Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  On the central pit box, the command center, Jack ran the whole show. He turned my way, studied me a moment, then beckoned me over.

  Aunt Tee handed me a bottle of water and my cell phone. “Holly left this with me, when she went to see Ian and Greg.”

  I clutched Aunt Tee’s arm. “Stuart?”

  “Nothing more yet.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed again, then drank half the water down before I climbed up to sit next to Jack.

  He spoke before I could. “We don’t know anything yet. They’re not showing that part of the track on the feeds.” He paused, and I heard what he didn’t need to say out loud, Which isn’t a good sign.

  Broadcasters of auto racing were quick to replay footage of accidents and their aftermath over and over to fill the yellow-flag period—and to satisfy viewers’ lust for wreckage—unless there was any concern about the well-being of the driver. Then they kept cameras pointed away.

  The butterflies I’d momentarily calmed sprang to life again in my gut.

  Jack went on. “As soon as there’s status, Holly will let us know.”

  “Did they show a replay of the accident?”

  “A couple times right after it happened. Nothing tells me what the hell happened to that other car. But Ian was an innocent bystander taken along for the ride. Nothing wrong with our car then. Plenty wrong now.”

  “And it’s that car’s fault.” I pointed to the monitor showing the Benchmark Racing team working on the 77 Porsche. Near us, I saw two members of the 30-car crew make furious gestures at the screen.

  “It may be,” Jack said, “but you need to calm down and keep your mouth shut. No one goes vigilante on them. We’ll let Race Control respond.”

  “Did they get a penalty?”

  “The incident is under review. We don’t know yet if it was driver error or mechanical failure.” The former would be assessed a penalty by Race Control, but the latter wouldn’t.

  “I hope it’s mechanical, because that kind of driver mistake is so unacceptable it’s criminal.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Who was the driver, anyway?” I asked.

  “Some rich kid. Ricky Amick, I think. He may have made it back here in that car, but they sent him off to the medical center also. He didn’t look steady.”

  I shrugged. I’d give the driver a wide berth if he got back out on track.

  “Can you keep your cool, or do we need to keep you away from video cameras and microphones?” Jack’s tone was dry, but I heard the force behind the question. He was reminding me that part of my job was to represent the team in a classy, appropriate way—something I’d slipped up on, memorably, in the past.

  I stiffened. “I’ll be appropriate in public.”

  Jack pointed a finger at his radio headset. After listening a minute, he leaned over to glance at the 30 car’s chief, who nodded at Jack and gave instructions to the car’s crew. Within seconds, the 30 car team departed at a run, presumably for the garage. Chris—still helmeted—and Thomas followed them more slowly.

  Jack confirmed it. “They’ve got Ian out, over to the infield care center, and they’re loading the car up to bring it back to the garage. Repairs are going to be extensive.”

  “But—”

  Jack shook his head. “Still no word on his condition.”

  We were silent as the field passed on the front straight, still behind the safety car, still full-course caution. The live camera feed showed the Bus Stop area again, starting with a shot of our Corvette leaving on a flatbed, a huge blue tarp covering it, front to rear. Then the camera swung back to focus on track workers and forklifts repairing the damaged track wall.

  The combination of the wall damage and the blue tarp on the car made my stomach jump around more.

  Bruce leaned over and spoke in Jack’s ear. They turned to me.

  “We need a straight answer, Kate,” Jack began. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a little cold, but I’m fine.”

  Bruce shook his head, and Jack spoke again. “Emotionally. First Stuart, then seeing this accident—maybe it’s too much. You were upset in the car and shaky after…are you going to be all right when you get back in the car?”

  The fog in my head cleared. I understood what they were asking. Finally understood what everyone’s concern would be. Was I emotionally stable enough to drive?

  I could almost hear Gramps in my head: Figure out if you’re all right, and let people know. Don’t malinger, because it doesn’t help anyone.

  I definitely heard Zeke’s voice: Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Kate. Suck it up and pull it together.

  I sat up straighter and looked each man in the eye. “I have a thing about fire—it’s the only thing that freaks me out. But it happened, Ian put out the flames, it’s fine. I’m good. That’s why I was rattled in the car.” I paused, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine in the car again. I’m fine now. My concern over Stuart has nothing to do with my ability to race. I’m upset about the 30 car being damaged—and Ian possibly being hurt by an idiot driver—but I’ll be extra careful. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”

  Jack and Bruce shared a glance.

  I looked from one to the other. “Are you asking this of everyone? Or only me, the female? You don’t need to coddle me.”

  Jack held up a hand. “Easy, tiger. I asked Miles and the others if they had any concerns. You’re the only one who saw the accident close-up. And you’re the one with a significant other in the hospital.” He quirked a corner of his mouth up. “Trust me, if anything, I think you and Colby are tougher than most men.”

  I tried for a smile. “Thanks.”

  Jack flicked his eyes to the ceiling and pointed to his headset again. Message coming in. He turned to me. “Car’s pulling up. I’m heading over. You may as well ride with me, so you can get to the motorhome and clean up.”

  I followed him out of the pits to the golf cart parked outside the nearest pit lane entrance. I realized the rain had finally stopped as Jack whisked us back through the paddock and around the garage building to the back row containing our three spaces. The 30 car was on the flatbed in front of its space, but hadn’t yet been unloaded. Jack parked the cart and walked toward the four Series officials gathered around the back of the rig.

  I followed more slowly, not sure if I wanted to hear the outcome of the discussion or excuse myself to the motorhome where I could get clean and dry.

  Another golf cart pulled up with a flash of headlights, Tug at the wheel with Holly in the passenger seat. She looked shattered. My heart leapt into my throat, and I couldn’t hear the roar of cars on track over the hammering of my pulse in my ears.

  Holly and Tug approached Jack, and I followed. Holly reached out and clutched my hand as if I were the only thing saving her from drowning. She looked from Jack to me and took a deep breath. Then finally spoke.

  “Ian’s dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  7:45 P.M. | 18:25 HOURS REMAINING

  I couldn’t process the words. Couldn’t form a response. Stood there looking from Holly to Tug to Jack, waiting for what she’d communicated to make sense. To seem reasonable. For anything in the world to seem fair.

  Jack drew a sharp breath and moved away from everyone into the center of the paddock lane. He stood, hands on his hips, face to the sky.

  Tug stepped aside to speak quietly to the senior Series official standing at the rear of the flatbed.

  I realized I was clenching Holly’s hand, and I forced myself to let go. “Holly.” It came out in a whisper. “What happened? Wasn’t he conscious?”

  “They’re not completely sure yet what—why…he was awake when they got to the car—spoke to the first responder. But he fell unconscious pretty quickly after that. They were working on him, trying to figure out where he was injured, but h
e…died. Minutes ago. They couldn’t save him.” Her eyes swam with tears.

  I hugged her and let my own tears fall.

  She sobbed the words. “It’s not right. I can’t believe it.”

  “Kate? What’s the news?” Mike stood next to us, looking like he already knew the answer.

  I shook my head as more tears welled.

  Holly spoke through her tears. “Ian died, Mike.”

  Mike flinched, as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. He put an arm around each of us and leaned his head on mine.

  My thoughts were stuck in a repeat loop of snapshots of Ian in the days leading up to the race and my final vision of his helmet silhouetted in the car against a backdrop of flames.

  A couple minutes later, Jack finished his solitary communion and walked back to us. In the light from the garage, I could see his eyes were red and damp. “Holly, how’s Greg handling this? I can’t imagine what losing a son might do to someone.”

  She pulled away from us and exhaled, shaking her head. “Not well. He’s angry at everyone, from the track staff right on up to God.”

  Mike wiped his eyes and looked at Jack. “Do we stop or keep racing, Boss?”

  I hadn’t considered what this meant to the rest of the team.

  “Do you want to go on?” Jack asked us.

  “Yes,” my answer was out of my mouth before my brain even engaged. Mike agreed.

  Holly pressed a tissue to her eyes. “Greg said he wanted Sandham Swift to keep racing, as a tribute.” She smiled, the smallest upturn in the corners of her mouth, “He expressed with some force to ‘not let those fuckers win.’”

  Jack looked grim. “I’m going to assume that means the Benchmark team—and specifically the 77 car.”

  I waited for a lesson on turning the other cheek, Jack’s typical response to any on-track conflict. But he surprised me.

  “Let’s be clear.” He leveled sharp looks at me and Mike. “There will be no retaliation. But beating that team fair and square on the track is a goal I can get behind. Something I want more than any winner’s watch. You both with me?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s kick some butt on track,” Mike said. “For Ian.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  Jack rubbed his hands together. “Mike, take time to deal with this and get to the pits when you’re ready—Miles can stay in for a triple if we need it. Kate, get cleaned up and dry so you don’t get sick. Both of you, grieve as you need to. But when you come back to the pits, be focused and ready to do this. I want a hundred and twenty percent effort.”

  He straightened his shoulders and looked past us to the car. “Now I’m going to handle everything.”

  After a short exchange with Tug and other Series officials, Jack moved to speak to the Sandham Swift crew members stationed in the garage. Holly, Mike, and I stood close together, touching, needing the physical connection.

  Tug looked strange as he approached us, his natural exuberance subdued. “I’m so sorry for you all. I’m not sure what else to say. If there’s anything the Series can do, please call on me personally.”

  Mike lifted his chin. “Are they going to bench the 77 car driver? Arrest him for homicide?”

  “Easy now.” Tug held up his hands. “I can confirm they assessed a penalty on the 77 car for avoidable contact.”

  We waited for more.

  Tug’s eyes widened. “Surely you don’t think this was anything but a tragic accident? The team reports the throttle on the 77 car stuck. The driver tried to brake, but couldn’t override the wide-open throttle. At that point, he was a passenger. The team asked us to pass along their condolences to Sandham Swift and Ian’s family.”

  “A young man with a brilliant future ahead of him loses his life,” Mike’s voice cracked, and he paused. “And the guy who caused it says, ‘Gee, sorry’ and gets a—what? A stop-plus-seventy-five?” Mike referred to the usual penalty for avoidable contact: a stop in the penalty box plus being held for seventy-five seconds, which totaled the equivalent of a single lap.

  “I understand your frustration,” Tug responded.

  Holly snorted.

  Tug raised an eyebrow at her. “It hurts us all to lose a member of our community, especially in the middle of this iconic race.”

  He’d feel less terrible about it if Ian’s death happened during practice?

  “But this is racing,” Tug concluded. “As safe as we try to make it, it can be a very dangerous sport. And dreadful, horrible accidents sometimes happen.”

  Mike frowned. Holly crossed her arms over her chest.

  Tug hurried on. “As I said, the 77 car has been assessed a penalty. They are back running on-track, but they’re some thirty laps down. I can also tell you the driver involved was sent to the infield care center and diagnosed with a concussion. He will no longer be participating in the race—though, to be clear, it’s for medical reasons, not through Series action.”

  I shook my head. “At least I won’t have to worry he’ll run me off the road also.”

  Tug looked as if he smelled something bad. “I understand you’re upset. But may I suggest—or perhaps, request—you keep those comments to yourself and don’t share them with the media?”

  My sad turned to mad pretty fast. Tug must have seen the change on my face, because he held up both hands again and spoke quickly. “You have every right to say whatever you want. I’m asking you as a favor—and I expect it’s what Stuart might ask of you, were he standing here.”

  I closed my eyes. Low blow, Tug. Are you fighting to stay alive, Stuart? We all need you back here, because you’d handle things better than this over-promoted peacock.

  Mike’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I’m sure there will be a team statement. We will let that—and our on-track performance—speak for us. I’m sure you realize we’re speaking from the emotion of the moment—and we trust you won’t repeat anything indiscreet. Personally, I don’t see a need to badmouth that car or driver. His actions speak louder than any words we could say.”

  Tug looked self-satisfied. “Very wise. Of course, I won’t repeat anything you’ve said. Again, please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” He nearly bowed as he took his leave.

  “That guy.” Mike shook his head.

  I felt shaky and anxious from grief, cold, and lack of food, as well as a vague sense I’d missed something.

  Holly must have felt me shudder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Mike gave us one last squeeze. “I’ll pull myself together and get to the pits to relieve Miles. You hang in there and get ready to kick some serious ass.”

  “Have a good stint,” I told him. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  As we moved away, the flatbed carrying the 30 car rumbled to life and moved off down the lane, headed for a secure impound location. Holly and I stopped to watch.

  The inside of that car might have been the last thing Ian saw. I bit the inside of my cheek in a futile attempt to stop my eyes from welling up.

  “I’m sure the technical inspectors will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.” Holly drew in a ragged breath. “I just—my God. I can’t imagine Ian not here.”

  “Holly, if you need to be with Greg, go ahead. I can take care of myself.”

  She shook her head. “He’s got his daughter and friends there. I can’t do anything now. Trying to get back to sort-of normal is a better idea.”

  We both caught sight of a reporter and cameraman rounding the corner of the paddock lane, headed for Jack and the Sandham Swift garage area. We glanced at each other and made for the garage exit on the double.

  I wondered if we’d ever feel “normal” again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  8:05 P.M. | 18:05 HOURS REMAINING

  Holly and I crossed the speedway road behind th
e garages, waved our credentials at a lone security guard watching the entrance, and entered the dark and deserted team motorhome lot. Our goal was a quintet of rigs in the back, right corner.

  Typically for a twenty-four hour race, Sandham Swift would have one motorhome per car, and the four drivers who shared a car would also share the rig for rest periods, showers, and food. But a couple drivers had come to this race with their own equipment. Thomas Kendall had the motorhome he traveled in to rock concerts, and he’d shared with Ian. Miles also had his own coach and shared it with Mike to give Colby and me some privacy. In turn, we’d invited amateur driver Chris Syfert to join us in the “ladies’ RV.”

  The only person in our motorhome when we arrived was Aunt Tee—officially Tina Nichols, but an honorary aunt to everyone in the paddock. Since Aunt Tee had gone straight from the pits to the motorhome, Holly had to break the news about Ian. I headed for the shower, as desperate to get out of my wet clothes as I was to have some time alone. A few minutes later, I emerged dry, warmer, and dressed in a clean firesuit. I’d shed more tears in the shower—for both Ian and Stuart—and though I still felt off-kilter, I was better.

  Aunt Tee gave me a big hug before she dished up the double-portion of food Holly had collected for me from Linda’s Catering Services. Usually, Aunt Tee cooked or provided whatever meal we needed for a race. But with three times the number of drivers and crew to feed for a full twenty-four hours, we’d signed up with one of the two catering services that fed teams and staff out of big, mess hall-like tents. Holly had collected the food while I showered.

  “Holly’s also getting Gina for you,” Aunt Tee told me. She pointed to the frozen hunks of chocolate-chip cookie dough she was arranging on a baking tray. “I thought we all needed a little comfort.”

  I agreed with her and dug back into my heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Holly returned with Gina as I was wiping my plate clean with a roll and finishing my fourth bottle of water.