Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  Her eyes narrowed. She looked from me to Sam again. Then back to me. “Much less hot now.” She turned back to face the track.

  I saw Tug finish with Jack and look around. He reached me just as the crew stepped onto the low wall between the hot and cold sides of the pits.

  “Have you—Stuart?” That was all I could force out through my suddenly dry throat.

  He shook his head. “No word yet, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you personally or text the minute I know anything.”

  I swallowed, trying to force my heart rate to slow down.

  “We did want to talk with you for a moment, Kate,” Tug went on.

  I finally realized he had a woman with him, who’d followed him through the tent and stood next to us.

  I apologized to her and introduced myself.

  “Elizabeth Rogers.” She shook my hand with the grip of a limp fish. I wondered again why more people didn’t value a good handshake the way they valued orthodontia or clear skin.

  I saw our lollipop—the car number on a long stick waved out in the hot pit lane to orient the driver—start to move and knew we were seconds away from the car’s arrival.

  “After the pit stop?”

  Tug and Elizabeth nodded, and I studied them as we waited.

  Tug wore the most expensive brands, latest trends, and even regulation Series attire with a flair that made some men assume he was gay. Women knew better, recognizing the glint in his eye that signaled a deep appreciation of females as a species. His chatty, almost flowery conversational style didn’t counteract the suspicions most men harbored about him. But it put women at ease.

  Tug and Stuart had competed for the job Stuart eventually won. When the American Le Mans Series and Grand-American Road Racing officially merged into the United SportsCar Championship at the end of last season, there were two qualified people to fill every one new job. In the face-off between two heads of operations, Stuart had come out the winner with multiple years of vice presidential experience at the ALMS.

  Tug Brehan, twenty-seven and new to the job in Grand-Am, had accepted the role as Stuart’s second-in-command. Tug had been a friendly team-player the two times I’d met him, though the puffed-up, self-important vibe I got from watching him work pit lane was new. Or maybe I didn’t know him very well.

  I hadn’t met Elizabeth before. She was decked out in a Series shirt and radio headset, so she had some role at the race. Compared to Tug, however, she was less everything. Less stylish, less outgoing, less warm. She wasn’t unfriendly or unattractive, but she suffered in comparison to the charm and style Tug possessed. She was plain standing next to him, with her unpolished fingernails and shoulder-length straight blonde hair held back by a headband, of all things. Not to mention the neutral, unmoving expression on her face. Everything about her projected, “I am serious and focused.”

  I snapped out of my daze as the 28 car jerked to a stop in front of us, the 29 and 30 cars arriving behind it within seconds. All three crews leapt into motion, filling the cars with fuel and putting on fresh tires.

  Jack’s strategy was to dive right into double stints for each driver—each stint representing anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes, which was the most we could do on a full tank of fuel. The exact time was dependent on yellow flags, because if caution flew past the halfway point of a fuel load, we’d pit under yellow. Each driver would do triple stints or more later in the race, especially in the late-night and early-morning hours, but to get our feet wet, we started with about two hours of driving time, give or take those yellow flags.

  Thirty seconds later, Mike had pulled out of the pits, the 29 and 30 cars following shortly after.

  An SGTV pit reporter appeared in their wake, speaking into the microphone. The reporter turned, zeroing in on Jack leaning off the side of the pit box to talk to a crew member. I narrowed my eyes at the reporter. Hello, Scott Brooklyn. We will talk later.

  But first, I gestured Tug and Elizabeth out to the walkway behind the tent, to be out of the way of crew members recoiling hoses and refilling fuel tanks. I grabbed a bottle of water on the way and waited for them to tell me what they wanted.

  Tug opened his mouth to speak, but reached for his phone instead. He looked at me. “News from the hospital.”

  Chapter Eight

  3:10 P.M. | 23:00 HOURS REMAINING

  I grabbed Tug’s arm. “How is he?”

  Holly was next to me in an instant. Tug glanced around, making sure only the three of us could hear him. “The first part of the surgery is done, to relieve pressure on his brain.” He typed something into his phone.

  “The first part?” Holly repeated. “How many more will there be?”

  Tug shook his head. “Not sure.”

  “And he’s—still…” I fumbled.

  He looked at me. “He’s still alive. They’re not guaranteeing anything, but making it through the first surgery is a good sign.” He checked his phone again. “There will be other surgeries to fix his broken bones. They might need to induce a coma to give the brain more time to heal.”

  Cars buzzed around the track as I tried to imagine Stuart lying still in a quiet, sterile hospital room, fighting for his life. The comparison was almost obscene. I covered my face with both hands and breathed deeply.

  I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket, a message from Polly assuring me she’d send word and repeating the same news Tug had delivered.

  Tug spoke again. “His parents are on their way down from Boston to be at the hospital—though it’ll be a while before he can have any visitors, depending on how things go.”

  What am I doing here? I should be there. Shouldn’t I?

  Tug must have read the confusion on my face. “At this point, no one can see him. Then it will be family only. I can let you know if that changes.”

  I felt numb. Elizabeth stood there with her arms at her sides, a look of mild curiosity on her face. That irritated me.

  I drew in a breath, squaring my shoulders. “What can I do for you, Elizabeth? Tug?”

  They glanced at each other, and Tug spoke, smiling. “Our point was to make sure you knew how to contact us and to make you aware of the current situation at the hospital. I’m glad we had up-to-the-minute news for you. I was able to call in Elizabeth to help me this weekend in Stuart’s absence—since she worked for me at last year at Grand-Am, she’s familiar with most of the players. She will also have all updates on Stuart, so if you can’t find me for some reason, you can reach out to her.”

  She handed me an old Grand-Am business card with a cell number circled and finally spoke. “We’re touching base with each team to make sure they know who to contact if they need anything.”

  The two of them work fast. Stuart isn’t—don’t go there, Kate.

  Holly smiled at Elizabeth. “How convenient you were able to take the last-minute call today.”

  “Lucky for all of us,” Tug put in.

  Holly made a “hmm” sound. “Everything going well so far?”

  Elizabeth smiled, and I was surprised by the change in her appearance. She lit up. “We’re keeping all the plates spinning. Solving the little problems, keeping everyone happy.”

  Tug clasped his hands together. “Excellent. We’ll—”

  He was interrupted by two men charging toward us. Charging toward me. I flinched, moving behind Holly for protection—scant, as we were the same size—then saw everyone else smiling at them.

  “A photo, please!” The two men waved cameras.

  “It is Calamity Kate!”

  “The boo-tiful Calamity Kate, with the makeup!”

  Seriously? I’m not done with that yet? In the middle of his hate-campaign, Racing’s Ringer had bestowed the nickname on me. I couldn’t argue the nickname wasn’t appropriate at the time, but it didn’t originate in humor or goodwill.

  The men in front of me,
however, found it hilarious. They were in their late-twenties, round-faced, beefy, and Russian. They’d have been the perfect caricatures of young Slavic thugs, except for their ear-to-ear grins, cameras, and boisterous good spirits. I still wasn’t sure I’d want to meet them in a dark alley, but that had more to do with having spotted them with my cousins under the Arena tent.

  “Please, a photo, so we send to our mother and sister,” the first one said.

  “They reading about you and say why we never meet you,” added the second one. He had a squarer face and thinner hair. Otherwise, they were superficially the same: medium height, solid muscle, close-trimmed brown hair, brown eyes. Plus huge grins and bad teeth.

  The first one spoke again. “I am Pyotr—spelled with y-o-t. This is Vladimir. We Twitter this.”

  Of course they were and of course they would. I looked a question at Holly.

  “Harmless. Mostly,” she murmured, as the brothers turned to Tug and Elizabeth and enthusiastically greeted them.

  Tug took the opportunity to extricate himself. “Let me know if there’s anything at all you need.”

  I thanked him and returned Elizabeth’s half smile and wave as they left.

  Then I turned to the brothers. “How did your mother and sister hear about me?”

  Vladimir kept smiling. “Our sister Sofia, she is racecar driver. Our mother is manager. Go with Sofia, in Russia. They read on Racing’s Ringer.” He pronounced the Rs way back in his throat. It sounded more sinister that way.

  Holly chuckled as she took their cameras and aimed them at the three of us, the look in her eye telling me I wouldn’t live this down. The Ringer had a lot to answer for. Again.

  A brown-haired guy wearing a friendly, open expression and a green Benchmark Racing polo shirt hustled down the walkway. He walked the same way teenage boys and Tom, our media guy, did: rolling up onto the balls of his feet at every step, as if he had springs under his heels.

  Once the photos were done, he offered his hand to me. “Vinny Cruise, nice to meet you. I hope these two—” he hooked a thumb in the Russians’ direction “—aren’t taking too much of your time, after they gave me the slip.” He grinned, softening the accusation.

  I introduced myself and Holly, assuring him all was well. I remembered seeing Vinny that morning while I was talking to Stuart. My stomach clenched. Stuart’s hanging in there, Kate, keep it together.

  “We do not bother these lovely ladies,” Pyotr protested. “We only take photos to send home.”

  Vinny laughed. “More photos. But you shouldn’t miss your car’s next pit stop, which will be very soon.”

  “Hola, Vicente,” a passing driver called out. “Don’t you know your space is at the other end of pit lane?”

  Vinny grinned and did the part-handshake, part-embrace, all-back-slapping thing guys did. “Hey, amigo. I’m only here for a visit.” He turned to the rest of us. “Have you all met Raul?”

  I hadn’t met Raul, but I’d seen him. I figured him for late twenties, with the standard driver’s height and build. Not much else was ordinary. His lush, black hair curled onto his collar, and his black eyes held laughter and secrets. Add to that an expressive, friendly face and dimples, and Raul Salas was hard to miss. Honestly, he made me a little shivery inside, especially when he took my hand and looked into my eyes to tell me how delighted he was to meet me.

  You have no business feeling shivery with a race to run and a boyfriend in the hospital, Kate.

  I pulled myself together and gently retrieved my hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Raul. Who are you driving with?”

  “Redemption Racing, also at the other end of pit lane. I’m down here to see a friend in a Porsche team.” He smiled, and the dimples made my insides flutter. “I look forward to chatting more in the future.”

  I made a noncommittal response and Mr. Temptation took himself off down the walkway.

  Pyotr and Vladimir stepped forward to give me loud, smacking kisses on both cheeks. “We see you in pits, Kate Calamity! But please, you try not to hit our car.” They left, laughing uproariously as they loped up the walkway.

  Vinny followed, chuckling and waving good-bye. I had a vision of a terrier trying to keep two bull moose in line.

  I turned to Holly. “Filthy rich team owners and their minder?”

  She dabbed at her eyes from laughing so hard. “Vinny’s the guy running that team, but you pegged the brothers.”

  After a tire cart went past us, loaded with worn, gunked-up rubber fresh off a racecar, Holly and I crossed back to our tent to watch the monitors. Mike was maintaining second in class—though the two factory Corvettes crept ever closer. The race was still green into the second hour.

  A crew member pointed me to the pit wall, and I walked around the front side of the command center to find Scott Brooklyn waiting. I paused, then approached him. I got close enough no one else could hear. “Am I talking to the SGTV pit reporter or…?”

  “I’m on the clock for SGTV. But what I do off the clock with what I hear on the clock?” He shrugged.

  “I’m warning you, I’m not a fan today. What do you want?” I shouldn’t have been so abrupt or unfriendly with a member of the television crew that covered the race, but Scott and I had history. I didn’t completely trust him. I hoped he knew better than to try to cause me trouble.

  A hurt look flickered across his face. “Regardless, I’m here because the word’s out about Stuart’s accident. The bosses want me to ask if you’d talk about it on camera.”

  “No.” I barely let him finish.

  “I don’t blame you. I told them you’d say that.” He saw the look on my face. “Really. They told me to ask, so I asked. You said no. End of story.”

  I turned to go.

  “But Kate?”

  He had a smirk on his face when I looked back.

  “If you do want to say anything—on camera or anonymously—let me know.” He winked. “I’m your guy.”

  I rolled my eyes and returned to stand next to Holly at the monitors. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket again, and my breath hitched. More news from surgery, already?

  I was unprepared for what I saw when I looked at my phone. My knees dissolved, and I collapsed onto a nearby chair.

  A text message from Stuart.

  Chapter Nine

  3:25 P.M. | 22:45 HOURS REMAINING

  Holly plucked the phone from my numb hands. Her jaw dropped. “For heaven’s sake.” She tapped the screen and read the message. “Someone’s got his phone. It’s not Stuart. Someone else.”

  I read the message. I’m a friend of Stuart’s. I need to tell you what happened, and I need your help.

  Are you kidding me? I typed in response. Who are you and why do you have his phone?

  A minute later. Friend. Reporter. I saw Stuart get hit. His phone landed near me. I took it and ran.

  I gasped and typed back. You RAN?? You didn’t call for help or go help him? How dare you?

  Hang on.

  I stared at the phone, waiting for more and shaking with anger.

  Another message. I called for help, so did a bunch of others. People were helping him. I ran because I didn’t want to be another target.

  What do you mean…My typing was interrupted by a fresh response.

  I ran because someone tried to kill me last night. Like they tried to kill Stuart this morning. It wasn’t an accident.

  Holly sat down next to me, and I handed her the phone. She shook her head. “I hope he told this to the cops.”

  I took the phone back and typed that message.

  Whoever was on the other end replied. Not yet. I will, but I need to finish my article first. Other people saw what happened better than I did. I might know some of why, but I need to put it all together first. I’ll talk to the cops tomorrow.

  My thumbs flew. I’m telling them
, if you won’t. What’s so important it’s worth not catching the person who did this? I grew more furious with every response from the jackass on the other end.

  Tell them. I’ll talk to them tomorrow. One day won’t make a difference. Especially when I expose the fraud and illegal activities going on in Richard Arena’s businesses.

  It was too much. What does exposing that team have to do with finding a hit-and-run driver? I typed. Are you saying Arena did this to Stuart? And why are you messaging me?

  “Seriously,” I muttered. “Why me? Why now, when I’ve got to drive soon?”

  Someone in that organization had to have been responsible, he responded. You because I hear you’re the only trustworthy person in the paddock. Plus you’re dating Stuart. You deserve to know this was attempted murder, not an accident. You can help me get the bastards responsible.

  I blinked and typed. Who are you?

  His explanation continued. I need your help seeing who’s there at the race with the team. Connections between Arena and other organizations or companies. Someone in the Arena team thinks Stuart knows something. I want to figure out what that is and prove who tried to kill him. I can’t get close. They know me. Afraid they’ll try to kill me also. Again.

  My head spun, and I typed back. This is a joke, right? You’re pranking me?

  No prank, for real. Turning off now, will text later.

  I texted again. TELL ME YOUR NAME OR I WON’T HELP YOU. I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

  I stared at the monitors for a few minutes, not really seeing the cars, trying to process the text conversation.

  Colby walked over and stood in front of the bank of screens. She was suited up, helmet on, and ready for her turn behind the wheel. The on-deck driver was supposed to be in the pits as soon as the previous driver got in the car, so there was always a backup in case the person in the car had a problem. Past the midway point of a sixty-minute stint, we could be called on to get in the car at any moment. When we were on-deck, we were suited up in our fire-retardant head socks, or balaclavas, and helmets by thirty minutes into the other driver’s stint.