More about the missing witness. Not sure if testimony would have been about illegal businesses, fraud, money laundering, association with the Mob, or all of the above. Word is the kid was gotten rid of because he’d have talked about stuff Arena wants kept quiet.
I put my helmeted head close to hers. “The Mob?”
She took the phone back and shrugged. “I’ll pass everything to the reporter. And if the reporter writes back, I’ll let the cops know. You go out there and take a break from this.”
She pointed to the pit wall where the crew was gathered. The tire changers started to step up onto the wall, to be ready to leap into the hot side of pit lane when the car appeared. I had a couple laps to be ready.
I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply three times, concentrating on the car, imagining every shift and turn, every braking point and apex around the track. Thought through the driver change procedure. Refused to entertain a single thought about comatose boyfriends, crooked teams, pushy reporters, or terrible family members. None of them. Putting away all of that emotion, confusion, and…yes, I admitted it, fear.
The freaking Mob?
I pounded my fists on the sides of my helmet. None of those thoughts.
Up on the wall, waiting. Car stops, jump down, wait by the back. When Colby’s out, settle my seat insert, climb in after it…I got up on the wall next to Bubs and repeated the process silently over and over until Colby pulled up with a whoosh of carbon fiber brake dust.
Then I followed my own instructions. Bubs holding the door open. Right leg over the side frame, left leg follows. Grab the frame rail over the door and lower myself into the seat, twist to face front. Find right shoulder and lap belts, fasten them into center mechanism. Bubs fastens the other belts, then plugs in my radio cable and air conditioning helmet hose and fastens the window net. Meanwhile, I tilt the steering column down into place.
Bubs shuts the door with a thump. The tire changers move to their second tire—only seconds left. Watching the air-hose guy in the mirror. Reach up to make sure my shoulder belts rest on top of the shoulder pieces of my HANS. Tighten the belts. Air hose guy in motion. My hand moving to the ignition button.
Car bouncing down onto its tires. Fuel hose disengaged. Push the button. Car firing as I hear “Go, go, go!”
Wheel right, engaging clutch, throttle on. Tires chirping as I clear the pit box. Slot in behind a Porsche and in front of a BMW. Check the pit lane speed limiter is engaged. Fumbling for the drink tube as I head down the pits.
“Radio check,” says Bruce in my ear.
Push the radio button. “Copy.”
Breathing. Tightening belts as I navigate the twisty pit lane exit. Tightening wrist straps on my gloves. Testing the drink button gets me water. Breathing still. Onto the track. I get quickly through the inner loop and catch up with the field in a ragged, single-file line on the back straight.
I approached the Bus Stop on the caution lap and felt a wave of unease and grief for Ian.
How could that happen? Why did it happen? What if it happened to me?
My thoughts terrified me more than seeing Ian killed in front of me. Doubt couldn’t be in the car with me—wouldn’t be. Wasn’t.
I talked myself through the laps as we circulated. I listened to the music and rhythm of the car. I centered myself with smooth, even breathing.
By the time the green flag flew five laps later, I was settled, focused, and happy. I felt at home.
Chapter Thirty-six
1:55 A.M. | 12:15 HOURS REMAINING
I took the green flag in the middle of the GT pack, which trailed the prototypes. I was hyper-focused on everyone around me. Looking well ahead on the track and trying to divine trouble before it happened. By this point, almost halfway through the race, no one was flush with the adrenaline we’d felt at the race start, nor anxious or panicked about pulling off a miracle by race end. We all behaved and got through Turn 1 cleanly.
In years past, cars and teams would race the first twenty-one or so hours at something less than ten-tenths, only going all out for the last hours on Sunday. Mostly that was to preserve the cars. Modern technological improvements, however, meant our equipment could withstand the full twenty-four hours of pounding. We now raced all twenty-four hours as they used to race the last three—at full tilt. Ten-tenths. Qualifying speeds.
Each team still followed their own strategy, pit stop sequence, and driver rotation, rather than responding to what other teams were doing. The outright heroics we saved for late Sunday. But we all pushed as hard as possible every minute of the race.
None of us on track—at least during that restart—felt the need to play the hero at two in the morning. We all simply wanted to put in time and solid laps. To not do anything stupid or damage our cars irreparably. My job was to get the Corvette through the wee hours of the morning and hand it over to Miles to drive through the dawn. No heroics, no emotion. Quick, precise laps.
I settled into a rhythm quickly, finding my groove on the artificially brightened track and negotiating the constant stream of faster and slower cars around me. I couldn’t claim the track was as bright as day, but every nook and cranny of pavement was floodlit. Driving in the nighttime here at Daytona meant adjusting to the different depth perception and flatter shadows cast by the banks of lights, but at least I could see who and what I was dealing with around me. Old-timers—I included Zeke in that number, to his annoyance—liked to reminisce about the days when the lights didn’t illuminate the infield. When drivers had to move from the lighted banking to the darkness of the infield road course and back again, every lap. Plus deal with the flare of headlights from overtaking cars in your mirrors. That sounded tough on the eyes.
Even with the track lighting, we all ran with headlights: yellow for the GT classes of sportscars and white for the prototype classes. The headlights helped with the forward illumination, but we also relied on them to show us the edges of the track. By splaying the lights at a forty-five degree angle, we lit up braking markers, turn in points, and anything else we might miss off to the sides of our field of view. Like the marbles from deteriorated tires offline driver’s right in Turn 1. Like the long path of dirt offline driver’s left throughout the Bus Stop. There were plenty of hazards for me to avoid.
After three laps at speed, Bruce radioed. “How’s the car feeling, Kate?”
I pushed the transmit button. “Good and fast.”
“I’ll check in with fifteen to go before the end of the fuel stint. Otherwise, let me know when you want information.”
“Sounds good.”
I got comfortable between a Porsche in front of me and a BMW behind, about four car lengths’ gap in both directions. We were well-matched on pace, though we were all on different laps and not competing for position. We remained in formation, bobbing and weaving through traffic, one after another. After a while, I verified the other drivers with Bruce and asked him or my spotter—Millie was on the radio—to pass the word I was happy to stay tucked between them for a while.
We three were all pros, and we knew each other well. Heinrich Engel, a German driver who used to drive prototypes in the American Le Mans Series, was in the BMW behind me, having been picked up by the manufacturer’s factory team in the off-season. He was a precise, clean racer who I’d never gone head-to-head with—we’d driven in different classes in the ALMS—but who I respected. He wouldn’t pull anything dumb.
In front of me was Dave Hacker, a small, tow-headed guy from Indiana who used to race a Panoz in the same class as my Corvette. I’d been wheel-to-wheel with him plenty in the last two years. I trusted him completely.
I followed the same line as Dave through the tri-oval and under the start/finish stand, staying low as we approached Turn 1. Braking from max speed of 175 miles per hour, downshifting from sixth gear to second. A big, lighted signboard was parked in the middle of the unused portion of bank
ed track with a giant arrow rolling from right to left—our reminder to turn into the infield, not continue straight on the oval track. Road racers like myself didn’t need the reminder, but maybe the visiting NASCAR and IndyCar drivers did. Whatever the reason, the flashing lights attracted attention at night, and I obediently turned left to Turn 1. The weight of the car shifted through the transition from banking to flat track, loading each of the four tires in turn, and I was careful not to lock up any of the wheels under braking. A flat spot could be disastrous.
Second gear. Moving to the left side of the track at the point where the track passed alongside pit lane. Braking more, holding the wheel straight for a moment, then turning in, touching the apex at the tire wall. Feeding the power back on. Upshift to third. Throttle flat on the floor through the narrow Turn 2, staying as close to the pit exit wall as possible, but trying not to get into the dirt collecting there. Fourth gear.
Looking at Turn 3, braking early. It was more important to be quick out of Turn 3 than in, and especially with its low-grip entry, the horseshoe-shaped Turn 3 wasn’t a corner to overshoot the braking on. Down to first gear, late apex. Unroll the wheel all the way to the left side of the track on exit, throttle on, upshift to second. I followed Dave back to the right side of the track, seeing Heinrich do the same behind me. Full throttle. Fourth. Turning left through the Kink, brush the second half of the left curbing. Fifth gear.
I felt the compression as I went over the dip in the middle of the turn, and the front end of the car got light—like it would understeer and send me off track to the right. That dip caught out plenty of rookie drivers who tried to avoid the unsettling compression, but were thrown off the track to driver’s right because of the way the track tilted. I was reassured, not worried. Sure enough, a moment later, the Corvette settled, and I powered forward to Turn 5.
Hard on the brakes, staying right on the approach. Downshifting. Long right-hander, stay tight in the turn, late apex. Another turn to be slow in and quick out of, wanting to get the tires planted and the power down as soon as possible on exit. I followed Dave’s lead and touched the left-side curbs on exit, riding the bumps, then nailing the throttle for the short chute down to Turn 6.
More hard braking into 6, the goal to get turned and back to the throttle as fast as possible. I eased the throttle back on as I unwound the wheel, staying low on the banking—and almost immediately, the faster prototype I’d noticed looming up behind our trio zoomed past us on the high line. Upshift twice, building speed to 175 mph. Holding the steering wheel almost straight, letting the banking turn the car. Watching for the braking markers for the Bus Stop. Watching. Pouncing on the brakes.
Downshift three times under braking. Left, right turns, then ease into the throttle in the middle of the Bus Stop. Hope the car sticks on exit. Right, left, back onto the banking. Nail the throttle to the floor. Flying through NASCAR 3 and absorbing the dip through NASCAR 4. Through the tri-oval and back down into Turn 1.
Thirty-five minutes into the stint, I lost my leader, but that was the only event of note, other than dealing with nonstop prototypes passing me or slower GT cars to go around. It wasn’t long before Bruce started counting down the laps until I’d make a green-flag pit stop.
“Five laps,” he warned me.
Then “Three laps.”
“Pit next time by.”
Finally, “Pit now, Kate. Pit now.”
I’d stayed low on the banking coming out of the Bus Stop, still hard on the throttle in top gear, but diving onto the apron out of NASCAR 4 and braking hard for the pit lane commit line. Downshifting quickly to first gear, pushing the pit lane speed limiter.
Bruce guided me into our pit space, reiterating instructions for me and the team. “Full fuel, clean the windscreen. Replace Kate’s water bottle. No tires. Repeat, no tire change. Three, two, one, box now, Kate. Box now.”
My heart rate spiked as I pulled to a stop, the cars on-track speeding away from us. My crew scurried into action.
Chapter Thirty-seven
2:55 A.M. | 11:15 HOURS REMAINING
Our pit stop went smoothly. I merged back onto the track with improved visibility, a full load of fuel, and no more BMW behind me, since Heinrich had pitted three laps before I did. I roared out of pit lane and dove into the middle of a flock of Porsches. I was careful, but took the opening I saw—though I suspected the less-experienced driver behind me didn’t realize he’d left an opening, from the way he acted aggressive and angry after I moved in front of him.
“You hesitate, I move in. Your tough luck,” I muttered under my helmet.
The other car wasn’t impeded. We didn’t bump. His options were push the issue and go two-wide with me through Turn 2—a losing proposition for both of us—or check up a fraction of a second on the throttle when I slid into line. He’d chosen the latter course, but the way he snugged up on the Corvette’s bumper told me he had issues with me.
Deal with it, that’s racing.
Bruce radioed me. “That’s an Arena Motorsports car. FYI.”
My heart sank. “Tell me it’s not the 54.”
“Negative. It’s the 47, the cupcake car.” We’d chuckled over the car all week, logoed as it was with giant images of the dessert.
“Guess we won’t get any freebies.” I steered onto the banking after Turn 6 and breathed. There’s our excuse. “Maybe Holly can take Miles down there. Make nice.” Take some photos. “Bring back some treats.”
Bruce was laughing as he keyed the radio. “Copy, I’ll suggest it.”
The Porsche behind me settled down and backed off. I dismissed it and everything but racing from my mind. I focused on the road ahead. And the car ahead, another Porsche—one I’d need to pass soon before it held me up too much.
But a lap of pulling close and considering a run on him in Turn 1 or Turn 5, it was clear he was deliberately making his car as wide as possible. Deliberately trying to keep me behind him. A ridiculous effort for this hour of the race.
I called Bruce. “Who is this guy blocking me? He’s not even in the same class. This is BS.”
“Copy. Arena Motorsports, 50 car. Arena himself behind the wheel. Jack’s talking to Race Control about it. Keep your cool.”
“I won’t hit him.”
What I did was keep the heat on him. I stuck to his bumper, dogging him in and out of every turn. He paid so much attention to staying in front of me he slowed us both down. The three Porsches I’d thought firmly in my rearview mirror got closer. But unlike Arena, I could ignore the cars behind me and focus on the one ahead. I was betting I could rattle him into making a mistake that would allow me by.
And I did. On the next lap, he wavered through the Kink, carrying too much speed for how late he turned. He drifted to the right side of the track in the turn and his momentum kept him going in a straight line, off track into the grass. I sailed through the left-hander, free of him at last. I smiled under my helmet and focused on regaining the ground I’d lost.
“Nice work,” Bruce told me. “Race Control was going to talk to them. This was better.”
“I’d like to know if I have a target on this car because Colby got into it with the 54.”
“Copy,” he responded. After a couple minutes, Bruce spoke again. “Series assures us the Arena team holds no grudge. Holly says Colby’s been elected prom queen.”
I focused on navigating the Bus Stop before working out what Bruce and Holly meant. Team radio was monitored by the Series, other teams, the media, and even fans, so we had to be careful what we said.
Colby’s popular in the paddock. Everyone’s glad she taught the guy a lesson.
“Copy.” I still believed Uncle Eddie and his co-drivers—maybe other Arena drivers as well—might be out to get me or anyone else in the 28 Corvette, regardless of the official Series message. But at least I didn’t fear retribution from other cars on-track.
> I settled into a good run over the next ten laps, overtaking a dozen slower GT cars and letting faster prototypes fly by on the banking. I was hard on the throttle going down the back straight when the speedway lit up like a Christmas tree. Pairs of yellow lights flashed under the start/finish stand. Every safety vehicle in the facility had its light bars in motion.
“Full-course caution, Kate. Big, big wreck in Turn 1.”
I didn’t respond, focusing on downshifting and slowing down through the Bus Stop.
Bruce gave me more information. “Pace car’s going to pick up the leader behind you, so you’ll pass the wreck on your own. Race Control is directing everyone to be extra careful and stay well left through Turn 1. Safety crews are off-track driver’s right at the wall, but they want all cars to stay in line and stay left going through Turn 1.”
“Copy, Bruce. Thanks.”
As I followed orders, tucking up next to the inner wall, I was alarmed at the array of safety vehicles in Turn 1 completely obscuring the involved racecars. The track could mobilize four types of vehicles for every accident: safety trucks, ambulances, tow trucks, and giant tractor/forklift combinations. At least two of each vehicle were off to the right. Their continuously flashing lights seemed especially garish against the black night outside.
“What happened?” I asked Bruce.
“Two Porsches in Turn 1. One is Arena in the 50 car—his fault. He overcooked it, went in too hard, ran right over one of the CPG prototypes, who never saw it coming. The 50 car has massive front end damage, going to need a flatbed tow. The other car though…”
It was never good when someone describing an accident paused.
“Which CPG car, Bruce?” Don’t let it be Sam. I surprised myself with the intensity of my fear about him.
“The 17 car—not the one with the NASCAR guys. It’s stuffed under the tires, probably impacted the wall. They’re trying to get to the driver still.”
Avoidable Contact Page 19
