Secret Sacrifices

by Jannifer Hoffman

  When Jamie didn’t get a response she glanced at Quint. He was staring out the window through narrowed eyes. Leaving him to his thoughts, Jamie tried to think of a way to get back at the vicious Ms. Harman. There must be something she could do to beat Harman at her own game. Jamie was not, after all, without recourse. She had access to the media at the snap of a finger. Normally she refused interviews but…

  “Where did Markus work before he was hired by your team?” Quint asked, drawing Jamie from her plotting.

  Jamie made a snorting sound. “He wasn’t exactly hired. He’s one of Bentler’s illegitimate sons.”

  Quint muttered something under his breath, looking out at the passing landscape. He shook his head. “So, Markus Bentler—”

  “Not Bentler. His name is Lasco. Bentler has a wife.”

  “Jesus. Okay, so Markus Lasco would be more than happy to see you incapacitated.”

  A deep furrow creased Jamie’s brow. “Are you thinking what I’m suddenly thinking?”

  “Who would have better access to Bentler’s car?”

  “I can’t believe Markus would be that desperate. I never considered him a threat.”

  “Could his father be a party to it?”

  Jamie gave him a wide-eyed stare. “No, not possible. Bentler’s a bottom line man. Money talks. I make him more money in one race than Markus could all year. Besides, if he had a burning desire to let his son drive, he could run a backup car. A lot of drivers have one.”

  Quint frowned. “What’s a backup car?”

  “It’s when one owner has two cars in the same race. One more or less assists the other one, blocking or drafting. Whatever it takes to help the lead driver.”

  Quint made a turn into a Perkins restaurant. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. My breakfast was cut a little short this morning. You okay with Perkins?”

  “Sounds like a winner to me,” Jamie said. She gave Quint a contrite look as she got out of the car. “Sorry about breakfast. They really were splendid eggs. I finished mine.”

  Quint laughed. “That’s because you stuffed them in your mouth to avoid answering questions.” He opened the door for her and guided her in with his hand on the small of her back. “What were we talking about anyway?”

  “They have great food here.”

  Quint gave her a quizzical frown. He obviously knew she was avoiding the subject of Jimbo, but he let it drop and waited until the waitress had taken their order to get back to their original discussion.

  “If I understand this backup car business, it seems to me the lesser driver would be making the way for the more experienced one instead of the other way around.”

  “You’re a fast learner,” Jamie said reaching for a packet of strawberry jam nestled in a holder. She opened it up, scooped the contents out with a spoon, and popped it in her mouth.

  Quint stared at her disbelievingly as she made succulent sounds, licking her lips. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to put that on toast.”

  “Says who?” she asked, opening a second packet.

  “I don’t know. It’s just how it’s done.”

  “Where is it written that jam can only be eaten on toast?”

  “In the book of etiquette, I’m sure.”

  “Actually, the book of etiquette says jam can be eaten as dessert and that’s what I’m doing, having dessert.”

  “You eat dessert at the end of your meal.”

  “Says who?”

  Quint put his head in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. His shoulders shook with helpless laughter. “Okay, I give up. I’ll just have to learn not to question anything weird you do from now on.”

  Jamie smiled. “Good. That was the object of this little test.”

  He brought his head up to stare at her. “You’ve never done that before in your life, have you?”

  Her smile turned into a perky grin. “No.”

  “Just how many packages of jam would you have eaten to make this point?”

  “Sorry, this getting-to-know-each other session is over.”

  “Well, I can tell you what I learned from it. Beware anytime I take you into a public place, especially restaurants.”

  He wasn’t sure what had done it but Jamie’s face lit up like a sky-filled Fourth-of-July fireworks, and her eyes crinkled mischievously.

  Quint chuckled. “Okay, what did I say to send you off on the funny train.”

  “That’s just what T-Roy used to say.”

  “I guess I should feel sorry for T-Roy.”

  “Don’t, he was worse than I am. He liked to embarrass the waitresses. One time he brought a tiny goldfish to a diner. He slipped it into his water glass and told the server the water tasted odd. She picked up the glass and started back to the kitchen with it. All of a sudden she screamed and dropped the glass. It shattered all over the floor. The manager came running and started yelling at her, threatening to fire her. T-Roy was laughing so hard, I was afraid he was going to let her fry, so I stepped in and explained what happened. I accused T-Roy of being an insensitive clod and told him if he didn’t apologize to her I’d never go out to eat with him again.”

  “So did he apologize?”

  Jamie laughed. “Yeah, and then he hit her up for a date. He could be so damn charming when he wanted to be, the girl actually went out with him.”

  Forty minutes later they were getting into the car when Jamie stopped and slapped her forehead. “God, I forgot all about the tape. All that trouble we went through, and I haven’t even watched it yet.”

  “You do realize that you can’t use anything you find on that tape without explaining where you got it?”

  Jamie looked at him and swore under her breath. “I didn’t think about that. I hate it when you say something I can’t argue with.” She yanked the door open and got in.

  Quint slipped behind the wheel. “I’ll need to stop at my motel. I could use a change of clothes.”

  “We also better stop at the body shop and see how long it will be until they get my car fixed.”

  Quint nodded. “Just show me the way. Until it’s ready, I don’t mind at all being your chauffeur.”

  She gave him a dubious glance as he pulled out on the highway. “I have to leave for Richmond Friday night. Saturday is qualifying day.”

  “Yeah, I was getting the drift of that in the shop this morning.” He looked over at her, hesitating a moment. “How would you feel if I came to your race? Would it make you uncomfortable?”

  Jamie laughed. “Not at all, but it might be boring for you.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Again she laughed. “No, unless you really enjoy racing, watching cars speed around a track, especially a short track. Richmond is only three-quarters of a mile. After three or four hours, it can get to be a little tedious for the spectators.”

  “Why, especially, a short track?”

  “Because the turns are so close together you’re on the brake nearly as much as you’re on the accelerator. On the other hand, there’s usually more excitement in the crash department.”

  “You call crashing excitement?”

  “No, but the fans do. You think they come just to watch us go around and around the track? They want to see action.”

  “Christ. It sounds like a bloody gladiators competition. I wonder if I can watch you doing that.”

  She gave him an impish grin. “You get used to it. I’ll get you a pass to come down by the pits; that way you’ll get up close and friendly with the smell of hot oil and burning rubber.”

  “What about Saturday?”

  Jamie shrugged. “If you want to. I’ll only be driving long enough to test the car and then to qualify for ranking.”

  “Ranking?”

  “That determines your starting position. It involves going around the track on your own as fast as you can. Qualifying can be brutal with a short track. It’s difficult to pass on a track under a mile long. If you’re placed further back than tenth it’s
almost impossible to advance enough to take the lead. The car with the best time gets the pole position, and so on down the line.”

  “Does anybody ever get killed qualifying?”

  Jamie stared out the window. She was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Finally she took a deep breath and answered without taking her eyes from the road. “Yeah, T-Roy did.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When they got back to Jamie’s townhouse there was a message from Virgil. Jamie went to the living room to plug her tape in, while Quint called his cousin.

  Virgil picked up on the second ring.

  “Yeah, Virg here.”

  “Hey, Cuz. How’re they hanging?”

  “Loose. My night was relatively calm compared to yours. How are you holding up, buddy? And I don’t mean sexually.”

  “I’ve had an interesting day. Plus, my night didn’t end after I talked with you last night. And I’m not talking about sex either. Somebody tried to run Jamie off the road on her way home.”

  “Deliberately?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Shit. Was she hurt?”

  “No, just a little bruised, but only because she is one hell of a driver.”

  “Did you catch the bastard?”

  “No. The police are working on it.”

  “Any chance it was the same person who tossed Riker’s house?”

  Quint grunted. “At this point anything’s possible. The car belonged to Ray Bentler, but he had reported it stolen.”

  “Speaking of the boys in blue, have they shown up to question Jamie yet?”

  “No, but she can handle herself with them. Besides, half the city here thinks she walks on water.”

  “Yeah, it’s the other half we have to worry about.”

  “What did you find out about Gomez?”

  “He’s nothing more than a petty bad ass—several arrests, only one conviction, all burglary charges, nothing involving weapons. He did a couple of years in the pen and he’s been out on probation about nine months. In my opinion, he’s not going to fess up to being anywhere near Riker’s house, so I don’t think you have to worry about him fingering you or anybody else. He only spent about an hour in jail last night because your good friend Ms. Harman got him released. Said he was working for her.”

  “No news there,” Quint said. “Turns out he must have been at Hunter’s wedding. She aired a photo of me carrying Jamie to the carriage. Had a nasty caption under it. You know her routine?”

  Virgil snorted. “Yeah, I was dumb enough to represent her in one of her Suffer the Consequences trials. Too bad I’m so good at what I do.”

  Quint laughed. “I’m going to go to Virginia to watch Jamie race at Richmond Speedway this weekend. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Marla—”

  “Hell, that goofy wench has been calling me every hour. With Hunter in the Bahamas and you out of town she seems to think I can answer her questions. She has a couple of deadlines to meet. I’d say you better give her a call, pronto.”

  “I guess I’ve been neglecting her.”

  “Jeez. It’s only been two days. You know, Stephen is itching to take his plane up. It wouldn’t take much to talk him into flying us down Sunday to meet you.”

  Quint chuckled. “I think you better have some words with Ms. LeCorre first. She holds you partially responsible for the hooker misunderstanding.”

  “Shee-it. Serve me up a heaping portion of humble pie and put her on the phone. I might as well get it over with.”

  “Okay. You have my sympathy.” Quint held the phone aside and called into the other room where Jamie was on her knees in front of the TV fast-forwarding her tape. “Virg would like a word with you, Jamie.”

  Nodding, she clicked off the fast forward, allowing the tape to continue running at regular speed while she got up and came to the phone. “What does he want?” she asked.

  Quint winked. “He’s hungry for crow. Don’t let him off too easy.”

  “No problem,” she said, putting the phone to her ear.

  “This is Jamie.”

  “Hello, Jamie, Virgil here.”

  “Virgil who?”

  While Jamie was on the phone Quint walked into the living room to watch the tape. He sat down on an ottoman that was half the size of a normal sofa. The race had five laps to go.

  When he’d first sat down Quint saw the race from a sky camera, complete with commentator. The next segment came from the right side of a car, including road, gear, engine noises, and deafening sound. It was Clay Riker’s car, he guessed. When the scene switched back to the sky cam recapping what had happened from the field camera, he recognized Jamie’s magenta Monte Carlo directly in front of the camera. All the cars appeared to be no more than three or four feet apart and going well over a hundred miles an hour. According to the sky cam, there were six cars in total, clustered together, speeding around the track so tightly woven they might have been attached to each other.

  A commentator’s voice, at high pitch, explained the possibilities of the outcome. Tomas Dunn’s car was in the lead, and Jamie was attempting a pass when her car made an erratic swerve and chaos erupted. Her car tagged Dunn on her right side and ricocheted into the car on her left. From the viewpoint of Riker’s camera, cars were skidding in all directions. Riker suddenly went airborne. There was a heart-stopping metal-crunching roar. It looked and sounded like the car had been lifted into the eye of a level-five tornado and thrust into total darkness.

  Quint hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he was forced to gasp for air. A recap from the sky cam did show Jamie’s car had indeed swerved for no apparent reason. She clipped Dunn’s car, sending him into a spin. Her own car swiveled to a reverse position taking Mitch Grady, in the car on the left, with her. Clay plowed into Jamie’s car, which rolled over with Clay’s car ending up on top of it. Both cars clamped together spun recklessly for at least a hundred feet before coming to a crashing halt against the wall. Talon Davis, who had been drafting closely behind Dunn, slammed into Riker’s rear sending him even farther on top of Jamie’s exposed underbelly.

  Splattered oil, gas, and metal debris cluttered the track. Smoke billowed from either Jamie’s car or Riker’s—it was impossible to tell which. Flames shot from Dunn’s car where he teetered against the wall, about twenty feet farther up the track. It was like a scene from a trumped-up action movie.

  But this was no movie. In his wildest dreams, Quint couldn’t imagine even one of the drivers stepping out of their cars under his or her own power.

  Jamie was in her car at the bottom of the pile, upside down, beneath smoke so thick it looked like a burning oil well. Quint felt light-headed. He glanced up at her still talking on the phone, reassuring himself she was actually there in the next room, instead of lying dead in the scene he was watching.

  Making no attempt to conceal his excitement, the commentator struggled to describe the carnage. A red flag waved, bringing the remaining cars on the track to a standstill. The camera switched for a second from the track to the bleachers where fans were on their feet, some with elated faces, many with wide-eyed fear. Quint guessed one group was diehard fans, and the other friends and family members of the drivers.

  Back on the field, fire trucks, rescue crews, and team members rushed to the cars in trouble. Three of the drivers, miraculously, Quint thought, climbed out of their cars unhurt. A rescue team pulled out Clay Riker. He walked away heavily supported by a team member.

  Moments later rescuers pulled Jamie from her car and lifted her onto a stretcher. She appeared to be in pain but conscious. Team members kept Buster LeCorre from interfering in the rescue operation. His features were red and distorted, his face damp and streaked with dirt.

  A yellow car, the sixth in the cluster, had managed to avoid the accident and went on to win the race under the caution flag.

  Soon after, the camera switched to driver interviews where the winner, Sammy Jackson, was asked about the crash he had so narrowly avoided.r />
  “Hey,” said Sammy, grinning from Victory Lane

  , “She did all right by me. I got my first win. That lady can polish parts in my bed anytime.”

  Tomas Dunn shrugged. “Hell, I’m disappointed….but that’s racing. Jamie’s an excellent driver. She was setting up to overtake me, and truthfully, she might have done it. I just hope she’s okay.”

  Mitch Grady massaged a sore shoulder. “Shit happens. I’ve been pounded a lot worse. Jamie holds her own. How’s she doing?”

  The camera moved to Talon Davis, swearing and kicking at his car. At fifty-three Davis had senior driver status. Too many cigarettes and late night parties gave his face a weather-beaten look. He snarled at Matt Hurley. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Women have no place is this business. She was passing too close. Any driver with a brain knows the risk of picking up side wind.”

  Matt Hurley came to her defense. “According to the replay she wasn’t close enough to catch side wind.”

  “Hell, you say.” Davis snapped. “How many races have you driven? Anyway, if it wasn’t that, she obviously effed up on something else.”

  Hurley goaded him. “And, of course, male drivers never eff up. Wasn’t it just four weeks ago at Daytona that you rear-ended Sammy Jackson, putting him into the wall? If you never screw up, you must have done that intentionally.”

  Davis’ eyes narrowed above beet colored cheeks. He swore under his breath and stomped away from the camera.

  The camera panned to the Riker pit. Clay turned his back on the camera, refusing to be interviewed. When the microphone was pushed in front of Kent Riker, the sound had to be switched off. It didn’t take a master lip reader to recognize his foul words.

  Hurley approached Buster LeCorre.

  “Get out of my face.” Buster growled, refusing to look in the camera.

  The tape finished just as Jamie came into the living room and sat down on the ottoman beside Quint. She still had the remote in her hand and flicked it to rewind.

  “Did you see the crash?” she asked.

  Quint nodded, shaking his head. “Yeah, I saw the whole thing. I can’t believe you survived that.”