Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  It hit me: no one would care about my driving or the race when they could talk about Wade. The only question would be, “Did you do it?” until I proved my innocence to the whole world, not just the police.

  Everyone was still staring at me. Camera still filming. I told myself to be mercenary about getting more air time. If I couldn’t avoid the questions, I’d deliver good answers.

  I started again. “The last time I saw Wade was last night at a restaurant—until I found him this morning, I’m sorry to say. I have no idea what happened to him, and I was not involved in any way. It’s been a tough day, and on top of it, I’ve got to get ready to make Wade proud in his car. He’ll be in everyone’s thoughts.”

  The second the camera was off, I went to Zeke. “What the hell?” I asked in a low tone. I wanted to yell.

  He was more amused than ashamed. “Just pokin’ at you, girl!”

  Zeke was eleven years older and three inches taller than me, tan, tow-headed, and burly. His accent was South African, and his expressions mostly Australian. His smile could usually charm anyone—male or female—into anything. But I was in no mood.

  “On camera, Zeke? You know Wade was killed, right? It’s not funny joking with me about that. The police already think I did it!”

  He sobered. “They don’t. Really?”

  “They think I’m a suspect. What with Wade shouting at me last night in the restaurant—” I broke off in horror. “Oh my God, Zeke. I forgot. How could I forget about that?”

  “Forget what?”

  “Wade, last night, threatening me at the restaurant. I forgot to tell Detective Jolley about it.” That was going to look bad.

  “It wasn’t a big deal. All of us talk a little trash.”

  “Are you kidding me? Hours before he’s killed? He said he’d fix me before I could steal his ride, and I said I’d ‘nail his ass’ first. Plenty of people heard us. I need to find Jolley, soon.” I was jittery with nerves, and I shook a finger in his face. “Back to my point. I need support, not jokes.”

  He put an arm around my shoulder. “You got it. Anything you need, Katie-Q.” He’d started calling me Katie-Q nearly twelve years before, back when he was a professional racing sportscars, I was racing go-karts, and we were both being sponsored by the same glove manufacturers. He and his wife had become the brother and sister I didn’t have, and Zeke had alternately been my sounding board and my mentor.

  We walked the three paces to where Tom was chatting with a General Motors rep and Ian, who’d stayed behind when Benny and the camera operator headed down the paddock. I needed to find Detective Jolley before someone else relayed the words Wade and I had thrown at each other.

  Then I heard a voice behind me. “Kate? There’s someone here—”

  I turned, expecting another member of the media and finding the last person on earth I wanted to see. He was standing at the edge of the garage space. My father.

  Chapter Ten

  Fortunately, I was saved by the engines. By the Miatas, to be precise, buzzing onto the track for their miserly fifteen minutes of morning practice time, precluding lengthy interaction.

  James Hightower Reilly, III, had never been part of my life—and if I could help it, wasn’t ever going to be. After literally going in different directions at the time of my birth—him back to his well-heeled eastern family home, and brand-new me to my maternal grandparents’ 1960s tract house in Albuquerque, New Mexico—we’d arrived in the same place: the racing world. Me, because of early talent exhibited at the multitude of kiddie birthday parties held at a local go-kart track, and him through a long career as a bank executive. It was my bad luck that his bank was a major sponsor of the American Le Mans Series. It had taken him the first year of his bank’s involvement to figure out who I was, the second year to introduce himself. This was the third year, and he’d grown more intent on prolonged conversation.

  Zeke was at my side again, following my gaze and speaking close to my ear to be heard. “Kate, who’s that?”

  I gave my father a miniscule nod and turned to Zeke. “Nobody important. How about I buy you a Coke and you tell me what you know about the track?” I’d find Detective Jolley after we talked.

  Zeke looked at his watch. “Yeah, but it’s lunchtime, Kate. Come on, I’ll buy. Just give me a sec.” He turned to say something to Ian.

  I considered. My father hadn’t moved, and Zeke was chattering away. Though I’d rather have had a root canal than deal with him, I squared my shoulders and approached my father.

  “Hi.” I stopped inside the perimeter ropes, far enough away that we had to strain to be heard over the noise of the cars, but not so close that he was in my space.

  “It’s good to see you, Katherine.”

  He was one of the few people who called me by my full name. I’d never felt like allowing him the informality of my nickname.

  “I wanted to offer my congratulations on securing a role with a team. Though I’m sorry it had to happen the way it did.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sighed. “Look, Katherine, could we speak somewhere else for a few minutes? I’d like to—”

  I saw Zeke approaching and raised a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to prep. This isn’t a good time.” I walked away, heading Zeke off and angling toward the concession stand nearby.

  “Who’s the bloke?” Zeke asked again.

  I started to answer, but my attention was caught by a man walking toward me. A man I looked for at every race. I didn’t know his name, but he was the most gorgeous specimen I’d ever seen, a classic statue come to life in hip, European clothing. I stared in silent appreciation, only belatedly returning the nod of greeting from the driver he was walking with.

  “Kate?”

  I blinked at Zeke. “Sorry.”

  “Who’s the bloke?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I see him at most races.” I turned to look at his retreating form.

  Zeke punched my arm. “Not him, the bloke at your garage.”

  “Oh, him. Distant connection. No one I’ve got time for now.” I shook off my daze and tamped down my guilt, reminding myself that walking away from my father at a race was nothing compared to him leaving me as a newborn in a hospital. “Tell me what I need to know about this track.”

  Twenty minutes later we were polishing off lunch: a cheeseburger and fries for Zeke and a turkey sandwich and some of his fries for me.

  “Zeke, what should I know about the ALMS? What are you hearing? You know anything more about the cornering issues cars have been having?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Officially? Not a thing. Unofficially, fuel and tires still a possibility. But bets are on Delray ECUs. It’s just that no one can figure out what’s breaking. I know the Series is working with all the different manufacturers on it.”

  “Anything else you know about?”

  “I heard someone didn’t like Wade Becker much.”

  I grimaced. “You think? Tell me about Wade. You knew him, didn’t you?”

  “Well, sure. I never did race with him, but against him, plenty.”

  “And?”

  “Wade had charisma. Back in the day, he’d come into a room—or a garage—and he’d fill the place. He had charm—and a personality like a spotlight. When it was focused on you, it was blinding, flattering, all of that.”

  “And when it wasn’t?”

  “You didn’t really exist. And nothing else in the room did. See, Wade wanted….”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “He just wanted. Everything. All the attention. All the success, women, praise. He was larger than life. But he’d developed a sharp edge.”

  “Because he was slipping?”

  Zeke eyed me. “You’d noticed?”

  “Come on, you kno
w I’ve kept track of lap times—you’re the one who got me started tracking Series statistics.”

  “Yeah, he’d started slipping. Noticeable last year, a tick more this year. But really, I think the darkness in him came first.”

  “That’s melodramatic.”

  He squinted and looked into the distance. “It was a darkness and a bitterness. I can’t explain it, but I felt it. His personality changed from one race to the next like someone flipped a switch. I remember at the Mid-Ohio race three years ago, he was angry and aggressive and negative, like he’s been ever since. Up to then, he’d been a pleasant, friendly guy.”

  He shrugged. “It didn’t take long for everyone to figure it out either, that the Wade we’d known was gone. Word went round. I tell you, Katie-Q, from that point on, like attracted like.”

  “Evil is all around us, Zeke?”

  He didn’t care for the sarcasm in my tone. “Look, Kate, not everyone is nice. Or good. And not everyone—even in your beloved racing world—walks the path of angels. In the last couple years, if you heard about aggressive people, or wrongdoing, or anything shady, you also heard Wade’s name. Strange things have been going on in this series recently, some bad doings, and Wade was either involved or knew something about it.”

  “What do you mean? Like cheating?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something, and it isn’t your run of the mill ‘push the boundaries of technical regulations and get a slap on the wrist if you’re caught’ kind of thing that all teams do. That’s the nature of racing. But I’d heard….”

  “What?”

  “Just whispers here and there of cheating, sabotage, blackmail. Bad stuff. And somehow Wade was wrapped up in it. If he really was killed…I can’t say I’m surprised he pissed someone off royally—but murder? I dunno, Kate.”

  “I dunno either, Zeke.”

  “Oh, Kate!” Aunt Tee hurried toward me, then stopped and smiled at Zeke’s affronted look. “Hello, Zeke, how are you today?”

  “Fine and dandy, Tee, and yourself?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Run off my feet like always. In fact, Kate, that’s why I’m here. Jack’s decided he wants a quick drivers’ meeting in the motorhome. Er,” she hesitated, “probably in the trailer office. The motorhome is still occupied.”

  “Mrs. Purley?”

  Aunt Tee nodded, and Zeke raised his eyebrows.

  “Never mind,” I said to him, as we stood up and he gave me another hug.

  “Go get ‘em,” he commanded.

  Aunt Tee ticked items off on her fingers as we walked. “Now, I’ve got your kit all ready for you, all laid out. A Ziploc bag for your jewelry.”

  “Thanks for remembering that.” Unlike many drivers who wore watches and wedding rings while driving, I was superstitious about removing everything extraneous. I took to the track with every possible inch covered in fire-retardant material and not a speck else on myself but cotton cloth. I didn’t want to learn the hard way how quickly metal could burn and melt in a fire. Last year when I’d driven with the team, Aunt Tee and I had worked out a routine of her holding the sealed bag with my most precious possessions: the tiny diamond earrings and necklace that had been my mother’s.

  She patted my shoulder as we walked. “Of course, sweetheart. I remember what every one of my drivers needs.”

  “Mostly you know it before we do.”

  She beamed and waved me toward the office I’d been in before with Tom. “Here we are then. You go on. I’ll be ready for you to suit up when you’re done.”

  Jack was bent over the open engine compartment of the 29 car, the sister to my Number 28. He caught sight of me and straightened, clapping a hand to the back of the crew member who’d been peering at machinery with him.

  “Kate, are you settling in OK?”

  “Yes, thanks, Jack.”

  “You’re not too nervous about jumping back into this without much practice?”

  “I’d be lying if I said not nervous. But I can handle it.”

  “Remember, I’m not expecting an Andretti. Today, anyway.”

  He was smiling, so I decided he wouldn’t fire me if we didn’t win the race.

  “I see you gave Tom the slip.”

  I assumed he was still joking. “I was giving Tom a break—and picking Zeke’s brain about the track.”

  I opened the office door to find Tom, Mike, and the two drivers of the 29 car already inside. I sat in an open chair next to Mike, and Jack quickly got down to business and strategy.

  Contrary to what the uninitiated might think, there was more to this sport than sitting in the car and stomping on the throttle. No matter the preparation—and luck—there was always an incident to bring out the yellow caution flag: an accident, a car off-course, debris, or any number of other occurrences. There was plenty of strategy needed to deal with the yellows.

  Jack was seated, leaning forward and looking cramped even in the large office chair. He had his elbows on his knees and gestured a lot to make his points. “Like usual, any yellow we get about a third of the way through the race and then two-thirds of the way through, we’ll pit for tires and fuel. With this track being short and tight, we should get plenty of cautions. We’ll slip Kate into the car during one of the early ones, then put Mike back in to close. If we don’t get those yellows, we’ll go with the two-stop strategy with driver changes at both.”

  “We’ll hope for yellows,” put in Mike. A stop under green, while everyone else was on track at race speed, put you farther behind than a stop under yellow, when everyone else was cruising slowly and you could catch up to the back of the pack.

  Jack nodded. “There should be plenty of caution periods, and we’re not pushing for the win anyway.”

  I felt myself flush, and Jack noticed or heard what he’d just said. “We’ll take it if we get near it, and Kate’s capable of helping us win. But we don’t need to kill ourselves—uh.” He stopped as we all remembered why I was there.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Let’s push, but finish. Deliver good lap times, and let placement take care of itself.”

  He stared at his hands for a moment, then looked up, his gruff demeanor reasserting itself. “But don’t get used to this! No slacking!” He almost barked the last, though it was softened by a twisted, wry smile.

  “No worries, Jack,” chirped Lars Pierson, a slight, easygoing Dane who drove the 29 car with Seth Donohue, a Canadian. Lars and Seth were considered gentlemen drivers: skilled amateurs who paid for the privilege of driving—which helped pay the team’s bills. Gentlemen drivers didn’t usually compete for the win or deliver the speed of the pros, but good ones, like Lars and Seth, were solid, mid-pack racers.

  Jack spent a few more minutes on adjustments made to the cars for handling and balance, contingency plans for radio breakage or other problems, and race-day protocols and procedures, such as who spoke on the radios—the driver in the car, the crew chief, and the team manager only. When he asked if we had any questions, I spoke up.

  “I’m curious if there are any new tech requirements. I assume we passed tech inspection? Did anyone not?”

  “Cars passed, no problem. Why?”

  “I’m wondering about the cornering issues other teams have been having. I heard something about teams pushing boundaries more, and I wondered if there was a new regulation.” Jack frowned, and I added, “I’m not saying it’s related. There are just so many rumors….” I glanced at my co-drivers, who seemed interested, not disbelieving.

  Jack’s expression cleared. “I forgot you weren’t here for yesterday’s briefing. Let me recap.” He waved off my protests. “No problem. There are no new requirements or regulations, but there certainly are unexplained issues going on with some teams. We’ve got every manufacturer here checking processes, equipment, and materials. Fuel, tires,
drivetrain, ECU, and so on. It’s been pretty well narrowed-down to Delray ECUs, which we also carry, of course. Victor Delray is personally checking everything, and his best engineer is in our pits, triple-checking code, processes, simulations, whatever it is. We’re doing everything we can to make sure the problems don’t happen to us.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  He was silent for another moment before speaking again. “I’m trying to tell myself we’ve caught whatever glitch is causing the problems, but it’s hard to know—and it’s too damn late to change ECUs. If I knew the car was unsafe…well, we wouldn’t run.”

  He saw the surprise on our faces. “Seriously. We’d pull out until we knew it was fixed. But we don’t know what ‘it’ really is, and if it’ll affect us. Odds are, I’m giving you solid equipment. And I guess we’re always playing the odds around here, aren’t we?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not gonna happen, boss. Let’s go racing.”

  I chuckled. That was a typical racecar driver for you: convinced the next guy would suffer the mishap. We knew accidents happened, and we planned how to handle them if they did. But we never, ever expected them to.

  Jack smiled. “That’s the plan. Just be alert out there—don’t screw up, and we should be fine.”

  That statement didn’t help my nerves.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack wrapped up our meeting with directions for the day’s on-track time. “Kate, you’ll take twenty of the thirty minutes of practice. Then we’ll pull you in, change tires, get Mike in, and send him out for a couple warm up and adjustment laps. Mike, can you handle that?”

  “You bet.”

  “Then qualifying. They’re trying the one-at-a-time qualifying again.”

  I was surprised and doubly glad it would be Mike’s job. I was used to the typical free-for-all qualifying sessions—every car in your class on track, all trying to set the fastest lap time while avoiding traffic. But I’d heard of test-runs of the three-lap scheme. In the first lap, coming out of the pits, you got up to speed, to be flying past the start/finish line for the second, timed lap when you’d have the track to yourself. The third lap was for slowing down and coming back in, while the next car did its out lap for its own attempt.