I shouted at myself. “Concentrate! Kate! Your job is to drive!” Focusing now on the feel and sounds of my car, I flashed past the pits on the front straight, not understanding until I turned through Big Bend what I’d seen: the Maserati and the Ferraris in their pit stalls. I realized the track was mostly dry, and what I could see of the sky was blue. Amazing. Jack had been right. The extra stop those cars had made to put slicks back on was dropping them another lap behind the rest of us contending for a podium.
I was still sticking to the 64 Corvette. More, I was developing my plan. It hinged on what everyone thought of me. I was the rookie, the untried one, the one without much experience in the car, Series, and track. The girl. But I was a pro, and I’d been learning fast. I was learning more by following Duncan around the track—especially how to get around him.
For the fifty minutes I’d been in the car, I’d played everything cautiously. The only exception had been the blocking maneuver I pulled on Duncan with the orange Porsche in the Climbing Turn. But everyone who’d seen me do that had seen me almost lose the back end of the car and later be passed—they might think I was gun-shy now. The advantage I had was that no one would expect me to make a gutsy, aggressive move. I smiled under my helmet. They didn’t know me very well. Time to show them what Kate Reilly can and will do.
It took me a dozen more laps to find the right opportunity. During that time, I watched, waited, and hung back, making sure not to get too close to Duncan, which would signal I was looking to pass. I’d keep that a surprise.
Then it happened. Coming out of West Bend behind him, I saw a Porsche ahead and realized the timing would work out perfectly. Mirrors: clear. No faster prototype to come from behind and mess this up. This was it. Time to see if I’d learned just how far I could push this car. I stepped on the throttle, zooming up behind Duncan going into the Diving Turn, carrying more speed through it than ever.
Just as I’d expected, Duncan made no move to get around the Porsche early—which he might have done if he’d thought about blocking me. Which he should have done. But he hadn’t expected my move. My nose next to his rear wheels, on the right. He was turning, stuffed up against the back of the Porsche. I held on to the Corvette, turning as hard as I dared, foot hovering over the throttle, squeezing it. Hoping. Not sliding yet. Turning. Past Duncan. Turning. Not sliding yet. Next to the Porsche. Past! Past! And I’d done it!
“Whoooo hooooo!” I yelled. I was shooting down the front straight, building on the tremendous speed I’d carried through the Diving Turn. Duncan wasn’t far behind me, but he’d lost speed in that last corner and lost time and momentum with it.
My radio burst to life. “Hot dang, Kate! Great move! That’s our girl!” Bruce sounded almost surprised.
I pressed the radio button and treated my pit crew to another “Wooo hooo!”
Mike transmitted for the first time, laughing. “Hell of a pass, Kate. Good work.”
Then Jack. “Fantastic job, Kate. That won’t work too many times on these guys, but it sure as hell did this time. Keep it up.”
“Whatever gets the job done,” I returned, then bent my attention to staying in front of Duncan. My adrenaline was so high by that point it would have taken a miracle for anyone in our class to pass me. I was in the groove, and I stayed that way until a caution came out ten laps later.
Chapter Forty-eight
I was prepared for this caution, since I had a front row seat to its cause: a Porsche that lost an argument with the tire barrier in West Bend. From the number of body parts it shed limping back to the pits, I knew we’d see another full course caution for debris. I also knew my stint in the car was over.
I stayed on the throttle, still racing hard, until I saw the double-yellow in the Esses.
Bruce radioed. “Full course caution. Driver change, Kate. Come in when pits open.”
“OK.” I was already halfway around the track, and the pits weren’t open the next time by. The officials displayed a red flag at the entrance, for safety and to give all drivers a chance to enter the pits at the same time. You could still enter them on a red flag, but you’d incur a penalty—you only did so if you couldn’t make it around the track another lap.
The pace car was twelve or fifteen cars ahead of me—and the cars in first and second place in class were between it and me on the track. We’d gotten lucky again not to lose a lap.
I circled the track once more, sedately this time, soaking in my last lap. For the first time, I wasn’t tense, panicked, or scared. I was relieved and proud. I’d pulled myself together quickly and performed well. I could only have been happier if it was a victory lap after winning the race. But I’d won my own race.
All too soon, I followed half a dozen cars into pit lane, hitting the speed limiter button, loosening belts, and yanking out cables. I reached our pit stall and stopped the car with a jerk, pulling off the steering wheel almost before the engine died. Bubs was there to help me the second the car shut down, opening the door and taking down the net. I hauled myself out of the car as quickly as possible, directing my quivering muscles to do this one last job before they collapsed. I reached back in for my seat insert and got myself out of the pits and over the wall.
I turned to watch the crew finish the pit stop as I removed my gloves, helmet, and HANS. Aunt Tee was next to me, also watching, waiting to take my gear. Mike pulled away in the car, and we all moved forward to the wall, looking left to the blue LinkTime pits of the factory Corvette team. Seconds after Mike left, the 64 car passed us. Our crew climbed back over the wall, whooping and exchanging high fives for staying ahead with a fast pit stop. I breathed a sigh of relief at holding up my end of the bargain.
I pulled off my balaclava and moaned at the pleasure of a breeze blowing against my face. The fire-retardant layer was vitally necessary and effective, but it wasn’t comfortable. My whole body and every stitch of clothing was soaking wet. I tried not to think about feeling clammy and gross.
Aunt Tee held out a wet towel and a bottle of water. I took the bottle first, drank half, then leaned back and poured the rest over my head. I handed her the empty and finger-combed my hair, noticing I had an audience: Mr. and Mrs. Purley and Mr. and Mrs. Active-Fit, suited up and watching avidly from the back of the pit.
“Thanks,” I mouthed to Aunt Tee, as I slung the wet towel around my neck. I unzipped my firesuit and struggled out of the top half with her help. More relief. I pushed up the sleeves of my Nomex undershirt, and then I was ready for a second bottle of water.
She turned to go, and I put a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for everything, Aunt Tee.”
She gave me a huge smile, crinkling up the corners of her eyes. She reached out and cupped my face in both of her hands. “You’re welcome, Kate. Great job.”
That nearly brought tears to my eyes, as keyed up and emotional as I was now that my stint was over. Then Jack was in front of me, having climbed down from his perch at the control panel.
“Kate.”
“Jack?”
His face creased into a smile. “Damn good drive, kid.”
I relaxed. “Thanks, boss.”
He stepped closer to me and put an arm around my shoulders. I told myself not to think about his rental car. We turned together to see the pace car lead the field down the front straight.
He waited until they’d passed and the noise had died down to speak. “You were driving great, and then you got passed, and I thought, hell, that’s too bad, but I’ll take fourth after this crazy weekend. It’s more than I would have hoped for, to be honest. And then, damn! You got him! I’ll remember that for a long time. You took everyone by surprise—what I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall down at the 64 pit.”
I must have been glowing, filled with pride and pleasure. I took a deep breath and held it, regaining control—because I’d lose all credibility if I cried in the
pits. “I was so pissed when I let him by. I had to get it back.”
We paused again as the noise level rose and the field passed us once more. The pace car lights were out. Last lap before green.
Jack squeezed my shoulders as he moved away. “You did good. Take a break. Or talk to the media.” He jerked his head toward the pit walkway, where I saw Zeke waving at me. Tom and our sponsors were also back there, crowded against the back fence, watching my every move. I smiled and waved to them as I made my way to the SPEED crew.
“Great stint, Kate!” Zeke said when I reached him. “Can I have a word on camera?”
I nodded at him, about to respond, when he pressed his earpiece to his ear and held up a finger. “Yeah,” he said into his microphone, talking to the control booth. “OK, I’ll wait with her.”
He turned to me. “We’ve just got to wait for Allen to interview Greg.” He gestured at his SPEED Channel colleague, standing in the next pit with a driver whose crash had caused this caution.
We saw them start talking as the noise level ramped up and the field swept down the front straight for the green flag. Zeke’s cameraman stood across the aisle in a patch of shade, and Zeke and I watched the monitors. Mike was still in third, using traffic well to stay ahead of the 64. A piece of notepaper appeared in my face, handed down by Jack. It read: “Fastest lap: 51.970. Faster than Mike so far. Consistent laps in fifty-twos and fifty-threes.”
I looked up at him, but Jack was facing forward again, watching the monitors. I settled for bouncing on my toes and showing Zeke the paper.
“Looks like Katie-Q’s trying to get herself a job!”
“We’ll see, Zeke.”
His face went blank, listening, and he gestured to the cameraman. He spoke into his microphone. “OK, we’re ready.” He turned to me. “Five seconds, Kate.”
Then the camera was in my face, and Zeke was talking. “I’m here with Series newcomer Kate Reilly who got a late call to drive this weekend for Sandham Swift Racing. She got in the car today and delivered a great performance. How did you get up to speed so quickly, Kate?”
“You know, when you get tossed in the water, it’s sink or swim. I was gonna swim!”
Zeke laughed with me. “Now that you’ve actually spent some time on this track, what do you think about it?”
“It’s pretty interesting. There aren’t as many challenges as on others, since it’s short, but they come at you faster. So you’re always on, always working.”
“Now, Kate, tell me about that great pass you pulled off near the end of your stint. Took some people by surprise, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “The Number 64 made a minor mistake, carrying a little too much speed into the corner behind another car and not being able to defend the inside. He left it too late to turn in and block me. But I was waiting for that. And I couldn’t have done it without the fantastic crew here with the Sandham Swift Racegear.com Corvette, and Mike, my co-driver. They all gave me a wonderfully prepared car to drive. And thanks also to our sponsors, Racegear.com, Active-Fit Clothing, and Leninger’s Enduro Shine, for welcoming me this weekend and making our effort possible.”
“Thanks, Kate, and we’ll hope to see you at more races in the future with this team. Benny, Ian, back to you.”
Zeke slapped me on the back. “Great work, Kate. See you!” He trotted off, cameraman in tow.
Immediately, Tom, Mrs. Purley, and the Active-Fits stepped in front of me, mouthing “Congratulations,” and “Great job.” They patted me on the back—yuck, wet shirt—and shook my hand, wearing perma-grins that stretched from ear to ear, a typical reaction of visitors to the pits. Tom led them away, with a parting thumbs-up.
I finally stood alone—there were people around me, but no one else demanding my attention. I turned to the monitors, looking for Mike but not really seeing anything onscreen. Instead, I replayed my drive, searching for errors and areas to improve, but also exulting over what I knew had been a great job. Maybe not the best job, and maybe not the best I’d ever drive the car or the track—but a damn good showing, given the circumstances. I wanted to jump up and down, scream, and throw my arms around, but I restrained myself. I looked at Jack, running the team up on his perch, and Tom, shepherding guests through the pits, and I felt sorry for anyone who couldn’t go racing for a living. I had the best job in the whole world.
A few minutes later, as I was drinking my third bottle of water and realizing how wet and clammy I still was, Zeke hurried toward me. He stuck his mouth next to my ear, to be heard over the wailing engines.
“Meant to tell you,” he shouted. “Our guys found that tape with Wade on it.”
I nodded my head.
“We can show you, if you want. But I saw it.” He pulled back and grimaced before leaning forward again. “Wade was standing outside your team area. It’s nearly dark—the time code showed 9:15.”
“That’s after we saw him at The Boathouse that night.”
“He was arguing with someone. There was no sound on the tape, no other people—the track was basically empty, and the crew was getting shots of the sunset for background, montage stuff. They were filming from the other side of the track, zooming in. But you could see them both accusing each other. Yelling—you could read a couple swear words on Wade’s lips. And once, it looked like he said ‘you are done,’ as he made a throat-slashing motion. They came to blows. Threw a couple punches, then stopped and went in different directions.”
I nodded, waiting. Zeke didn’t say anything. I pulled back and made a “come on” motion with my hands.
“Kate, it was Mike.”
Chapter Forty-nine
Zeke had been gone for ten minutes before I stopped feeling numb. He’d assured me the police had their own copy of the tape. I didn’t know if that reassured or upset me. Both, probably. It was hard to ignore evidence putting Mike and Jack both at the scene of Wade’s murder.
The police would also have the car evidence already, I realized—and have checked it out. If they hadn’t arrested Jack yet, maybe he was clear? There was still one car unaccounted for Friday night. I wanted to believe Jack wasn’t involved. But what about Mike? Was he angry Wade was going to get him kicked off the team? Mike admitted arguing with Wade, but I was surprised to hear they’d come to blows, given how nonviolent Mike appeared. Then I remembered the incident Benny and Ian teased Mike about over dinner—the time he went after another driver on the track.
Still, I didn’t like to think it was Mike who’d killed Wade. He was in Wade’s notebook a number of times, as was Jack—but why would Mike bring up the notebook if he’d been the one to kill Wade? To find out who had it? Or to shift the blame to other people? Did he know about Jim and Trent cheating and think they’d be obvious suspects? I shook my head. It would have taken a lot of duplicity. But a video tape didn’t lie: Mike had been at the track late Friday evening, exchanging punches with Wade.
I was distracted from these thoughts as a driver strolled down the pits and stopped next to me. Duncan Forsythe was expressionless as he stuck out his hand.
I warily shook.
His face broke open with an enormous smile, and he laughed—I could hear it over the car noise. He pumped my hand twice and, still holding it, leaned in. “Hell of a move. I’ll never underestimate you again!” With a wink and another handshake, he ambled away.
I grinned after him and turned back to the monitors to find our car.
Mike was staying ahead of the 64, running good times. How could I face Mike when he got out of the car at the end of the race? Or Jack? At least there would be plenty of other people around, including Detective Jolley, since he must have gotten the information about the video by now. Jolley. I needed to talk to him. He didn’t have the information Holly had given me—which added significantly to Mike’s possible motive. And I wanted reassurance that Jack wasn’t a k
iller.
I looked around, at the pits, at the parts of the paddock I could see through the chain link fence. I couldn’t see Jolley. But I did see Eddie two pits away, and I ran down there.
Before Eddie could react, I’d pulled him to the back of the pit walkway next to a rack of tires.
“Kate, this isn’t—”
“Eddie, listen. I only want to apologize and make it clear that nothing Wade knew will go any farther than me.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Just tell me one thing. Was Crystal someone connected with Wade? Or any other driver or supplier here?” I wanted to ask about Jim or Trent, but didn’t.
Eddie tilted his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he heaved a big sigh, put his head close to mine, and looked me in the eye, grabbing my forearm as well. “I’m going to tell you something to get you off my back. But I never want to hear it mentioned again, to me or to anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Whoa, Eddie, forget—”
He shook my arm. “Shut up, you’ve asked, and you’ll not let it go, I’m thinking.” He looked grim and spoke in a low tone. “Years ago, I was very stupid. Very stupid indeed. I was addicted to drugs.”
I stared at him, eyes wide.
“I was addicted to methamphetamines. Meth. Crystal-meth. Wade found out.”
“I’m…sorry, Eddie.” I gasped, horrified I’d pushed to know this.
He glanced away, licked his lips. Looked back at me. “My team owner knows. Wade found out. Now you know. That’s it. I’ve been clean for a decade. I’ll never go back. But it would ruin me.”
Dead Man’s Switch Page 25
