buddy,” Boyd said. He handed Tim $20. “Have lunch on me. And if you see them fellows that dumped you, well, I’d stick something in their tires if I was you.”

Tim smiled at the thought. Revenge would be nice. But he’d never find Jeff’s SUV in this sea of autos. “I thank you for your kindness, stopping like you did,” Tim said.

Boyd started his motorcycle and zoomed off.

By the time Tim made his way around the traffic that backed all the way to the interstate and entered the
speedway, the race was about to start. In the distance he could see the stands, which were nearly full, and the hundreds of vendors peddling hats, shirts, replica cars, pennants, and just about everything you could imagine. Tim had seen NASCAR officials shut down vendors who were selling unlicensed merchandise. If you weren’t selling official gear, you weren’t selling.

Guys with hands full of tickets yelled, “Who needs two? I got four right on the infield!”

Tim wondered if Jeff and the others had pocketed a few hundred dollars and headed home or if they were in there.

“What’s your cheapest ticket?” Tim said to a man whose hair was the color of shoe polish.

“How many you need, kid?”

“Just one.”

“I don’t sell individual seats. You gotta buy at least two.”

“How much for two?”

Tim’s heart fell when he heard the price. It was more than five times what he had.

“Check back as we get closer to race time. I might have a single left.”

He tried three other sellers and got a little closer to his range but not enough. He walked out of the parking area, navigating through cars trying to get last-minute parking and driving recklessly. Giving up, he
made his way to the Volusia Mall and found the food court. He used the $20 Boyd had given him to buy a pretzel and a bottle of water. He stuffed the change in his pocket and walked to the courtyard, where big-screen TVs carried the race.

I got this close to the race, and I’m watching it on TV,
he thought.
How did this happen?

JAMIE HAD PLEADED
with her dad for years to let her be on the pit crew, but there was about as much chance of that happening as him letting her drive the car. It was a highly coordinated, high-skill position that took a lot of practice and preparation. You couldn’t just step into that without connections and talent. She could have done PR for her dad, but she was probably a couple of years away from that too. The team liked Jamie, but it was clear she wasn’t crew material yet.

She watched from the pits as her parents hugged and kissed. Her dad climbed into the car—he liked to wait until the last moment to get in because he hated being confined—popped on the steering wheel, and got his helmet and HANS device situated.

Soon one of the chaplains came by and prayed with him and patted his helmet. It was a ritual to some people, a good-luck charm to protect them from injury, like wearing their lucky underwear or that pendant their mother gave them. To her dad, it was a lot more. He said it put everything in perspective and gave him a peace he couldn’t explain.

After the prayer came the national anthem, which would be followed by the flyover by some military jets. The crowd always responded to them about as much as the moment when a celebrity yelled over the loudspeakers, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” No matter how many races she’d been to, those words and the sound of the engines firing to life always gave her chills.

These moments and the ones that followed separated true fans from the tailgaters or people who’d come for a spectacular crash. Every second of the race was filled with action. Something was going on in every one of the 43 cars. It was a huge chess match, but instead of playing against only one other team, you were playing against 42.

The crew chief for her dad’s team, T.J. Kelly, raced over and spoke quickly with her mom as a singer finished “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Jamie’s mom looked back at her and shook her head. Jamie moved closer.

“Then we gotta pull somebody from the pit crew, and we don’t have a hand to spare, Nicole.”

The jets flew over and hit the afterburners. The crowd went wild.

Her mother leaned over next to the crew chief’s face and yelled, “What does Dale think?”

“It was his idea. Now you’ve gotta make up your mind fast because we’re almost out of time.”

“What is it?” Jamie said.

“Scotty’s sick,” T.J. said. “They think it might be food poisoning. He’s pukin’ his guts out over the side of the railing. We need somebody to take over the spotter position.”

“I can do it,” Jamie said to him. She looked at her mother. “Mom, I can do this.”

“Jamie, it’s dangerous. Your dad—the whole team is affected by this.”

“What’s the alternative?” Jamie said. “You can’t go without a spotter. I’ve watched this race since I could walk. I know how to talk him through—I’ve listened to him and Scotty a million times.”

“If Scotty recovers, he takes over again,” T.J. said.

Jamie nodded.

Her mom sighed. “If it was Dale’s idea and that’s what he wants, I guess it’s the best.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay with that, Jamie?” T.J. said.

“More than okay.”

Somebody slapped her on the back. It was Kellen. “Go show ’em what you can do up there.”

TIM THOUGHT THE CROWD
at the mall courtyard was probably as raucous as the one in the stands. They whooped and yelled each time their favorite drivers were shown. The announcer’s audio was turned low, so Tim moved to one of the side speakers so he could hear.

“And we’re getting late word that one of the members of Dale Maxwell’s team is sick, and they’re substituting a new spotter,” the man said. “Can you imagine trying to run Daytona with a backup?”

A retired driver responded, “That’s like driving one-handed and trying to open a bag of popcorn.”

“Wait, we’re getting word now that . . . you’re not going to believe this.”

“Lay it on us.”

“Dale Maxwell’s new spotter is his
16-year-old daughter. Can we get a shot of her? . . . Yeah, there she is putting on the headset.”

The crowd tittered and gasped around Tim as they showed a close-up of the Maxwell girl. She had a brown ponytail and a pretty face. She tried to get the headset on over the Maxwell hat, but finally she just took the hat off and threw it on the ground. Then the screen switched to her dad’s car in a line with all the other racers behind the pace car. Tim’s stomach clenched, and he had to turn away.

“Look how young she is,” the announcer said. “Are there any restrictions on who you can put up there?”

“I don’t think there’s an age requirement,” the retired driver said. “There might be one after this race, though. When the spotter straps that headset on, the driver’s putting his life—and the life of every other driver on the track—in that person’s hands. I don’t like this.”

“Well, you can’t blame
her
,” another announcer said. “She’s just filling a hole for that Maxwell team, so if you’re going to be upset with somebody, be upset with the crew chief.”

“You gotta give her credit for climbing up there,” the retired driver said. “Creating controversy with a father-and-daughter team. Not bad for her first race.”

JAMIE FINALLY GOT
into position and adjusted her headset and both radios. She knew Scotty worked with one radio to talk to the driver and another to listen to NASCAR officials during the race. As soon as she was set, she glanced at the other spotters. They were all staring at her and looked away quickly. Her stomach churned, and she felt like rushing to the bathroom herself, but there was no chance of that now. She was as locked and loaded as a policeman’s handgun at a bank robbery.

She’d listened to chatter on the radio since she was young, and she knew all the words, all the familiar phrases. But nothing had prepared her for this.

“How you feeling up there, Jamie?” her dad said.

“New experience,” she said. “I finally get to tell
you
how to drive.”

“I didn’t think of that.” Her dad laughed.

“Pace car’s falling off,” the crew chief said. “You two ready to rock ’n roll?”

“Ready,” Jamie said.

“Bring it on,” her dad said.

Jamie took a deep breath and let it out. Then she keyed the mic. “All right, here we go. Flag coming out. Green, green, green.”

The other spotters said something similar to their drivers as the cars screamed past the start line. Jamie felt like a billion butterflies had camped in her stomach overnight, and they were all stretching and flying at the same time.

More than 160,000 fans cheered, the sound deafening, but Jamie kept her eye on the #14 Maxwell car. At 2.5 miles around the track, her dad would pass her again in less than a minute.

Jamie saw a car in turn two swerve near her father’s car. “Watch it. . . . Stay up, stay up. The #46 car had a little wobble there in the turn.”

“I got it,” her dad said.

“You’re doing good, Jamie,” T.J. said. “Just relax and get a feel for what’s going on.”

“We’re bunching up pretty good down here,” her dad said. “I’m gonna ride the train for a lap or two. You relax, little girl.”

On the third lap, Jamie keyed the mic. “I’ve seen two spots where you’ve been clear low, Dad.”

“Okay. Let me know if you think I can make it.”

They were 20 laps into the race when a clear spot opened. Jamie hesitated, and the moment was lost.

Two laps later she saw another opening and keyed her mic. “Clear low,” Jamie said as calmly as she could. “Go.”

The Maxwell car veered low into the turn, passed the #22 car, and took position in front of him. Jamie was amazed at how three words changed their position so quickly. It gave her a feeling of power, just like racing, only hers were the eyes on the roof and not the hands turning the wheel.

A plume of smoke rose, and the crowd gasped.

“Trouble in turn two, Dad. Stay low, low, low.” Her heart pounded as her dad shot past a car with smoke billowing from its rear. “Yellow flag. Yellow flag.”

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Scotty, his face as pale as one of her mom’s white sheets.

“You look awful,” she said.

“What’s wrong with me?” her dad said on the radio.

She’d pushed the mic button by mistake. “Sorry, Dad. Scotty’s here. Looks like I’m handing you off to him.”

“All right. Great job, Jamie.”

Spotter after spotter patted her on the back as she moved toward the stairs, but she couldn’t bear to go down them. Something told her to stay right where she was.

The TV broadcast replayed some of her communication with her dad.

“Still have the same opinion?” the announcer said.

The commentator laughed. “Boy, I’ll tell you what—that girl knows what she’s doing up there. Just as calm and cool as they come.”

Jamie blushed and smiled, wondering if Kellen and her mom had seen the replay.

It was on lap 150 that the big problem happened. Not a crash into the wall or a nudge that led to a spinout. Scotty keeled over and smacked the back of his head. Another spotter helped him up, and Jamie was there, ripping the headset off. Scotty was up—wobbly, but up.

“Probably needs fluids,” T.J. said to Jamie when she explained what had happened. “Tell him to get downstairs and stay there. You’re taking us the rest of the way, you hear?”

Jamie knew that fans were waiting for the big one. Daytona and Talladega were known as two of the most dangerous races because of the speeds on
the straightaway. They had gone 175 laps without a serious accident, and the tension was mounting. Her dad was in the middle of a pack, three across, when she noticed the car behind him.

“Number 13 right behind you, Dad. Getting closer.”

“He just bumped me,” her dad said.

“Tell Devalon’s spotter to back off!” the crew chief yelled.

Jamie turned and saw the black-clad #13 spotter at the far end. No way was she going to run down there. “Hey, 13!” she screamed.

The thin man held up a hand. “Tell Dale he’s sorry.”

She keyed the mic. “You’re not going to believe this, but the Devalon guy just said sorry.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“Clear, clear, all clear behind that 79 car,” Jamie said three laps later.

Her dad followed her direction and made the move. “Now I know why,” he said. “Lots of water spitting out—or maybe coolant. It’s all over the—”

The crowd gasped, and Jamie couldn’t speak as her dad fishtailed out of the turn, bumped from behind by #13.

“Hang on to it, Dale!” the crew chief said.

All she could do was watch in horror as the
Maxwell car shifted right and took out #44 and #12, pushing them into the wall. Then the three cars spun out, careening to the bottom of the track and right in the path of several cars behind. Unscathed, #13 darted left and avoided them.

The cars behind them weren’t so lucky. In all, 12 cars crashed and were taken out of the race. Jamie’s dad’s was one of them.

“Yellow flag,” she said, scowling at the Devalon spotter.

The man just chuckled and shook his head.