by Eden Connor
The phone rang, freezing the video. “Use the car system and find the video again,” I spat, unplugging the phone. Robert’s fingers hovered over the dial, so I spun it to the app screen myself. With a nod, he tapped the You Tube icon.
“Hello?”
“Shelby Roberts?”
“Yes.” The brusque male voice had to belong to one of the local highway patrol.
“This is Dr. Jared Erikkson, Dale Hannah’s neurosurgeon. According to his employer, Mr. Hannah assigned his medical power of attorney to you. Do you understand what that means?”
He did what? “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Hannah’s unresponsive. The rescue squad intubated. My exam leads me to suspect a bleed in his brain and a fractured skull.”
My head thumped in sympathy, then settled into a steady throb.
“Before I run any tests, I want your permission to put him in medical coma. The purpose—”
“Isn’t that what they did to Sam Oshmann?”
I almost snapped at Robert—damn his football obsession—but recalled that Oshmann played wide receiver for the Carolina Panthers. A gut-wrenching tackle from two sides at once knocked the player’s helmet off. His head hit the hard artificial surface in the Georgia Dome, resulting in a severe concussion and two fractured vertebras. His rehab had lasted six months and counting, but he expected to play again next season.
“Yes.” Relief throbbed in the physician’s voice. “He’s my patient as well. The procedure was highly effective on Sam. Mr. Hannah’s injury is similar.”
The baking interior didn’t help my hot flash. “Do it. Do it now. I had a mild concussion in December. I believe the injury was more severe than was diagnosed. Everything I’ve struggled with since are things that would keep Dale from doing his job and that cannot happen. Put him under.” Hell no. Dale already had to give up driving.
He read out my email address. I confirmed it was accurate. “I’ll have a nurse email you the consent form and I’ll be in touch. Oh, one more thing.”
The doctor paused. So did my heart. “You should know, before Mrs. Ridenhour had the paperwork faxed over, I explained this procedure to Dale’s wife. She and one of his sons were opposed.” The call time flashed onscreen, before I had the chance to ask which stepbrother would cuss me out.
Dale. Oh, God. Dale. I stared at Robert, trying to swallow hard enough to send my heart back where it belonged. “Do I want to finish watching that video?”
“If I were Barnes’ attorney, I’d ask the judge to take it down. It’d be prejudicial to a jury.”
Whatever. “Okay.” I shoved the key into the switch. The engines roared to life. “I... can you just ride back with Switz? I’m okay. Really.”
“Shelby, honey. I’m going with you.”
Even while my heart warmed at the concern in his eyes, my brain flashed an image of Caine and Robert, stuck for hours in a silent hospital waiting room. Not happening. The phone dinged.
I felt for the digital pen I still carried in my purse, a relic from the days when I’d needed people to sign release forms for the ‘Cuda Confessions videos. People stopped to stare at the Audi, too, but it summoned only envious looks and not stories.
While I scrawled my name, a hard rap on my window startled me. I wrenched around. A crisp gray shirt, black tie, and gold-plated badge with the state seal of South Carolina in the center filled the window. I lowered the glass.
“Miss Roberts?” the female highway patrol officer asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m your escort to the state line. NCHP will meet you there.”
Goddammit. No time now to get rid of Robert.
This is the choice I made. For Mom and Dale. Might as well live it.
“Okay. I’m ready to roll.” I tapped the screen to send the permission form and hurled the pen into Robert’s lap. Sucking down a deep breath, I jammed the transmission into reverse and screamed out of the lot behind the Crown Vic.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I fumed when the light turned red, slowing our progress before we even made it out of the parking lot.
“Thirty seconds left in the clip.” Robert hovered his finger over the button. “Ready?”
I nodded, wishing I’d worn jeans rather than a dress, so I could wipe my palms. He tapped the screen.
After Kolby struck Dale, Dale buried his left fist in Kolby’s solar plexus. He followed that shot with an uppercut to Kolby’s jaw.
“Ouch.” Robert winced. “Man’s got one hell of a one-two punch.”
Barnes sprawled across the hood of his car. Stay down. The air conditioning flowed, but sweat ran down the back of my neck.
Why didn’t the jackass making this video throw down the damn phone and help Dale?
In the background, Rick dragged his leg over the wall. His toe caught and he tumbled onto the cement. Dale glanced back in time to see Rick fall, but not in time to see why the team owner went down.
“Rick!” Dale cried. Abandoning the fight, Dale plopped his palm on top of the barrier and swung both legs over like an Olympic medalist, going down on one knee to check on his longtime friend.
Don’t turn your back. Don’t turn your back! Even you said the bastard was a snake in the grass. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.
Kolby lifted his head with a shake. Pushing off the car, he screamed at the pit crew. “Get me a new round of rubber and see about the goddamn radiator.” He flung himself after Dale.
“Motherfucker can take a punch,” Robert muttered. “How’d he get up?”
Half the crew moved to service the car. The other half stayed put, including the person filming with his cell phone. Kolby landed a wild punch on Dale’s shoulder. Dale got to his feet and whirled, but didn’t have his balance. Kolby slammed his palms against Dale’s chest and gave him a vicious shove with both hands.
“Did you see that?” Robert stopped the playback and pointed to the screen.
The toolbox was right behind Dale, but Robert’s finger pointed to something more sinister. Kolby’s boot, hooked around the back of Dale’s left leg.
Algebra I had been challenging. Algebra II reduced me to tears every night. I’d outright sucked at Physics, but worst of all, Geometry had been a living hell, where every single person the class eventually caught on, except me.
Despite my D- in the hated course, even I could tell the base of Dale’s skull would clip the hard metal edge.
“Kolby put his entire weight behind that shove. Dale’s out flung arms won’t reverse his fall.” Robert laid a hand on my thigh. “Don’t watch it, babe.”
My stomach roiled. Behind me, a horn blew. I let the clutch out and hit the gas.
“Answer call,” I barked at the phone.
Francine’s voice filled the car. “I had the race on, honey. Sharing a moment with Ernie, I guess. I don’t know what to say. The announcers said Dale was airlifted to Sammy Owens and he was unresponsive. Where are you?” When she heard I was on my way to Charlotte, she cleared her throat.
“I better let you go so you can focus on your driving, then. But... if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. George can be a bully.”
“Francine! Who’s George?”
“George England, dear.”
“Current NASCAR president,” Robert shocked me by responding. He had his phone in hand, so maybe he’d looked up the name? I didn’t have time to watch him for trying to stick close to the patrolwoman.
“Yes, that’s right,” Francine replied. “He’s the majority shareholder of the four stockholders in NASCAR, Inc. Really, none of the other board members matter, since George owns twenty-seven percent of the stock, but if you think of something, please call. And honey, I’m praying for Dale.”
Bully? Before I could ask why she thought a man I’d never met might bully me, she’d hung up.
I raced up the onramp to I-26 West, right on the patrol car’s bumper. A few miles later, we took the exit for I-85 North. The police vehicle hit eighty-five
miles an hour, then didn’t pick up speed, to my dismay.
So, England was the guy who’d decide whether Audi got in. I almost called Francine back, then realized that Dale’s injury, coming so close on the heels of Ernie’s death, might be too much for her to deal with. God knew, I felt the same way.
I chafed under the SCHP’s escort’s sedate speed. We’d barely reached the first Gaffney exit when Mack rang me back. “Got the prick fingerprinted, photographed, and in a cell. You watch the tape?”
“Wish I hadn’t, but yes.” I flipped the visor down, wishing I knew where my sunglasses were.
“If you want to fight England, call the prosecutor on duty. Judge Wallace knows what kind of money the sport brings to town, so you gotta play the right card. Now, I know a college-educated woman like you can think something up on her own, but there sure was a lotta kids at that race. Can you remember this number?”
Fight England? About what? Robert questioned everything, but he didn’t say a word. So tired of this mental fog. Whatever Mack and Francine were talking about must be damn obvious.
Robert picked up the electronic pen and tapped the note taking app. “Go.”
“Thanks, Mack.” I disconnected the call and inched closer to the patrolwoman’s bumper.
Each heartbeat whispered. Get to Caine. Don’t let Dale die. Get to Colt. Don’t let Dale die. Get to Caine. Don’t let Dale die. Get to Colt.
We rocketed across the state line into North Carolina. Two more Crown Vics waited by the side of the road, lights flashing. One jumped between me and the South Carolina vehicle. The other car fell in behind. My initial escort dove off the first exit ramp with a flash of her headlights. The lead car accelerated past a hundred.
I nodded as my speedometer climbed. “That’s more like it.”
“Jesus Christ, you’d think this guy was the Pope,” Robert muttered.
“This is ground zero for NASCAR, you know.”
“Oh, I know. Just wasn’t expecting... this.” He waved a hand at the windshield.
“But, this car’s the fucking bomb, babe. Best of all, it was free.”
Was he just clueless? I wished to God I’d never laid eyes on the damn car. IF Dale didn’t make it, then would become the moist expensive car on the planet.
My phone rang. I frowned. The number had a 704 area code, but wasn’t one I knew. “Hello?”
“Miss Roberts, this is North Carolina Highway Patrol Officer David Glass.” He had the smooth, singsong voice of a DJ. “I’m ahead, and Officer Randy Buck is behind you, ma’am. Both long time Ridenhour fans. You have our sincere sympathies. Don’t you worry none. We’ll get you to your daddy, sweetheart. Don’t be surprised if we get some company along the way. Mecklenburg County will pick you up at the Billy Graham Parkway exit and lead you in. I’ve seen you drive and I know who taught you how. Let’s drop the hammer.”
“It’d be nice to hit sixth gear. Thank you, Officer Glass.”
He barked a laugh. “Must be nice to have six, but damn almighty, I’ve seen you work ‘em. Don’t show me up now.” The call time flashed.
The ominous silence from Mom worried me. Did they have to sedate her? Had the neurosurgeon given her bad news about Dale and no one had called because I was driving? Was that why I had two police escorts now? Were they fighting to keep the only father I’d ever known alive long enough for me to say goodbye?
“Why not let Dad talk to the prosecutor? I texted him before we left Spartanburg. He’s already at the hospital.”
I darted Robert a shocked look. “Why? Why’s he at the hospital?”
He looked like I’d slapped him. “We’re family, Shelby. Besides, Dad called this. He’s the man you want in your corner now, sweetheart. You don’t have to worry about a thing. He already has a plan.”
“I think I can handle a simple phone call.” I barked the numbers to Siri.
The attorney answered right away. “Franklin Grainger.”
I introduced myself, then launched into my pitch.
“Throughout his career, Mr. Barnes has failed to grasp that he has any re- responsibility other than to win. He’s been a loose cannon since day one. It was only a matter of time before he hurt someone. On behalf of The Hannah family and every child who witnessed the horror in the pits today, I beg you to set an example, beginning with Kolby Barnes’ bond. If you have access, please take a moment to review the video of the incident. Your clerk can find it on You Tube, just search ‘Kolby Barnes knocks out crew chief’.”
Wincing, I added, “Look for the most recent one, dated today. Mr. Barnes has had multiple altercations in his short career.”
“One moment, ma’am. I’d be interested in seeing that.” I gave Robert a triumphant look, despite the way my insides jerked. While we waited for a response, another car joined the parade, a local Gastonia city police vehicle. He rode along for about three miles, then dove off an exit, flashing his headlights.
“I see what you mean.” The prosecutor finally spoke. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Bond hearings start in half an hour. We don’t allow cameras in the courthouse, but I see the man I suspect is Mr. Barnes’ attorney. He won’t turn away from the bright lights. You’ll see his statement live, I’m sure.”
Two more Crown Vics joined the procession on the far side of Gastonia, another North Carolina Highway Patrol car and a Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s vehicle. A few miles later, two more NCHP vehicles joined the procession.
Robert muttered, “When President Bush came through Charlotte, his motorcade didn’t have this many cops.”
The churning light bars and headlights behind me seemed surreal, far too close to the funeral procession I’d thought Ernie would’ve enjoyed. Something squeezed my heart between gigantic hands. Be careful what you ask for.
The sign announcing we’d entered Mecklenburg County flashed by. Cruise, by Florida Georgia Line, blared through the speakers. With a guilty start, I brushed the button on the wheel to answer the call.
“Caine?”
“Shelby. I was thirty feet away and didn’t know it was happenin’. I feel like I’ve been dipped in melted glass. Now that it’s coolin’ off, I think I’m gonna shatter. Rick has the jet in the air, headed for the Greenville airport. Just throw a change of clothes in a bag and get to the airport. Please, hurry. I... I need—”
“I’m almost to the Billy Graham Parkway exit. Two miles.” The pain in his voice ripped something inside my chest.
“Really?” There was something about that breathless word that tightened my throat. “You’re driving? You’re almost here?”
“Just hang on, Caine.” I had to tell him before he said something we’d both regret. “Robert and I are almost there.”
The exit loomed. Four county cars waited along the side of the ramp. I saluted the NCHP officers in thanks. The silence from the phone caused me to look at the screen, but Caine hadn’t disconnected. I swiped my hands down my bare thighs.
“For fuck’s sake, keep your hands on the wheel!” Robert barked.
“Contrary to what some people want you to believe, this thing doesn’t just swerve for no reason,” I snapped.
Two deputies moved in front, two behind. The closer we got to downtown, the heavier the traffic and the narrower the lanes, but somehow, no lights caught us. My concern for Dale never wavered, but a new worry surfaced.
How would my stepbrothers treat Robert? I darted a glance at his pressed khaki pants and the Polo shirt with the little horse embroidered over the chest. I winced. Pink was such an unfortunate choice.
“For God’s sake, look where you’re going!”
Just for spite, I raked my hair back from my face with both hands, finishing by flipping the mass off my neck. The car held steady. Maybe he had no idea what a front-end alignment was, but he visibly relaxed when I returned my hands to the wheel and shifter.
At last, I spied hospital signs along the route. Another glance at the screen confirmed Caine was still on the line. “On Kenilw
orth Avenue now.”
“When you see Loop Drive, take a left. Continue to the intersection and turn left again. There’s a fenced lot at the rear of the hospital. I’ll tell the cops out there to be on the lookout for you.”
Brake lights flared. Slowing, I craned my neck from side to side, gaping. Crowds of people and television vans lined the street on both sides of the road. “What the hell’s going on? Is there some kind of parade?” I slammed a fist against the wheel.
“They’re fans, Shelby. Don’t say anything to the press,” Caine warned.
All these people were here for Dale? Ridenhour Racing’s various logos stared at me from nearly every head or chest.
Why did Caine think the press would know who the hell I was? I’d never even been to a NASCAR race. This was about Dale. And Kolby. Not me.
“Good grief. This is a mob scene.” Robert scowled.
Some of the people jamming the sidewalks held signs. Even more held cameras. A few pointed in our direction. As I passed by, some in the crowd surged into the street, heedless of the blaring horn blast from the sheriff’s car behind me. The deputy ahead of me lowered his window, waving, once we made the left turn. A metal fence stretched across the rear of the hospital.
Two city police cars braced either side of the gate. Uniformed cops, legs splayed and hands on their gun belts, stood outside the gate. I lowered my window.
“Can you dig out my wallet?” I jabbed a finger toward my purse, which rested beside Robert’s feet.
I turned in between the police cars, braking beside the officer. Lowering my window, I looked to Robert for the wallet so I could show my I.D.
“Shelby! Shelby Roberts!” A strange man stuck his arm through the window, shoving something in front of my face. Questions fired like gunshots. “Is this the car you won off Kolby Barnes?”
Jerking my head up, I blinked.
“Did the drag race between you and Kolby lead to this incident?”
“Do you accept any responsibility for the fight? Didn’t your behavior with your helmet at that race, in effect, cause your stepfather’s injury?”
