“Fine by me.”
“That’s the spirit. Hell, 99% of all accidents are caused by cars swerving into you or cutting you off, or by some driver pushing his ride over the limit in a turn and losing traction. We’re gonna be the only wheels on the track.”
Crane eased the car along pit lane for about 100 yards and then entered the main track.
“If this was a race, of course, I’d have left rubber back there and shot out onto the track like a bat out of hell,” he said.
Once on the main track, they picked up speed as Crane expertly shifted through gears. It was getting warm in the car, but Scarne was enjoying himself. He could feel the pent-up power of the throbbing engine. He also felt that sense of anticipation, the rush of heightened senses that he recalled from combat assaults of his past.
“We’ll take it slow the first couple of times around, so’s you can get used to it. It’ll be loud, but not so loud as when there’s 40 other cars all around, so we should be able to hear each other.”
In fact, except when Crane was shifting gears, the whining engine allowed for almost normal conversation.
“Got any questions, Jake, let ‘em fly. Be glad to try to answer them. During a real race, of course, I’d have to concentrate like a bastard. Wouldn’t be able to hear much over the roar of the other cars anyway, except what comes out of the earpiece in my helmet. That’s how we get our instructions from our spotters and the pit crew. Our heads and necks are so constricted by the safety devices we can hardly turn them to see out the mirrors. When we pass a car or shoot for position, it’s usually after we’re told it’s OK.” Crane tapped his helmet. “You have a receiver in your helmet, too. You might be able to hear some chatter if the try to reach me. But that’s not likely. We’re the only car out here. They’d only call me if there’s an emergency. Like if they see we’re on fire, or a wheel is about to come off. Only kidding! How are you doing?”
“Fine. I’m a little hot, but it’s bearable.”
“It can get up to 135 degrees in here during a race. After a couple of hours, it’s mighty unpleasant.”
“How do you stay hydrated?”
They were picking up speed noticeably.
“We drink a lot before a race, and take plenty of salt to retain water. And we can drink out of a tube attached to a reservoir in our suits. But all that liquid presents a problem, of course. Usually have to piss in our suits. That’s why you see a lot of the guys pouring water in their lap when they finish a race. Kind of dilutes things, if you get my meanin’. Won’t be a problem for me today, or you, I’d think.”
They entered a turn at what Scarne estimated was about 100 miles an hour. He was pressed toward the side of the car as the wall shot past and they entered a straightaway.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said.
Crash laughed.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“I noticed a tube coming out the top of your helmet. That’s can’t be for water.”
“No. I didn’t even bring the water pack today. This suit has a small self-contained air-conditioning unit. Blows cool air over my face. Comes on automatically when temperature hits about 110. The old water-cooled suits were better, but they needed a reservoir under the dash up against the engine. They tended to crack open during a race and then you had a suit full of hot water. Been damn near poached a couple of times, so I switched to the helmet system. Matter of fact, the AC just kicked in. It costs like $6,000, so they don’t put it in the suit we put on you civilians. Sorry about that. But you won’t need it for the short time you’re in the car. I’m out here all day. Have nothing else on my plate, so I’m running some of the team’s backup cars. Testing engine timing, pressures, drag coefficients, that sort of thing.”
Scarne noticed that when Crane was discussing the technical aspects of his job, he dropped the good ‘ol boy routine, and spoke with the cadence of a college professor.
“Hey, you break the cologne bottle this morning, Jake?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something smells pretty good in here, and it ain’t me, that’s for sure,” Crane said, laughing loudly. “Hell, I farted a while back there and I been waitin’ for it to work its way up the suit. Only entertainment we get in here sometimes.”
They were coming to another turn, and it was obvious to Scarne that the car’s speed had increased dramatically.
“How fast are we going now?”
Crash didn’t answer. He was still laughing. Then he started whistling a show tune. Scarne repeated the question, louder.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, just passed 140.” He started singing. “I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair. I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair.”
The wall at a turn loomed up faster than Scarne would have thought possible. At seemingly the last possible moment, Crash pulled into a tight turn and shot around the corner. Now Scarne really felt the G-forces, particularly in his neck and head. Crash was shouting.
“You see South Pacific?’ Great fuckin’ show. Can’t get those songs out of my head. “Gonna have to wash them songs right out of my head, gonna have to wash them songs right out of my head.”
Drivers really are nuts, Scarne thought. Probably have to be. Now they were really moving. Even in the straightaway Scarne was pressed back in his seat. He tried to look over at Crash, but the helmet restraint limited his movements. He strained his neck to look out his window. They seemed to be very close to the wall. But Crash seemed calm, almost nonchalant. And he was still singing.
“I’m as corny as Kansas in August, I’m as – shit, what’s the word. I never can get that right. Hey, Jake, what goes with blueberry pie?”
By this time, the last thing on Scarne’s mind was blueberry pie. Another turn was rapidly approaching and he had visions of being smeared on it like cherry pie. Suddenly a voice in his earphone crackled.
“Hey, Crash, you just went by here at warp speed. You might want to dial it down a bit.” There was laughter. “Your passenger doesn’t have a barf bag.”
But the car didn’t seem to be slowing. It was hard to tell, but Scarne thought they were picking up speed.
“Hey, Crash, we hit 140 yet?” Scarne hated to ask, but that was the magic number they were not supposed to exceed.
“Hit? Hit?” Crash was laughing hysterically. “That’s a word we never use. Ooops. Looks like a turn coming up.”
As the car entered the sloping turn, Scarne was sure they would thud into the wall. From the corner of his eye, he could see only one of the driver’s hands on the wheel! Was it possible Crash was driving one-handed? Above the whine of the engine and the whoosh of the air between the car and the wall, Scarne strained to hear. Crash was singing again. Bali Hai. The damned musical again. Then another sound surged into Scarne’s consciousness. The car was scraping along the wall! He noted in horrid fascination a stream of sparks shooting by his window.
Suddenly it was over. They had made it. They were on a straightaway. Before he could say anything, the earpiece in his helmet crackled.
“Crash. We clocked you at 190! What the hell happened? You’d better bring her in.” There was no banter or laughter now. “You hear us, Crash? Pit that sucker!”
“Sure thing, boys,” Crash said, his tone suddenly mock serious. “Be right there.” Then he chuckled.
Scarne breathed a sigh of relief. He was sweating profusely, and not all of it was from the heat. The car slowed and pulled into the innermost lane. Scarne could see the pit area ahead. Several men were standing at its entrance. One was waving his arms. He estimated that the car was down to, perhaps, 120 miles an hour. He braced himself for the intense braking that would undoubtedly come momentarily.
Except it never did. To Scarne’s horror, Crane entered the pit area without further reducing his speed.
“Fill ‘er up, boys,” Crane shouted, amid angry shouts and screams as the stock car roared through the confined ramp area. Pit crewmen ran for their lives, with some
jumping clear over the railing. As fast as they were going, everything seemed to slow down for Scarne, and his heightened senses recorded a parade of shocked faces. Miraculously, they didn’t hit anything other than a large tool cart which flew backwards over their car with a loud clang, spraying wrenches and sockets in every direction. But Scarne’s elation at not slaughtering the pit crew was short lived as the car roared back onto the track and again picked up speed.
“That’s what I call a fuckin’ pit stop,” Crane said, laughing maniacally. “Must have set a record. Now, let’s see if this baby can do 200!”
They were on a straightaway. Scarne had had enough. There was no way he would let this lunatic hit 200. They’d go through a wall. Straining, he reached over and grabbed the wheel, yelling at Crane to stop the car.
“Oh, you want to drive, Jake?” Crane’s tone was eerily reasonable. “Be my guest.” Then he reached onto the steering column, flipped a lever and removed the wheel, which he blithely handed to his horrified passenger.
That did it. They were entering a small turn and the car fishtailed and then went totally out of control, spinning around several times before hitting an outside wall. The impact sent the car back across the track to the infield sideways. When the two wheels on the left side hit the softer dirt, the stock car rolled over several times. At one point it twirled on its nose, became airborne and then flipped end over end. Large and small pieces, including both hood and trunk, flew off, as did two tires.
Scarne had been momentarily knocked out by the initial wall impact. He came to about halfway through the rolls and watched in fascination as the sky, ground and stands alternated in a kaleidoscope through the shatterproof windshield. After what seemed an eternity, the mangled wreck finally slid to a stop on its roof in a cloud of dust that blocked Scarne’s vision completely.
Upside down and stunned, he was nevertheless mystified by the near silence. He braced himself for the inevitable explosion and fire. But although he could smell fuel, nothing happened. The sound of approaching sirens shook him from his daze. He tried to crawl out the window. He couldn’t budge. Panicking, he thought himself paralyzed. Then he realized that he was still tightly harnessed. Forcing himself to think calmly, he unhooked all his safety apparatus, as he had been drilled. He put his hands on the door frame and pulled himself onto the ground in a fraction of the time it had taken him to get in the car. The prospect of being broiled alive was a great motivator.
The sirens were getting closer. He looked back and saw two trucks racing his way, with men running in their wake. He smelled smoke and looked on the track. The car engine was sitting 150 feet away, burning. He pulled himself together. Crash was still in the car, which he assumed could go up at any second. He got to his feet and immediately fell down. All his teeth hurt. In fact, his entire head felt like it might fall off. But he half crawled, half walked to the driver’s side and reached in to unhook Crane, who was limp. He grabbed the unconscious man by the shoulders and began to pull him out. Only his legs remained inside the cab when several firemen and attendants ran up and doused them both with foam. One man reached in to grab the driver’s legs.
“Where’s the goddamn steering wheel?”
“Don’t ask.”
Together they pulled Crane out the rest of the way and dragged him a safe distance from the wreck. They lay him on the grass. He was motionless. An emergency worker gingerly unzipped his suit and removed his helmet. He tilted the driver’s head back to clear his airway and started breathing into his mouth.
“What the hell, you doin’, boy?” Crash sat up so suddenly the EMT yelped. “We ain’t even engaged.” He then looked around at the stunned men. “Did I win?” Then he looked at Scarne. “Hey Jake, how’s it hangin’? What’s everybody staring at? Did I forget to turn the engine off or somethin’.”
In unison, all the men turned to look over at the track, where a fire truck was spraying the smoldering remains of the car’s power plant. Crane appeared not to notice. He lay back down and started singing. I’m gonna wash that song right outa my hair. I’m gonna wash that song .… Soon he was asleep, and snoring contentedly.
“Let’s get him to a hospital,” the EMT said. “Must be brain damage.”
“He’s fine,” Scarne said, and then passed out.
***
In the grandstand a few hundred yards away a handful of spectators had watched the incident in shocked silence. Now all but one started jabbering excitedly. Two young children began crying as their parents comforted them. The man who wasn’t saying anything studied the wreck intently through a pair of binoculars. One of the other men in the stands turned to him.
“Jesus H. Christ,” the man exclaimed. “They have to be dead. Nobody could survive that. Can you see anything?”
Sobok lowered his binoculars.
“I wonder why there was no explosion and such a small fire,” he said to no one in particular. Then he turned to the children. He hadn’t expected any to be at the race track. Another miscalculation, one that bothered him. “It’s all right. No one was hurt. Just a lot of noise.”
It was obvious Scarne had survived the accident. A tough man to kill, he thought, with a tinge of admiration. Maybe if I had more time to set this up.
Sobok had gotten the call only the previous evening. The Internet had provided him with some ideas but he’d had to cobble together a plan in a few hours. Oh well, he thought, as he headed down the stairs. I suppose I could try again at whatever hospital they take him. Forget it. No more amateur hour.
Sobok turned back to the family with the children. He took off his V.I.P. badge. It had served its purpose, giving him the run of the track complex, including locker rooms and maintenance areas.
“This will get you in the private lunchroom,” he said, handing the badge to the father. “Why don’t you take the children there. I think it will give you a discount in the gift shop, as well. Take their mind off all this unpleasantness.”
The man stammered his thanks. As he walked away Sobok heard the wife say, “What a nice man!”
CHAPTER 27 – NO LAUGHING MATTER
This is getting ridiculous, Scarne thought. Another day, another hospital. He was having trouble remembering their names. Oh, yeah. This one was Wilkes-Barre General. He’d be safer if he reenlisted. Dudley thought this case would be an easy way for him to ease back into his old life. He might be on disability before he could do that. Honker and Graebe walked into the room.
“I missed lunch,” Scarne said.
“But not the wall,” Graebe said.
“How are you feeling,” Honker said, with what for him must have passed for concern. His tone reminded Scarne of his old gunnery sergeant who, despite the fact that Scarne outranked him, said the platoon was going to hell while its young officer was “goofing off” in the hospital with pneumonia.
“Not too bad, considering that the only part of my body that doesn’t ache is my left pinky. Just what the hell happened out there?”
“We’re not sure. Your driver, Crane, says he doesn’t remember a thing before he came to on the tarmac. We just left him. He’s just down the hall.”
“How is he?”
“Concussion. Lots of scrapes and bruises. Broken nose. And a separated shoulder, which we think he got when you wrenched him out of the car.” At this, Honker looked accusingly at Scarne.
“Next time, I’ll try to be more gentle. Maybe wait for an explosion to help throw the driver out.”
Graebe laughed
Honker wasn’t amused.
“What can you tell us about the incident?”
Incident? Apparently hitting a wall at almost 200 miles an hour, cart-wheeling 200 yards and ending up in an engine-less hulk of scrap metal didn’t qualify as an ‘accident’ or a ‘crash.’
Scarne sighed and told them everything he could recall.
Finally, Graebe spoke up.
“Jesus, I’m sure glad you signed that release form.”
“Believe me, you don’t
want my attorney looking at that form,” Scarne said dryly. He saw them exchange looks at the mention of a lawyer. “Don’t worry, boys, I’m not going to sue. But I want to know why one of your top drivers suddenly went berserk. I’d think you’d want to know, too.”
“Of course we do,” Honker snapped. “Despite his good old boy routine, Lex Crane is normally one of our most stable guys. We think perhaps he had some residual effects from his earlier accident. Maybe a seizure of some sort. Soon as he is up to it, the docs want to run some more scans. That may tell us something. In the meantime, if you can think of anything else, let us know.” As an afterthought, he added. “And, of course, if you need anything.”
Graebe put a couple of magazines on the bed stand. Car and Driver. “Thought you might want something to read.”
Scarne started to laugh, but it hurt.
“I had them drive your car over,” Honker said. “It’s in the hospital lot. The keys are with your effects.”
“How did you know which car was mine?”
“Be serious. No body in NASCAR would be caught dead driving an MGB.” Honker realized that the “caught dead” remark might be considered inappropriate. “I mean …”
This time Scarne did laugh. The men turned to leave.
“Wait a minute,” he said. They stopped. “Seizure, you say? I read somewhere that some people smell things just before they have one. Part of the epileptic aura. Crash said he smelled something funny just before he went off the deep end. But I have a hard time squaring a seizure with him singing the cast album from South Pacific.”
“What kind of smell?” Graebe was interested. “Like gasoline or oil?”
“No. Something sweet or flowery. He wasn’t too clear on it. I didn’t smell anything.”
The two visitors looked at each other.
“Shit,” Honker said.
They left without another word. A few minutes later Aristotle Arachne walked in.
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