Dead Man’s Switch

by Tammy Kaehler

  I had an impression of movement to my left, and I turned my head. “Hold on,” a voice said.

  I wasn’t startled this time, just angry, and my fingers shook as I belatedly positioned my key between them to use as a weapon.

  “Who’s there?”

  My father stepped forward into the light. I let out the breath I was holding.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine. I wanted to give you something.” His voice was smooth, collected. I felt like a frazzled idiot—a frazzled idiot who blabbed too much, according to Stuart.

  “Thank you, but—”

  This time he spoke harshly. “Katherine. Stop it. You’d do a stranger the courtesy of hearing him out. Have the decency to do the same for me.”

  I bit my lip to keep from telling him that (a) he didn’t know what I’d have the courtesy to do, (b) he was a stranger, and (c) like he had the decency to stick around and be a father to me for any amount of time in the last twenty-four years? I let all that go. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “As I mentioned, my father passed away a few months ago. I’m truly sorry that you were never able to know him. He was…a great man.” He spoke the last words quietly, with a bowed head. When he lifted it to continue, his eyes were shiny and sad. “He would have liked you, I think. He wanted to like you. He wanted to meet you.”

  “What?”

  “He wanted to get to know you.”

  “He knew about me?”

  My father sounded tired. “Of course. He knew and urged me to find you, long ago, and then to reach out to you once we knew where you were. But I….”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  “Perhaps not. In any case, this isn’t the time or place. But my father wanted you to have this. Something he treasured.” He held out a medium-sized, dull silver gift box with no insignia. “Please,” he said, when I made no move. “For him, if not for me.”

  I took it from him and nodded.

  “Thank you.” He walked away into the darkness.

  I stood there another minute, holding the box and wondering what kind of family ties I’d just bound myself with. Then I shivered and looked around. The air was warm and somehow expectant, but whether that was because of the humidity I had little experience with or because there was evil lurking around the bend, I couldn’t tell. I got into my room fast and locked the door.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sunday morning I went from sleeping to wide awake in seconds.

  First thought: race tomorrow!

  Next thoughts: Wade. Detective Jolley. Murder.

  An afterthought, as I got out of bed rubbing my eyes: my father.

  I lifted a corner of the curtain covering the room’s single window, set in the wall next to the door. Gray and overcast. I looked harder. Raining. Unheard of on July Fourth where I grew up in the Southwest, but typical here. If we were lucky, we’d have no rain for the race the next day.

  My nerves started to hum at the thought of the race and my big chance. Before I could change my mind, I brushed my teeth, got into water-resistant gear, and launched myself through the door to run some of my anxiety out.

  I jogged down the main road through town admiring the red, white, and blue streamers and bunting, and the profusion of American flags. I turned left onto Salmon Kill Road and found the trail the desk clerk had recommended about a quarter-mile down. I jogged up the slight incline, feeling springy scrub grass underfoot. Left to its own devices, the land in this part of the country turned into a jungle of trees, shrubs, vines, grass, and weeds, but I was on a twenty-foot-wide swath through wilderness that was carefully maintained.

  My muscles finally traded stiffness and fatigue for a smooth flow, and I began to feel more alert. The anxiety and excitement that wanted to jump around in my stomach went quiet as my body dealt with the exertion of running. Over the steady thump of my shoes and my panting breaths, I heard birds and the occasional car on the road behind me. I felt strong, and I pushed the tempo up a notch.

  The ground was damp underfoot, but not muddy. I glared at the sky. I wasn’t excited about rain for the race. Everything would get more complicated. Rain meant slipping, extra pit stops for different tires, and lots of strategy. On a dry track, our cars ran slicks: tires with a smooth surface, which meant maximum rubber in contact with the road for maximum grip and handling. But slicks couldn’t channel water out from under themselves, like grooved tires could, and to be on slicks, or “dries,” in the rain was to invite disaster.

  Each type of tire worked well for its intended purpose, terribly in other conditions. Slicks on a wet surface tended to imitate ice skates. Grooved wet-weather tires, or “wets,” on a dry surface offered minimal grip and wore away at an alarming rate, from excess friction and heat. The issue was when to change from dries to wets and back. I let out a long breath. It was enough to be thinking about managing a new track in the dry. I couldn’t worry about rain and strategy also. I’d have to leave that to Jack.

  Of course, what no amount of strategy or quick decision-making could control was if our car would be affected by ECU problems—or tire problems or whatever the mystery ailment was. Cars were complex machines, and teams dealt with equipment defects from time to time—a tire blew, an axle or half-shaft broke, screws sheared off, and so on. But usually it was easy to pinpoint the problem. The recent issues were confusing because no one could determine the cause.

  Then again, maybe it wasn’t a mechanical defect to blame. I’d heard the words blackmail, sabotage, and darkness—even if I hadn’t heard them in reference to car problems, they made me wonder.

  I chewed over those words. The concept of sabotage was unfathomable. Even cheating, I could accept, but active damage of another team? That was as unbelievable to me as…murder. I stopped, lungs heaving, in the middle of the path. Time to readjust my thinking. Maybe anything was possible.

  I jogged forward again, turning my mind to the portrait of Wade that had emerged yesterday. To me, he’d always been the epitome of a racer—and I meant a racer. Someone who could drive and win in anything with wheels, even if he’d never made it into the national consciousness as a NASCAR star. Plenty of us were racecar drivers. But a racer was something else, someone who loved driving and competing above all else and who’d drive anything anywhere anytime, just to be strapped into a five-point harness. The payoff and the prize money were great, but what mattered was a car, a track, and someone to race with. I’d give my eyeteeth, as Gramps would say, to be respected by my peers as a racer.

  Coming up through the racing ranks, I’d followed his career, admired him. He wasn’t an idol of mine, but a role model. Someone whose skill and career I’d be happy to emulate. But when I’d driven with Wade and Mike at the twelve-hour Sebring race the previous year, my mental image of him had been tarnished.

  He’d been aloof. I thought about that as I turned around on the trail and headed back. Used to it all, even rude. Uninterested in what was going on and unwilling to exert himself, except on the track. It must have been routine, down to the overeager rookie driving with him.

  The picture of him emerging now was more detailed and disturbing. His skills—and his magnetic personality—had started to slip. The façade started to crack. He got slower. Less charming, more grasping. As Ian said, as angry as Wade had become, it wasn’t surprising he’d been involved in a murder—but it was surprising he’d ended up the one dead.

  I swung wide around two women walking fluffy Golden Retrievers. Murder. Murder! What the hell was I doing mixed up in something like that? I didn’t think Detective Jolley was pursuing the idea that Wade had been killed by a stranger. And I didn’t want to think about rubbing shoulders with a killer.

  Instead, as I showered, dressed, and drove to the track, I focused on the Corvette, the racing surface, and my twenty-minute wild ride the day before.

  Chapter Twe
nty-three

  Detective Jolley was waiting for me at the entrance to the track, leaning against his unmarked, white Ford Crown Victoria and wearing a carbon copy of his outfit from the day before, plus a patriotic American flag tie. There’d been little traffic on the way to the track, which was holding a Lime Rock Open House in honor of the holiday and the race weekend. There would be no engines running, but there’d be activities for fans, including a Corvette car show, tech talks given by team members, and the usual ALMS open paddock opportunities: to walk around, watch cars being worked on, and talk to teams and drivers. Plus a fireworks show that night. For the race teams, the fact that it was the Fourth of July was irrelevant—we’d continue prepping for the race and entertaining sponsors. And I would go to bed early.

  Jolley held up a hand as I approached, and I stopped, brushing the crumbs of the muffin I’d eaten for breakfast off my lap. He pointed at my passenger door and raised his eyebrows. I nodded, and he got in.

  “You’re serious about recreating my movements?”

  “Good morning, Ms. Reilly.”

  “Good morning, Detective.”

  “I am serious. Do whatever you did yesterday, only slowly, and talk me through what you saw.”

  “Sure.” I took a sip from my coffee cup, setting it back in the cup holder in the center console. “Only, I didn’t have coffee with me yesterday, so that’s different.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

  I glanced at him. He might have a sense of humor.

  “Ms. Reilly?” Jolley gestured forward.

  I moved ahead. “Let’s see. Yesterday, like today, there were few people around. Yesterday I saw the guy at the gate here.” We passed through the checkpoint and waved badges at the attendant. Mine was the ALMS badge, Jolley’s was his police badge.

  “Same guy,” I resumed. “I told him to wake up, because he was yawning. I didn’t pass any cars until I got to the turnoff to go down the hill, but there were a few parked on the right.” I pointed as we passed the grassy parking areas just across the bridge in the interior of the track.

  I indicated where I’d seen cars or people in the lower paddock and the midway, where the vendors set up tents. And then I paused partway down the hill where I’d stopped the day before to chat with Benny.

  Jolley’s eyes lit up. “He was here at that hour?”

  “Yes—but I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone down to the other end of the paddock. Their trailer is right here and—”

  “Easy, Ms. Reilly.”

  “For Pete’s sake, call me Kate.”

  He actually smiled. “Kate, then. Don’t worry, I just want to know from Mister….”

  “Benny Stephens, SPEED Channel.”

  “Mr. Stephens. I only want to ask him who else he might have seen that morning and the night before. He’s not a suspect, Ms.—Kate.”

  “Good, because he and Ian wouldn’t hurt a fly.” OK, I didn’t literally know that.

  Jolley just stared at me, making me uncomfortable.

  “What?”

  “Murderers are never who you expect. You may not like the answer here.” He turned and looked out the front window. I drove on.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I took him through my stop at the fence at Pit In and crept slowly through the paddock, trying hard to remember where I’d seen any signs of life. Bad phrase—where I’d seen team activity. I didn’t speak as I looped around the parking area and edged up to where I’d parked so fatefully.

  Jolley looked behind us. “Were there as few cars yesterday?”

  “Just about. Maybe a few less today.”

  “Why did you park here?”

  “If I could only change that….” I shrugged. “I liked the idea of facing the Main Straight and this turn. I wanted to climb up and see the track and later see the racecars from my front bumper. It put me nearer the action, somehow.”

  Jolley frowned. “It certainly did.”

  “Too near.”

  We got out of the car as Stuart walked up, looking agitated. He greeted Jolley, then looked at me. “You couldn’t wait for me, Kate?”

  “Oops. Detective Jolley flagged me down at the entrance, and we kept going.”

  Stuart clasped his hands in front of him and sounded cranky. “I’ve been waiting for you at the Series trailer.”

  Jolley stepped away from us, toward the fence in front of the car, looking at the ground where I’d found Wade the day before. I didn’t want to see that.

  “Kate.” I jumped when Stuart hissed in my ear. “I’m trying to help you out. The least you can do is make it a little easier on me.”

  “Help me out? I don’t understand.”

  “Give you backup. Be around if you have problems. Since you don’t have a lawyer or anything.”

  “Because you think I need one? You think I’m going to say something to incriminate myself? What makes you think I need or want your help?”

  “Of course I don’t think you need a lawyer—or I’d have gotten you one already. But it can only help you to have a witness when you’re talking to the police. Besides, this is what I do. I make the ALMS run smoothly, which includes being around to support a driver who’s under suspicion of committing murder!” His voice had risen to a shout by the end, and Jolley was watching us from twenty-five feet away.

  Was Stuart losing his cool? I looked at Jolley, who was studying the ground and the fence again, and spoke quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop for you. To be honest, he freaked me out, popping up at the gate. I wasn’t prepared.”

  Stuart rolled his shoulders. “Fine. I just hope you didn’t say anything stu—” He saw my expression, and finished, “that could be misinterpreted.”

  “What am I? Twelve?” Shoot, I’d said that out loud. I raised a hand to stop him. “Scratch that. I told Jolley what I’d done in the morning, who I spoke to, and why I chose to park here. That’s all. You didn’t miss much.”

  We both turned at Jolley’s approach.

  “Everything worked out?”

  I started to speak, but Stuart beat me to it. “Yes, Detective. Kate just forgot that I was going to meet and accompany you both this morning. To give her support and answer any questions you might have about the operation of the track and race.”

  Jolley looked from Stuart to me to Stuart. I didn’t know what that look was trying to say, but I didn’t think I liked it. “You’re here now, Mr. Telarday. Anything you’ve heard about that I should know?”

  “Stuart, please. Nothing, except for the notebook, which I’m sure Kate’s already mentioned.”

  “Notebook?” Jolley turned to me. “I haven’t heard about a notebook.”

  “Kate, you haven’t told him yet?”

  “Would the two of you slow down? No, I hadn’t gotten to the notebook yet.” They wore matching expressions of disapproval, and I lost it. “Look, I’m dealing with a lot this weekend. So call me birdbrain. I forgot.”

  No one spoke for a minute, until Jolley prompted, “The notebook?”

  “Right.” I ran my hands through my hair, gathering my thoughts. “Mike—Munroe, my co-driver—mentioned last night that Wade kept a notebook with…we’re not sure what. He says Wade referred to it as ‘keeping score.’”

  “What do you think that meant?” Jolley raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, Mike also said Wade called it his own personal timing and scoring, which is what we call lap times and data on the cars in the race, so it might have been notes on other drivers. Or vendettas.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t seen inside it. It could be his grudges—I’ve been told he’d hold them. But plenty of drivers and teams keep notes on times—their own and their competitors. Maybe it was only that.”

  �
��Who was there for this conversation? And does Mike or anyone else know where the notebook is?”

  “It was Mike, me, Tom, and Stuart talking about it. And the thing is, I saw the notebook yesterday. I just can’t remember where.”

  Stuart waved a finger in the air. “Mr. and Mrs. Purley could have heard Kate say she’d seen it too. They were walking past us at the time. Jack was there, and a couple drivers were at the other end of the porch.”

  Jolley nodded at him, then turned to me. “Where did you see it and what did it look like?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “If I remembered where I saw it, I’d remember where it is now. I’m working on it. It’ll come to me.”

  Jolley made a note in his own notebook. “Let me know as soon as you remember—the second you remember. What did it look like?”

  When I didn’t respond immediately, Stuart did. “Mike said it was a little black book.”

  “Leather, about so big.” I made a rectangle with my fingers about two by three inches. I concentrated for another minute, then let out a sharp breath. “I keep trying to remember where it was. I have a mental picture of it in my hand, and then nothing.”

  Jolley tapped his pen against his notes. “You said something about Wade holding grudges. Did you know that from personal experience?”

  “No. His outburst at me the other night was the only negative interaction I had with him. Some of the other drivers told me he held a grudge.”

  “Other drivers—is this something else you should tell me?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “This sounds like more important information I don’t know about yet.”

  I started to defend myself, and Stuart cleared his throat. Jolley and I turned to him. “Might I suggest we continue this in our trailer? It would be more comfortable and private.”

  “That’s a good idea. Kate?”

  “Sure. I’d like some water and a chance to pee. Then you can finish with the third degree.” That earned me an impatient look from Stuart.