Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  That flying lap felt good, and I kept up the push until I was two turns from pit entry, exiting West Bend and approaching the Diving Turn. I slowed through the last curve and hugged the right side of the track, allowing cars that weren’t pitting to pass on my left. Jack’s voice came through my headset as I reached Pit In and pushed the speed limiter button. “Good job, Kate. That last one was your quickest. A 55.12-second lap. A good start.”

  I felt deflated as I stopped the car, turned it off, and released the seatbelt harness. The Porsches could go faster than I’d gone in the more powerful Corvette. And undoubtedly Mike would qualify us with a sub–53-second lap. I was bitterly disappointed in myself.

  A crew member opened the door and let down the net. I pulled myself out of the car and climbed over the inner pit wall. After Aunt Tee helped me remove my helmet, HANS, and balaclava, she handed me an ice-cold, wet washcloth to drape over my head and an open bottle of cold water. I watched Mike climb into the seat I’d just vacated and felt my shoulders slump. Disappointment became anger at my poor performance. I’d have to be a hell of a lot faster in the race to support Mike and do right by the team.

  Jack descended from his perch on top of the pit box we called the control panel. It was another big cart, like the one that held our lockers, but this one was outfitted with a bench seat, a desk wide enough for four notebook computers, and eight flat-screen monitors suspended from the metal frame of the canvas roof—monitors that carried live feeds from the television cameras around the track. From the control panel, Jack, Bruce, and the 29 car’s crew chief could watch us almost continuously around the track and keep an eye on current lap times for every car in the field.

  I was gulping down water when Jack’s big hand thudded onto my shoulder. I managed to swallow, not breathe, the liquid—but it was a near thing.

  I felt my clammy undergarments sticking to my skin as he patted. “It was OK, Kate.”

  I jerked a shoulder in a shrug and scowled into my water bottle.

  “Hey.” His voice cracked like a whip, and I looked up at him. “Remember, Kate, I won’t bullshit you. If you drive crappy, I’ll tell you so. And I’m telling you: you did good. Not fast enough yet, but you’ll get there. You’re right where you should be for only fifteen laps on the track.”

  “Seventeen.”

  He rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “Don’t pull that crap. No sulking. It’s not your fault you haven’t had much practice time. Hell, think of it this way: you’re nearly as fast already as Wade was. Yesterday.” He ran a hand over his face, looking tired. “That was only yesterday…. Anyway, he only did a 54.03. And besides, you beat the GT2 class.”

  “Not all of them.” I needed to be honest, but already felt better.

  “You beat enough of them.” Jack clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Come on, let’s see if Mike can put us on the pole.”

  I made myself toss my worries in the trash with my empty water bottle. Jack was right. I’d get faster in a hurry in the race. I climbed onto the bench of the control panel after him, only then realizing how physically tired I was. I willed my arms to stop shaking as I sat on a dry towel Aunt Tee handed me.

  “Just to be sure, Kate, when the car got squirrelly at the end of lap two—was there a reason?” Jack looked worried. “It’s fine, but was it you or one of our mystery problems?”

  “It was me.”

  “You’re sure? Because the Viper had the same kind of problem at the same place yesterday, and he ended up in the tires.”

  I hoped I was still red from heat and exertion, to mask my embarrassment. “I’m sure. My problem was the yellow Porsche getting too aggressive and me not being settled yet. It was driver error, not the car.”

  “That’s a relief.” He turned back to his monitor.

  “Jack? Who is the yellow Porsche, anyway?”

  Mike started the car, and Jack pointed to a line on the screen in front of him listing cars in the current session. Ours was there with my last name and my fastest lap time. Jack was pointing to the Number 83 car. Last name: Siddons.

  Jack spoke into my ear. “Siddons won’t back down. He was aggressive with us after Wade spun him off track last year. Don’t you dare get into it with him too.”

  As the 28 car tore out of the pits for qualifying, I sighed, afraid Jack’s warning came too late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mike qualified well, ending up third in our class after one of the Saleen drivers turned in a blistering lap to bump us from second. Third suited us fine, being about where the Sandham Swift Corvette usually finished in the field, as “the best of the rest” after the factory-backed Corvettes ran off with the first two places. They were the same C6.Rs we drove, with the addition of the finest-available General Motors engineering and support. But one of their cars had sprung an oil leak at the end of the practice session, and their crew hadn’t been able to fix it in time to qualify.

  I’d watched and cheered Mike’s run from the pits, eating a granola bar, drinking water, and feeling my strength return. I knew the race would also be hard on me, not because I wasn’t fit, but because I hadn’t been in a racecar in a few weeks. For all of the C6.R’s beastly sounds and aggressive looks, for all that it was powerful and heavy, it was an easy and comfortable car to drive. It was more taxing than driving a street car, but it had such good balance and setup that steering it around the track—even one as constantly demanding as this one—didn’t leave the driver feeling like the loser in a wrestling match. Unless she hadn’t been in a car for weeks. But the best way to be fit for racing was to go racing, and even today’s twenty-minute stint would prep me for the hour-plus I might do in the race. I’d make it through on adrenaline alone, if necessary.

  I perched on the edge of the bed in the motorhome, having returned early and alone to the team’s paddock and tiptoed past the sleeping Mrs. Purley. Car noise had stopped for the ten-minute break between qualifying sessions, and I sat still, relishing the quiet, private space. Then the door of the motorhome opened and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps shook the vehicle. I started to stand, but sank back down when I heard the voice.

  “Wake up, Suz,” it growled.

  Mrs. Purley sounded sleepy. “Ch-Charlie?”

  “Yes, my dear, your loving husband.”

  “Charlie? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to save you, dearest.”

  “Wh-what?”

  I heard a rustling of movement, and I considered announcing myself and getting out of there. But I was frozen, hearing the next words from Mr. Purley.

  “I decided it was time to see what you, as Director of Sports Marketing, did for the company. What occupied you at these races. I haven’t cared for what I’ve heard and seen.”

  “But, Charlie, I—”

  “But that’s resolved now, isn’t it? The problem has taken care of itself, and I don’t think you’re likely to get as…distracted as you’ve been. Are you?” The last words were both command and question.

  “No. No, Charlie!”

  “I didn’t think so. I’m fixing things here for you, so there’ll be no more distractions and no comment on the past.”

  “Charlie.” Susanah was gasping, crying perhaps. “I don’t want you to think—I mean, I’m sorry you….”

  “It’s done. You’re my wife. And I’m not letting you go.” The hard-edged possession in his tone softened. “We’re a team, remember, Suz? You and me, building a great company, building our life?”

  I heard more rustling sounds, and I imagined an embrace.

  “But Suz,” Mr. Purley’s voice was hard again. “This won’t happen again. I’m not going to do this—go through this—again.”

  “No, Charlie. I love you.”

  “You do, don’t you? And I’ll let you prove it this weekend. Now, we’re goin
g to our hotel and to dinner tonight. Let’s go.” The motorhome wiggled again, and a few seconds later I heard the door open and slam closed. I stood and peeked out. Empty.

  What the hell had he meant, he’d “fixed things” for her? I didn’t like the sound of that—or of Mr. Purley—at all. I changed out of my driving suit, still shaken. I was tying my shoelaces when I felt the motorhome move again.

  “Kate? You in here?”

  I relaxed the shoulders I’d tensed. “Yeah, Aunt Tee. Just a sec.” I scooped up my suit and other gear and went forward.

  She smiled at me. “Great. I’ll take those and hang them up for you.” I handed over my sopping-wet suit and Nomex undergarments. Aunt Tee would turn them inside out and hang them to dry in the breeze outside the motorhome, with all the rest. I’d yet to decide if teams didn’t care how unattractive inside-out suits were, flapping in the breeze, or if they considered them a flag of honor, testament to the work ethic of their pilots.

  “Kate, are you OK?”

  “Just disturbed by something.”

  “By what?”

  Before I could pull my wits together, Tom climbed the steps into the motorhome. “Kate, there you are. We’ve got a press conference to go to.”

  “What? We didn’t take pole.” Only the top qualifier in each class, the driver who would start the race from pole position, was required to attend a press conference after qualifying.

  “Yeah, I know, but the Series is asking all drivers in the top three teams of each class to go.”

  “Why?”

  “The press wants to talk to Jack, Mike, and you. No one wants it to become a free-for-all about Wade, and so the Series is compromising by sending a bunch of drivers and limiting questions.” He grinned. “Plus they were good GT2 and LMP1 qualifying battles. Big Porsche grudge match going on in GT2 between Turner Racing Group and the Johnson team. Most of the media don’t care much, but we’ll feed it to them anyway.”

  Facing the press wasn’t appealing. It was great that my appearance in the ALMS was garnering some attention. On the other hand, I knew the media interest had nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with Wade. It had to do with murder.

  “Kate?” Tom sat down opposite me. “Are you ready to deal with this? You’ll have to sometime.”

  He was right. More crucially, it was my job to do anything my team needed. If that meant more scrutiny about Wade, I’d deal with it. “Of course, Tom. Whatever you need.”

  “Great! Here’s a bunch of team gear—shirts, a hat.” He picked up a stack of clothing he’d brought in with him. “Could you wear one of the shirts to the press conference?”

  “Sure. How much time have we got?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  I nodded as the door to the motorhome slammed open.

  “Aw, shit. I always forget how this thing springs open.” Jack stomped into the cabin, pulling the door after him. “Anyone seen my….”

  “Keys, Jack?” Aunt Tee was holding out a set of rental car keys she’d picked up.

  “Thanks. Now, Kate. Tom told you about the press conference?”

  “I’ll be there. Just have to change.”

  “Good. Also, dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Tonight with sponsors. At the White Hart Inn. Know it?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Good. Seven o’clock.”

  I looked at my watch. It was about four.

  “Oh, and I’ve got you a room at the White Hart.” Jack picked up a cookie from a plate on the counter and took a bite.

  “What?”

  “The team’s all staying there, and you’re part of the team. I got you a room.”

  “It’s not—I mean, Wade was—it’s not his—”

  Jack swallowed another mouthful. “It’s not Wade’s room. I think the police have that one occupied. The hotel found another one for you.”

  Tom grimaced. “That would be creepy.”

  “No kidding,” I replied. “But I’ve still got a room where I’ve been staying.”

  “So go check out. You need to be with the team—and you need to be at that dinner. OK?” Without waiting for an answer, Jack left the motorhome.

  “OK?” Tom repeated Jack’s question.

  “Sure. I’ve just got to run up, collect my stuff, and check out. I’ll have to do that before dinner. Oh, and I was supposed to meet Holly for dinner—I’ll have to change that to a drink.” I looked up at Tom and Aunt Tee. “Sorry, just thinking out loud.”

  “Well, first you’ve got to get to this press conference.” Aunt Tee plucked the stack of clothing from my lap. She pulled a shirt out, a black polo with the Sandham Swift name stitched in yellow and white, to match our car. “Wear this one to the conference. I’ll iron the rest for you.” She eyed my hair. “And wear the hat, dear.”

  I laughed and ran a hand over my still-sweaty head. “Thanks, Aunt Tee.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The press conference was a zoo. A twenty-five year old trailer-turned-media center that normally held four drivers and a handful of media representatives now overflowed with twenty-four drivers, twelve team owners or managers, and thirty journalists. I had to hand it to the ALMS staff, Stuart in particular, for carefully orchestrating the proceedings.

  As Stuart began by asking for quiet, a reporter in the front called out a question about the traction problems cars had been having.

  Stuart’s face could have been carved from granite. “We are here for another topic. We’ll address your question if and when we have something to report.” Then, ignoring the murmur that swept through the room, he presented drivers and team reps by class and qualifying position. In turn, the press dutifully asked questions they didn’t care about the answers to.

  First, the LMP1 class. Then LMP2. Next: GT1. My class. I shuffled to the front of the small dais with Mike and the other drivers, and the energy in the room ramped up a notch.

  Stuart turned a stern eye on the room and pointed to the factory Corvette drivers who’d taken the pole. “Pole position, the LinkTime Chevy Corvette team. Questions?” There were a few, one concerning the fate of the sister car that hadn’t managed to qualify.

  “Second in class: the Vance Racing Saleen. Questions?” My mind wandered to the feel of the Corvette in different corners of the track, as I replayed my practice laps in my head.

  “Third in class: Sandham Swift Corvette. Questions?” I snapped back to attention. Showtime, Kate.

  “Kate. Mitch Fletcher from Racer magazine. How did you feel when you found Wade Becker’s body, and how do you feel now that you’ve taken his place in the Sandham Swift car?”

  I took a deep breath—while it seemed everyone else was holding theirs. “Hi, Mitch. Everyone. This morning, I was shocked, stunned, and very, very saddened. Sorry for the loss of life and talent. Since then, of course, I’ve joined the Sandham Swift team for this race, as I’ve joined them in the past. I’m not a stranger or an unknown to the team, and I’m happy to say we’re all coming together to do the best we can under the circumstances.”

  I paused, then held up a hand at the swell of audience noise. “Personally, yes, I’m happy and eager to prove myself as a valuable, contributing member of the team. And though I’m going to make the most of my chance, I’d trade it away again for Wade to still be here.” Boy, was I glad for the speech classes my grandmother had forced me to take in high school.

  The buzz started again. Stuart deflected questions to Mike and Jack, who rattled on about the change in team dynamics—“we’re humming along smoothly”—and thoughts on how the new driver would affect their finishes—“we expect to be as competitive as ever, and we’re aiming to see you on the podium.”

  I thought about what I’d said. I meant it.

  The rest of the press confere
nce went quickly once the main attraction was over. But as the event broke up, a few reporters tossed out questions, one of which I couldn’t ignore.

  “Kate! Can you live up to the hype?”

  I was walking out the door, following Jack, with Mike behind me, and I stopped. I poked my head around Mike. Everyone in the room was quiet, even Stuart, and given the expectant expressions on more than one face, I couldn’t tell who’d asked the question. I lifted my eyebrows and smiled. “Hype? Hell, yeah. Haven’t you heard? Girls kick ass.” I exited to laughter and applause.

  “Subtle.” Jack eyed me as we walked out of the media center with the rest of the drivers and team owners.

  “If I don’t believe in myself, no one else will.” I might worry later about bragging to a room of reporters or be concerned about adjusting to the car and the track, but deep down, I was confident I’d turn in a good performance.

  I tilted my head to look Jack in the eye. “I’ll deliver.”

  “I’m looking forward to that. It’ll be a change for us.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I had the nerve to ask him to elaborate, but he thumped me on the shoulder, said he’d see me at dinner, and strode off in the direction of the parking lots, taking Mike with him.

  They’d no sooner left than a Porsche driver named Eddie waved a hand at the group of drivers around us and started an interesting discussion. “Well, respect to the dead and all that, but I think we’ll not be missing Wade. Glad to have you with us, Kate.”

  I heard chuckles and murmurs of agreement. “Thanks, Eddie.”

  “Even if some people think it’s a mite convenient, you finding him and getting his ride and all.” His lopsided smile and lilting Scottish accent made it a joke—at least to him. “We don’t believe any of that, do we lads?”

  I glanced around, registering amusement, doubt, and disinterest on the dozen faces within range of Eddie’s voice. Doubt? I reexamined faces, not sure where I’d seen it and not finding it again.

  “Thanks. And who thinks that?”

  Eddie laughed. “Now, and I meant that well!” He saw my face and sobered. “It’s just one of the whispers around, you know? Like so many other ridiculous rumors. No one thinks it’s true.”