Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  Gina was a volunteer for the Sandham Swift team, an amateur racer who liked attending races, but wanted to feel useful while she was doing it. We welcomed her into the team because she was smart and friendly, but also because she was a chiropractor. She happily gave drivers and crew members mild adjustments and a bit of massage or physiotherapy anytime we needed it. I liked a tune-up after every stint.

  Gina set up her portable table in the middle of the main area. While she worked on me, Aunt Tee changed cookie trays and Holly worked her phone.

  After the shower, meal, and Gina’s tune-up, I finally felt able to cope. Gina waved off my thanks and left with a hug. Aunt Tee departed with her, taking half the baked cookies and leaving Holly in charge of taking the last tray out of the oven.

  I sat down next to Holly on the couch and eyed her phone. “What’s the news?”

  She frowned. “You ready to deal with this?” At my nod, she continued. “Stuart’s still hanging in there, but they’ve only gotten through some of the surgery. I’m not sure if you want details.”

  I waved her on and bit into the cookie Aunt Tee had left me.

  “The biggest issue was a skull fracture and blood causing pressure on his brain, so they had to make a hole to get the blood out—but they’ve done that successfully.”

  “That means drilling a hole into his skull?”

  At her confirmation, I put my half-eaten cookie down and took a deep breath. “That’s only the first part?”

  “Next they’re going after internal bleeding in his abdomen. After that, they’ll address his broken bones.”

  I stared at the floor, stunned by how tragic this day had been for so many close to me.

  “He’s fighting, sugar.” Holly put a hand on mine. “I think he’s going to make it.”

  I sighed. “The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “It sure doesn’t.”

  I picked up my cookie again. “All right, he’ll make it. Any other news from Sandham Swift? About Ian’s accident? How Greg is doing?”

  She shook her head. “But you’ve gotten a few texts and emails.”

  “I forgot about the anonymous reporter.”

  “He hasn’t responded yet.”

  I picked up my cell phone and read my recent messages. Zeke, up in the SGTV broadcast booth, was worried about me and wanted to meet once he went off the air around midnight. I typed a quick text response telling him I was surviving and that he could find me in the pits before my early-morning stint.

  My grandfather’s email was short and to the point: Call us.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Katie, my dear. Are you all right?” I’d rarely heard him so subdued.

  “You heard?”

  He sighed down the line. “Where to start? A friend called to tell me about Stuart. We’re upset for you—for him, of course. We like him.”

  I blinked back tears at the memory of Stuart’s visit to Albuquerque four weeks ago over New Year’s. He’d been there two days, staying at a nearby hotel—spending part of one day in business meetings I was sure didn’t need to be face-to-face. But he’d come out to meet my grandparents and see where I grew up and still lived. It had been an important step in our relationship.

  I sniffed. “It sucks, Gramps. I’m coping, and he’s hanging in there through the first surgeries—we got that update recently. It helped to get in the car—at first, anyway. You also heard about Ian?”

  “I had heard, yes, and they recently announced it on the television coverage.” Gramps had a network of racing cronies from his decades in the industry as a wiring harness supplier. He often got news at home before I heard it at the track. “I knew that accident was bad from the start. And there you were, passing right by.”

  His words set off a replay of the accident in my mind and a roiling in my gut.

  Gramps kept talking. “Poor Ian, and his poor father and sister. I feel so badly for them and your whole team. But listen to me, Katie, you need to take care of yourself. Don’t neglect yourself because you’re upset—don’t allow yourself to get careless. Get some rest and good meals, and don’t ignore your body’s needs.”

  I promised him I’d stay focused, which calmed him down, until I told him about the exchange with the anonymous reporter.

  “Do the police think Stuart was hit deliberately?” He sounded agitated again. “Or is that only the nameless reporter’s opinion?”

  “I don’t—”

  “This reporter has no proof of his accusations, but he wants you to spy on people who might be dangerous? Katie, do not put yourself in danger. Do you hear me?”

  I waited a moment, to be sure he’d stopped. “I hear you, Gramps. I promise to be careful. Holly and I are only keeping our eyes open. I’m also talking to the police. I’m not hiding anything from them.”

  “Please put Holly on the line for a moment.”

  Surprised, I gestured to Holly and handed her the phone.

  “Yes,” she said. Then, “I agree. Don’t worry, I will.” She smiled. “Yes, sir, that’s a promise.” She returned the phone, the smile still on her face. “I’m to keep you in line.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Feel better, Gramps?”

  “Not much, but as you’re an adult, I’ll have to trust you.”

  I started to protest, but he cut me off. “I have a very bad feeling in my bones about you out there. Please, Katie, for me, stay focused on the race and be careful.”

  He’d never sounded that concerned for me before—not in my entire career as a racecar driver. “I swear, Gramps. I’ll be extra cautious.”

  Short of crawling down the phone line, there was nothing else he could do. I told him I loved him and would call him in the morning after I woke up.

  I looked at Holly as I disconnected. “I’ve never heard him so worried.”

  “Maybe he’s got reason. We don’t know what the hell’s going on. We have to be careful not to stick our necks in a bear trap.”

  “That’s a good goal.”

  Holly stood up. “Are you ready to go deal with the rest of the world again?”

  I considered. Imagined being asked for status on Stuart. Pictured receiving condolences for Ian. I was steadier on the first topic than the second. But I knew, ready or not, it was time.

  “One question first.” I hesitated. “Ian—the cause. I mean…did the fire have anything to do with it?”

  I saw concern and maybe pity on her face. I rushed to explain. “It’s not about the fire—or not totally. I have two images I can’t stop seeing. One is his car full of flames. The other is seeing the 77 dive-bombing him.” I frowned. “I’m not sure why I’m holding onto only those images.”

  Holly blinked back tears. “He wasn’t burned. What I was told—” she paused to swallow. “The issue was the impact.”

  “Thanks.” I hoped the information would dispel some of my uneasiness. Then again, I knew witnessing the fatal accident of a teammate would always stay with me.

  With a sigh, I checked the race time. “It’s been six hours and change since the start of the race. Still more than seventeen hours of racing to go.”

  “All I can say is, they’d better not be as eventful as the first ones.” Holly wiped her eyes. “I don’t think we can take much more of this.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  8:50 P.M. | 17:20 HOURS REMAINING

  We’d heard the constant din of circulating cars from the motorhome—there was no escaping the sound until you were three blocks away from the Speedway. But back in the paddock, we were surrounded by the bustle and the drama of racing, from the noise of a car putt-putting to its garage for a lengthy fix, to the sight of a crew member running to the pits with a forgotten part, the light strapped to his forehead bobbing with every step. I felt more connected to the race—and my world—by being closer to the action.
/>   The loss of Ian and the danger to Stuart were twin weights dragging me down. But surrounded by other teams and the other members of my own team, I remembered what made racing fun. My spirits lightened a fraction.

  Inside the team lounge, Tom Albright sat in a chair typing furiously on a laptop computer. He looked up at our entrance. “Good, Kate and Holly. Let me update you.”

  I sat in the empty chair next to him, and Holly perched on its wide arm. “You dealing with the media?” I asked.

  “Sending out a standard release and responding to a few select outlets.” He eyed us. “You two okay?”

  Holly and I both nodded. I wondered how soon we’d get tired of that question.

  “Good,” he went on. “We’ve issued a team statement asking the media to respect our privacy and not intrude on our drivers or crew. That’s especially you, Kate. I assume that’s fine?”

  “I have no desire to speak to the media.”

  “SGTV or the track announcers may still interview you in the pits, but they’ll restrict questions to the car and race.”

  “Sure.” I got up and crossed to the coffeepot to pour myself a small cup. I raised my eyebrows at Holly, and at her nod, poured another. My plan had been to take a short nap after my first stint, since I’d be awake and driving until the wee hours of the morning. But a nap wasn’t in the cards now. Caffeine would get me through.

  Holly addressed Tom as I added cream to my cup. “Did you hear anything from the crew about damage to the car?”

  He clicked something on his computer. “The fire in the 30 car was caused by a fluke, the fuel line coming loose. A one in a thousand thing.” He looked at me. “The mechanics guarantee it’s nothing to worry about. Plus they’ll double-check the 28 and the 29 cars.”

  “Thanks.” I handed Holly her coffee and sat back down.

  “Also, one of our guys went to talk to the Benchmark Racing crew,” Tom reported. “They said something broke in the throttle system—it stuck wide open and braking didn’t do any good.”

  Holly and I absorbed that news in silence. Tom went back to rapid typing. I didn’t know if the explanation of mechanical failure seemed wrong, or if I simply wouldn’t ever find an explanation acceptable given the result.

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. Another message from “Stuart,” aka, the mystery reporter. I raised my eyebrows at Holly.

  “Excuse us, Tom,” Holly said. “We’ve got to discuss something.”

  He flapped a hand in the air without taking his eyes from his screen. We moved to the other side of the small room to sit at the meeting table.

  I set the phone down between us so we could both read the messages, as a barrage of loud booms sounded, making us both jump. We looked up at the TV feed to see the fireworks being set off along Lake Lloyd in the Daytona Speedway infield.

  Holly checked the time. “Nine o’clock, on the nose.”

  We turned back to the text message: My name is Foster Calhoun. Freelance investigative journalist, mostly big stories for major print papers, but also online media outlets now. Look me up. I’m legit.

  Holly typed his name into an Internet browser on her phone.

  I asked my first question. How did you know to contact me?

  Stuart raved about you, came the response.

  That surprised me, and I elbowed Holly to look.

  “When and how’d he come to be speaking with Stuart?” she asked. I typed those questions.

  He’d mentioned you a couple times, especially how clever you were. Then a second response: We were college roommates. Hadn’t talked in a bunch of years, until recently.

  “Stuart reconnecting with an old friend has gone about as well for him as it went for me to reconnect with my old friends last year,” I commented to Holly.

  “Which is to say, not so well,” she returned.

  “Right.” I focused again and typed, Why do you think it wasn’t an accident?

  Holly held her phone out, displaying a page about Foster Calhoun, multiple Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and graduate of the same university Stuart attended. “I guess he’s for real,” I muttered.

  The text response came back. I don’t think, I KNOW it wasn’t an accident. Someone saw Stuart meeting with me last night. Tried to run my car off the road. Then tried to take Stuart out today. Someone from the Arena team.

  I texted back: Did you tell the cops about last night? How do you know it was someone from Arena?

  No cops. Looked like the driver wore a purple shirt. Car had a race parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

  I gasped and typed. What kind of car? Why haven’t you told the police yet?

  White Chevy rental, no back plate. Writing story. Now, what can you tell me?

  NO, I typed back. The cops need to know so they can catch who did this to him!

  He replied: Six other witnesses had cell phones out. Cops have info. I owe it to everyone, especially Stuart now, to publish this story and prove who the villains are in the paddock. Talk to the cops if you want. I’m finishing the story first. Do you have any info for me?

  I shook my head, trying to clear it, then typed again. What do you mean, you were meeting with Stuart?

  We had a beer last night at a bar, then we were supposed to meet for coffee across from the track this morning. He was hit walking there. Can you tell me who you’ve seen in Arena’s race paddock? Who their sponsors are?

  I turned to Holly. “That’s a weird set of ethics. He knows this and hasn’t told the police.”

  “You want to tell them?” she asked.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “I’ll get them over here.” She tapped on her phone.

  I typed a message telling Calhoun the sponsors I knew of on the Arena Motorsports cars and names of any individuals I knew associated with them. It was a short list. I threw in names of supplier representatives also, and told him we’d look around, plus I’d ask other trusted contacts.

  That’s it? he replied.

  Take it or leave it, I returned, furious. I haven’t had much time since being in the car for two stints and watching a teammate be killed on track.

  I sat there, shaking, until he responded. Shit, sorry. Didn’t know. Send me whatever you can, asap. I’m writing all night. Turning off now.

  I wished I could throw my phone across the room without doing damage.

  Holly leaned over and read the last couple exchanges. “What a jerk. Latham’s right around the corner. I told him to come in here.”

  I tried to calm down by watching the race feed. Miles was still in the car, trading second, third, and fourth positions in class back and forth between our car, one of the pro-driven Arena Motorsports Porsches, and the Ferrari I’d trailed earlier.

  Latham entered the lounge and joined us at the table. “I thought I told you not to engage, Ms. Reilly?”

  “What if he really knows Stuart and really saw what happened?” I paused and finally let go of something that had gnawed at me for a while. “If this wasn’t a random attack, if it was someone related to the race, how are you going to investigate once the race is over?”

  Latham crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me, stony-faced.

  I pressed on. “How are you going to question people when we all pack up and leave? You’re on a countdown clock like the race is. You need all the help you can get to figure this out now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  9:20 P.M. | 16:50 HOURS REMAINING

  “I won’t deny it’d be easier to get this wrapped up before everyone involved with the race leaves town,” Detective Latham conceded. “But that doesn’t mean putting you in danger. One person in critical condition is enough.”

  He held out a hand, and I gave him my cell phone, the text messages on screen.

  “Foster Calhoun,” read Latham. “I�
�ve heard that name before.”

  Holly had the information ready. “He’s won two Pulitzers in the last decade, for stories on the proliferation of identity theft in the United States and how the Mob’s money laundering operations touch all levels of society.”

  Latham scrolled up and down a couple times, reading the messages more than once. “You don’t know who it really is on the other end. He could be lying to you about someone going after him. About all of it.”

  “Why would he say it’s okay to talk to you if he was lying?” I took the phone back.

  He frowned. “I’m going to need to hold on to that.”

  I was shaking my head before Detective Latham finished the sentence. “Not a chance. Mine.” I slipped it into the pocket of my firesuit, in case he had grabby intentions.

  Holly spoke up from across the table. “You need her to keep talking to him, in case he’s for real.”

  His frown turned into a scowl. “You’ve got to keep me informed of every interaction you have with him. Try to get him to talk to us directly.”

  “We’re here now, aren’t we?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’ve got Stuart’s phone number, can’t you track the cell phone or something? Triangulate the coordinates?”

  Latham rolled his eyes. “We’re trying to get help with that, but this isn’t a TV show. It’s not that straightforward.”

  “Sorry.” I briefly felt foolish instead of angry.

  “We get it a lot.”

  I lowered my voice, making sure no one else could hear me. “Will you investigate Arena Motorsports? Question everyone on the team who has a parking pass?”

  He didn’t react.

  “You already are,” I concluded. “Did someone else tell you about the parking tag? Did anyone else get a look at the driver? The reporter says it was a white Chevrolet rental car with no back plate—are you searching for the car?”

  “I’ll only tell you this much.” Latham looked exasperated. “The report of the driver in question wearing a purple shirt is new—and conflicts with other reports. We’d heard about a parking pass—which only limits the suspects to any race participant with infield parking. Yes, we’re searching for the car. We will investigate all allegations, but I’m not prepared to share any other information we may or may not have about the vehicle or driver.”