Madman's Thirst (24 page)

Upside down and stunned, he was
nevertheless mystified by the near silence. He braced himself for the
inevitable explosion and fire. But although he could smell fuel, nothing
happened. The sound of approaching sirens shook him from his daze. He tried to
crawl out the window. He couldn’t budge. Panicking, he thought himself
paralyzed. Then he realized that he was still tightly harnessed. Forcing
himself to think calmly, he unhooked all his safety apparatus, as he had been
drilled. He put his hands on the door frame and pulled himself onto the ground
in a fraction of the time it had taken him to get in the car. The prospect of
being broiled alive was a great motivator.

 The sirens were getting closer.
He looked back and saw two trucks racing his way, with men running in their
wake. He smelled smoke and looked on the track. The car engine was sitting 150
feet away, burning. He pulled himself together. Crash was still in the car,
which he assumed could go up at any second. He got to his feet and immediately
fell down. All his teeth hurt. In fact, his entire head felt like it might fall
off. But he half crawled, half walked to the driver’s side and reached in to
unhook Crane, who was limp. He grabbed the unconscious man by the shoulders and
began to pull him out. Only his legs remained inside the cab when several
firemen and attendants ran up and doused them both with foam. One man reached
in to grab the driver’s legs.

“Where’s the goddamn steering
wheel?”

“Don’t ask.”

Together they pulled Crane out the
rest of the way and dragged him a safe distance from the wreck. They lay him on
the grass. He was motionless. An emergency worker gingerly unzipped his suit
and removed his helmet. He tilted the driver’s head back to clear his airway
and started breathing into his mouth.

“What the hell, you doin’, boy?”
Crash sat up so suddenly the EMT yelped. “We ain’t even engaged.” He then
looked around at the stunned men. “Did I win?” Then he looked at Scarne. “Hey
Jake, how’s it hangin’? What’s everybody staring at? Did I forget to turn the
engine off or somethin’.”

In unison, all the men turned to
look over at the track, where a fire truck was spraying the smoldering remains
of the car’s power plant. Crane appeared not to notice. He lay back down and
started singing.
I’m gonna wash that song right outa my hair. I’m gonna wash
that song
.… Soon he was asleep, and snoring contentedly.

“Let’s get him to a hospital,” the
EMT said. “Must be brain damage.”

“He’s fine,” Scarne said, and then
passed out.

***

In the grandstand a few hundred
yards away a handful of spectators had watched the incident in shocked silence.
Now all but one started jabbering excitedly. Two young children began crying as
their parents comforted them. The man who wasn’t saying anything studied the
wreck intently through a pair of binoculars. One of the other men in the stands
turned to him.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man
exclaimed. “They have to be dead. Nobody could survive that. Can you see
anything?”

Sobok lowered his binoculars.

“I wonder why there was no
explosion and such a small fire,” he said to no one in particular. Then he
turned to the children. He hadn’t expected any to be at the race track. Another
miscalculation, one that bothered him. “It’s all right. No one was hurt. Just a
lot of noise.”

It was obvious Scarne had survived
the accident. A tough man to kill, he thought, with a tinge of admiration. Maybe
if I had more time to set this up.

Sobok had gotten the call only the
previous evening. The Internet had provided him with some ideas but he’d had to
cobble together a plan in a few hours. Oh well, he thought, as he headed down
the stairs. I suppose I could try again at whatever hospital they take him.
Forget it. No more amateur hour.

Sobok turned back to the family
with the children. He took off his V.I.P. badge. It had served its purpose,
giving him the run of the track complex, including locker rooms and maintenance
areas. 

“This will get you in the private
lunchroom,” he said, handing the badge to the father. “Why don’t you take the
children there. I think it will give you a discount in the gift shop, as well.
Take their mind off all this unpleasantness.”

The man stammered his thanks. As
he walked away Sobok heard the wife say, “What a nice man!” 

CHAPTER 27 – NO LAUGHING MATTER

 This is getting ridiculous, Scarne
thought. Another day, another hospital. He was having trouble remembering their
names. Oh, yeah. This one was Wilkes-Barre General. He’d be safer if he
reenlisted. Dudley thought this case would be an easy way for him to ease back
into his old life. He might be on disability before he could do that. Honker and
Graebe walked into the room.

“I missed lunch,” Scarne said.

“But not the wall,” Graebe said.

“How are you feeling,” Honker
said, with what for him must have passed for concern. His tone reminded Scarne
of his old gunnery sergeant who, despite the fact that Scarne outranked him,
said the platoon was going to hell while its young officer was “goofing off” in
the hospital with pneumonia.

“Not too bad, considering that the
only part of my body that doesn’t ache is my left pinky. Just what the hell
happened out there?”

“We’re not sure. Your driver,
Crane, says he doesn’t remember a thing before he came to on the tarmac. We
just left him. He’s just down the hall.”

 “How is he?”

 “Concussion. Lots of scrapes and
bruises. Broken nose. And a separated shoulder, which we think he got when you
wrenched him out of the car.” At this, Honker looked accusingly at Scarne.

“Next time, I’ll try to be more
gentle. Maybe wait for an explosion to help throw the driver out.”

Graebe laughed

Honker wasn’t amused.

“What can you tell us about the
incident?”

Incident? Apparently hitting a
wall at almost 200 miles an hour, cart-wheeling 200 yards and ending up in an
engine-less hulk of scrap metal didn’t qualify as an ‘accident’ or a ‘crash.’

Scarne sighed and told them
everything he could recall.

Finally, Graebe spoke up.

“Jesus, I’m sure glad you signed
that release form.”

“Believe me, you don’t want my
attorney looking at that form,” Scarne said dryly. He saw them exchange looks
at the mention of a lawyer. “Don’t worry, boys, I’m not going to sue. But I
want to know why one of your top drivers suddenly went berserk. I’d think you’d
want to know, too.”

“Of course we do,” Honker snapped.
“Despite his good old boy routine, Lex Crane is normally one of our most stable
guys. We think perhaps he had some residual effects from his earlier accident.
Maybe a seizure of some sort. Soon as he is up to it, the docs want to run some
more scans. That may tell us something. In the meantime, if you can think of
anything else, let us know.” As an afterthought, he added. “And, of course, if
you need anything.”

Graebe put a couple of magazines
on the bed stand.
Car and Driver
. “Thought you might want something to
read.”

Scarne started to laugh, but it
hurt.

“I had them drive your car over,”
Honker said. “It’s in the hospital lot. The keys are with your effects.”

“How did you know which car was
mine?”

“Be serious. No body in NASCAR
would be caught dead driving an MGB.” Honker realized that the “caught dead”
remark might be considered inappropriate. “I mean …”

This time Scarne did laugh. The
men turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” he said. They
stopped. “Seizure, you say? I read somewhere that some people smell things just
before they have one. Part of the epileptic aura. Crash said he smelled
something funny just before he went off the deep end. But I have a hard time
squaring a seizure with him singing the cast album from
South Pacific
.”

“What kind of smell?” Graebe was
interested. “Like gasoline or oil?”

“No. Something sweet or flowery.
He wasn’t too clear on it. I didn’t smell anything.”

The two visitors looked at each
other.

“Shit,” Honker said.

They left without another word. A
few minutes later Aristotle Arachne walked in.

“I saw the whole thing, Jake. It’s
a miracle you survived.” Arachne looked devastated. “I almost got you killed.”

“Not your fault.”

 “I insisted on the demo ride.”

“Forget it, Ari. I’m just glad we
can laugh about it.”

“Do they know what went wrong?”

“Not yet.”

“Something mechanical, no doubt.
Stuck gas pedal, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, at least I hope Honker was
helpful. Did he provide any useful information?”

Scarne didn’t want to tell Arachne
that the security man had stonewalled. The real estate mogul had only tried to
help. It wasn’t his fault that the trip had been a total waste of time. He
obviously felt bad enough already.

“We talked in generalities,”
Scarne said. “We were going to pick it up after lunch. Now, he’s got other
problems. Maybe I’ll call him in a few days.”

“So, you didn’t get into the
things you mentioned to me?”

“I told you I would be
circumspect.”

Arachne flashed an expansive
smile.

“Yes, yes, of course you did. Well,
I have to get back to the city, but I’ll check up on you. Of course, I’ll cover
all your hospital bills.”

Only the very rich can get away
with a line like that today , Scarne thought. 

***

A resident came in late that
afternoon, holding a sheaf of X-rays and reports.

“I’m Dr. Bhupathi. The NASCAR people are apparently very solicitous of your health, Mr. Scarne. I’m happy to tell you
that they – and you – have nothing to worry about. A mild concussion. Some deep
bruises but, amazingly, no broken bones or serious burns.” Bhupathi gave him a
strange look. “Those marks on your face seem to be healing remarkably fast. And
some of your injuries are a bit inconsistent with what happened. Is there
something you’d like to tell me?”

Scarne didn’t want to go into his
Florida experience, so he merely said, “I seem to be accident prone lately. I’ve
been wondering about the burn part. I kept waiting to be fricasseed.”

“I asked the track people about
that myself. They have reinforced fuel tanks and pretty good fire suppression
systems on those cars. And they don’t put much fuel in the demonstration cars
to begin with. Apparently yours was almost down to fumes by the time you
crashed. You and the driver were incredibly lucky.”

Bhupathi told him they wanted to
keep him overnight, just to be sure about the concussion. Scarne, who by now felt
like one big bruise, didn’t argue.

***

Honker called the next morning. He
sounded less reserved and asked him to stop by the track office after he was
discharged.

“There is something I want to show
you.”

As Scarne was dressing to leave
the hospital, there was a tentative knock on his door. He turned to see a
sheepish-looking Crane, arm in sling and bandage on head. His nose was askew. “How
you doing,’ pardner?”

“Fine, Crash. You OK?”

Scarne made a conscious effort not
to stare at the nose, which looked like it was signaling a left turn.

“Hell, this is nothin’.” Crane lifted
his sling a bit. “And I’ve been concussed before. There’s not much left
upstairs to scramble.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But I’m mighty sorry about
what happened. They said I went bonkers. More than usual, I mean.”

Scarne felt for the man. Whatever
happened obviously wasn’t his fault, and, in addition to feeling guilty about
almost killing his passenger, he was undoubtedly worried about his career.

“Listen, Crash. They’ll get to the
bottom of all this. Right now, just get better. You’ll be back out there in no
time.”

“Sure.” But he sounded dubious.
But then he brightened. “Hey. When I am, you got a pass into every race on the
circuit. Just call. Anytime.”

They shook hands, painfully,
laughing, and Scarne headed to the track.

When he arrived at Honker’s
office, Graebe was there, along with two men in coveralls. They were introduced
as NASCAR mechanics. Other staff drifted over to listen. On a small plastic
sheet on Honker’s desk was a jumble of cylinders, wires, gaskets, nozzles,
hoses and other mechanical and electrical paraphernalia. Scarne picked up a
piece.

“Is this all that’s left of the
car?”

No one was apparently in the mood
for levity and he soon found out why.

“It’s a nitrous oxide racing kit
made for Camaros and Firebirds,” one of the mechanics said. “Pretty
sophisticated array. Got a 16-foot braided stainless feed line, high flow
solenoids and wet nozzle, arming switch, relay, wire and wire harness, fuse,
crimp terminals, micro throttle activation switch and mounting bracket…”

Honker blessedly cut him off.

“All well and good, but Mr. Scarne
will be more interested in this.”

He picked up the largest object on
the table, a blue cylinder labeled
N2O
.

“When you mentioned that sweet
smell, it got us to thinking,” Graebe said. “Nitrous oxide has that smell.
Dentists use it to calm patients, especially kids. They call it ‘sweet air’ or
‘laughing gas.’ Because it’s nonflammable, it’s also used in motor racing as an
oxidizer to increase engine power.”

“NASCAR allows that?”

“No, of course not,” Honker said
quickly. “Racing kits of any kind are banned. But some guys like to experiment
with engines and I thought maybe one of them hooked one up on Crane’s demo car
just to give it a little boost. If it cracked during your initial run, the gas
might have seeped into the cab.”

“But I wasn’t affected. In fact, I
didn’t smell anything.”

“That bothered us, too,” Graebe
said. “But we checked the engine anyway. It hadn’t been altered.” He paused.
“Then we found this kit in the garage area. The bottle was almost empty.”

It came to Scarne before anyone
said it.

“The suit!”

“Yeah,” Graebe said. “Crash’s
suit. I checked the air-conditioning pack. It had been tampered with. Somebody
had pumped in some nitrous oxide. When the unit kicked on, Crash got a snoot
full of happy gas.”

Honker pulled out a piece of
paper. “Got this off the Internet this morning.” He started reading: ‘When
inhaled, nitrous oxide is absorbed in the bloodstream and has a calming effect.
At higher levels, it can induce euphoria, making it a popular ‘recreational
inhalant’ among teen-agers, and others, seeking a relatively safe ‘high.’
Normal breathing eventually eliminates the gas from the body. Users remain
fully conscious and keep all natural reflexes, but may experience altered
perceptions of reality, hallucinations and disassociative behavior.”

“Does it say anything about
singing show tunes?”

That finally got a smile from Honker.

“You’re lucky to be alive, Jake,” Graebe
said. “You had Chuckles the Clown driving.”

“Actually, he wasn’t driving. He
handed me the wheel, literally.”

“That would do it,” one of the
mechanics murmured.

After the mechanics and Graebe
left, Scarne and Honker sat across from each other at the desk. The security
man cleared his throat.

“I think I owe you an apology,
Scarne. I can only assume somebody was trying to kill you. Can’t imagine anyone
wanted to get Crane. If they did, they could have done it a lot easier when he
was driving alone. It had to be you. It’s a miracle it didn’t work. If Crane
hadn’t detached the steering wheel, you’d have hit the wall head on, like Dale
Earnhardt. No chance. Hasta la vista! And there was not enough fuel left in the
tank to cause a fire. Whoever did this hadn’t counted on that. But he, or they,
went through a lot of trouble to make it look like an accident. Somebody wants
you dead.”

“You probably were a pretty good
FBI agent.”

“Maybe. But I must be losing a
step.”

“Don’t sweat it. There’s a lot of
that going around. I’ve been spending so much time in hospitals I’m thinking
about getting a personalized gown.”

“So the story about ‘rumors’ was
bullshit.”

The cat was obviously out of the
bag.

“A couple of those names I gave
you are already dead. You might want to tell your bosses to increase their due
diligence on Staten Island. They’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” 

Honker stood up and stuck out his
hand. Scarne took it.

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll pass it along.
Anything you need, let me know. We’re running down the N2O kit now, and I’m
calling in the state cops. We’ll get whoever did this.”

Scarne knew they wouldn’t.