Over the Wall
Page 1
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Over the Wall
Copyright © 2007 by Chris Fabry. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration of car © 2007 by Peter Bollinger. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2006 by Brian Regnerus. All rights reserved.
Designed by Stephen Vosloo
Edited by Lorie Popp
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fabry, Chris, date.
Over the wall / Chris Fabry.
p. cm. — (RPM ; #2)
Summary: When Jamie is accepted at an elite NASCAR training school sponsored by a competing racing team, her parents try to get her to trust God to help her decide what to do.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1265-1 (sc : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-4143-1265-2 (sc : alk. paper)
[1. Automobile racing—Fiction. 2. Family life—North Carolina—Fiction. 3. Foster home care—Fiction. 4. NASCAR (Association)—Fiction. 5. Christian life—Fiction. 6. North Carolina—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.F1178Ov 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2007011380
ISBN 978-1-4143-3248-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-3249-9 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8648-5 (Apple)
Build: 2013-04-04 11:35:04
This book is dedicated to Manny and Sheri Saldana, 3/11/07. Through twists and turns, may he always make your path clear.
Contents
Chapter 1: Ambulance Chase
Chapter 2: Discovery
Chapter 3: Hospital
Chapter 4: Bad News
Chapter 5: A Dangerous Sport
Chapter 6: The Nomination
Chapter 7: Family, Faith, and a Fast Car
Chapter 8: Two Hearts
Chapter 9: Swamp Confession
Chapter 10: Autographed Car
Chapter 11: Missed Call
Chapter 12: The Bounce
Chapter 13: The Letter
Chapter 14: Surprise Visitor
Chapter 15: First Flight
Chapter 16: Facing Sparky
Chapter 17: Race Prep
Chapter 18: Abraham’s Choice
Chapter 19: Elephant
Chapter 20: Sunday Morning Coming Down
Chapter 21: Chapel
Chapter 22: Couch Talk
Chapter 23: Texas Motor Speedway
Chapter 24: The Feed
Chapter 25: Chasing the Leader
Chapter 26: Thrilling End
Chapter 27: Finger-Pointing
Chapter 28: New Room
Chapter 29: Butch’s Offer
Chapter 30: Racing School
Chapter 31: Safe-Deposit Box
Chapter 32: Bud’s Order
About the Author
“When the helmet goes on we’re all equal. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a boy or a girl, 13 years old or 30. I’m a race car driver and that’s it.”
Michelle Theriault
“Stuff happens pretty quick. This time a year ago, I was testing the 16 car for Biffle and that was just a dream come true. . . .”
David Ragan
“Circumstances may appear to wreck our lives and God’s plans, but God is not helpless among the ruins. God’s love is still working. He comes in and takes the calamity and uses it victoriously, working out his wonderful plan of love.”
Eric Liddell
Chapter 1
Ambulance Chase
“MOM, SOMETHING AWFUL has happened,” Jamie Maxwell said, her voice shaking. Her hands were also shaking, almost too much to hold her cell phone as she hurried toward Chad Devalon’s crashed car.
“Where are you?” her mother said, her voice even and unemotional, though Jamie could tell she was trying hard to stay in control.
Jamie had said nothing to her parents about her test drive in the Devalon car. She now knew that had been a mistake, and she’d hear it from both her mom and her dad when she saw them.
“I’m headed over to the hospital in a few minutes,” Jamie said. “Could you meet me at Memorial?”
Her mom hesitated. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Okay, we’ll go right over there.”
Jamie had beaten the others calling 911 when Chad Devalon crashed, telling the dispatcher their location at the track as the car teetered on its top in the infield. Chad’s father, Butch Devalon, and the owner of the Devalon racing team, Shane Hardwick, raced toward the car along with the track manager, who carried a fire extinguisher.
“Chad!” Butch Devalon shouted, and Jamie thought it was the worst sound in the world to hear a father yell his child’s name into a wrecked car.
Chad wasn’t talking or moving that she could tell—a bad sign.
Mr. Devalon fumbled with the window net, trying to reach the six-point harness.
“Hold up,” Mr. Hardwick said, releasing the window net easily.
“He’s right,” Jamie said. Her voice sounded strange, as if even speaking to someone who’d been in racing as long as these two was sacrilegious. Something inside took over, and she spoke, her voice stronger. “We should get the car off its top before you release him. You unbuckle that strap, and he’s going to slam straight into the roof.”
The track manager agreed. “Yeah, I’ll get my truck.” He returned with a Ford F-250, spinning his tires in the infield grass, a chain clanking in the bed. By then, the swirling siren of the ambulance wafted over the track like a song.
“I don’t need no ambulance,” Chad muttered.
“Just hang in there, Son,” Mr. Devalon said.
Jamie had seen the swagger and the strut of Butch Devalon nearly all her life. Her dad had raced against him, first in trucks, then moving their way up the NASCAR ladder to the cup races. When Mr. Devalon didn’t finish first or even in the top 10, he was still the picture of self-confidence. Every step said, I’m number one, even if I didn’t win today. In interviews, he made sure everyone knew the other guy never actually won the race—he lost it. He’d made a mistake or the team had done something wrong. He let everyone know he should have been in the winner’s circle—and would be next time.
However, the swagger was gone—at least temporarily—as Mr. Devalon told his son to keep quiet. He seemed scattered, not knowing what to say or do.
“Blood’s running to my head,” Chad said, a little stronger now.
The track manager hooked the chain to the car and gently pulled it until the wheels slammed onto the grass.
Butch Devalon unhooked the harness and popped the steering wheel, but the roof was so dented that Jamie wondered if they could squeeze Chad through the opening.
She turned and waved at the ambulance as it came through the front gate and onto the track. When she looked back, they had Chad sitting on the ground and were taking off his helmet.
The paramedics arrived and moved everyone away. Chad protested louder now, telling the men he was fine and there was no reason for them to be here. They pointed a light at his eyes and tried to keep him still, but he kept pushing them away.
“Let ’em take a look at you,” Mr. Hardwick said. “It’s for your own good.”
The paramedics put him on a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance.
Butch Devalon got in the back with Chad and glanced at Jamie. He tried to smile, but lines of worry creased his face.
Jamie ran through the gate and up the hill to her car. Her cell phone rang as she pulled out behind the ambulance.
“Jamie, it’s Cassie,” her friend said. Her voice felt like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. “I heard something was wrong.”
“How did you hear that?” Jamie said.
“Your mom called the prayer tree, and we’re at the top of the list. What’s going on?”
The prayer tree. Cassie made it sound like a living thing. Basically it was a list of names and phone numbers people at their church called when somebody found out they had a disease or went into rehab or had a teenager in trouble. Jamie called it the “gossip bush” just to make her mom mad. As far as she knew, this was the first time she had made the list, though she figured the guy in Florida, Tim Carhardt, had been on one of the branches.
Cassie Strower was Jamie’s best friend. As kids they’d spent summer nights camping out and winter nights at sleepovers. They still had their nails done together on special occasions, but they’d grown apart the more time Jamie spent racing. Cassie was the “perfect” daughter. A strong Christian. She was the kind of girl Jamie figured her mom wished she had. That halo over her head was the only thing Jamie didn’t like about Cassie. She had a dependence on God that Jamie knew she would never have.
“I can’t talk now, Cassie. I’m on my way to the hospital. Just pray for Chad. He’s been in an accident at the track.”
“Got it,” Cassie said.
Chapter 2
Discovery
TIM CARHARDT STARED at the small suitcase on his bed. The zipper was stuck halfway, so he couldn’t get it open or closed. He’d taped the back of it so it wouldn’t flop open. The bottom was frayed from use and smelled like Tyson’s closet—which smelled a lot like smoky cotton balls.
Tyson stuck his head in the door. “We’re headed over to Wal-Mart. You need anything?”
Since Tyson and his wife had discovered Tim was moving to North Carolina, they’d been nicer. Vera had even taken the stickers off most of the food in the refrigerator. The ones that said Vera’s, do not touch.
Tim shook his head and Tyson shut the door. Tim could count on one hand the number of times the guy had asked if he needed anything. Most of the time Tim felt like an unwanted pimple (and what pimple is wanted?) in their lives. He was looking forward to getting away, not just from them but from the trouble he’d found in Tallahassee.
The truck fired up outside. Every time it did, Tim shivered because it was his dad’s truck, and the sound reminded him that his dad was gone and never coming back. But his life was about to change big-time, and he couldn’t help but think things would get better.
There wasn’t much to pack. Mostly just his clothes, and he didn’t have many. Two pairs of jeans. A few T-shirts. Underwear. He’d thought about starting to shave, but every time he passed the razors and shaving cream at the drugstore, he’d gotten cold feet. Those commercials on TV made shaving look like it was a breeze, but he’d tried it once with one of Tyson’s old razors and cut himself under his nose. He wished he had someone who could show him how to do it, but he wasn’t about to ask Tyson. The guy would just laugh and point at what he would call the peach fuzz on Tim’s face.
A motor chugged to a stop outside, and Tim’s heart jumped. Whenever he heard someone pass, he thought it might be Jeff and his friends who had jumped him. He couldn’t wait to get away so he wouldn’t have to worry about that. They had taken from him the one thing that meant the most—his dad’s diary. When Tim read a few pages, it felt like a connection with his dad. Now all he had was the sweat-stained hat his father had given him with the number and logo of the race crew his dad used to work for.
Something clicked outside. Then a motor revved and gravel spun. Tim looked out and saw a rusted Bronco pulling away from the mailbox. It was the wild-haired mail lady. When they had a lot of bills, she’d secure the mail with a rubber band, and Tim sometimes found her hair wrapped in with it.
He walked to the box and looked up and down the street of the trailer park. Some younger kids played a game of tag next door and squealed. At the end were a few older kids wearing goggles. They used pellet guns and played war, the pellets pinging off the tin trailers and an occasional curse floating down the street. Vera called them the devil kids, and she told Tim to stay away from them. She didn’t have to tell him. He liked the thought of shooting a pellet gun but didn’t like the thought of getting hit with one.
He grabbed a handful of mail and stepped into the dimly lit kitchen. Pizza coupons. Flyers for half-off LASIK surgery. A big sale at the supermarket—pork chops and Coca-Cola were on the front page. Lots of other junk mail, a few bills, and what looked like a check from the government. Probably the aid his social worker said was supposed to come every month. Tim didn’t see any of that money, of course.
However, one envelope caught his eye because it was a dark brown and seemed important. The return address said McConnel and Brennan, Attorneys at Law and listed an address in North Carolina. The flap of the envelope was loose in one spot, and Tim pried it open and saw just a portion of the letter. All he could see was . . . rtin Carhardt estate, but that’s all he needed to send his heart racing.
Tim dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and rushed back to his room. He sat on his bed and stared at the envelope. It was addressed to Tyson Slade, but since it had his dad’s name inside, he couldn’t help feeling like it was his.
Carefully he tore the rest of the envelope and it ripped. He was going to have a hard time explaining that. He pulled the page out at an angle, but it was difficult because the paper was a lot thicker than regular paper.
The letter said Dear Mr. Slade at the top, and Tim shook his head. If these people had any idea what kind of guy Tyson was, they wouldn’t have called him Mr. Tim had wondered why his dad hadn’t prepared a will, but the bigger mystery now was why he’d put Tyson in charge of his money and belongings. Why hadn’t his dad put Tim’s name on the will?
The first part was a greeting and some legal mumbo jumbo Tim didn’t understand. But he read the next paragraph twice.
Per your request, we are writing you instead of the son of the deceased. We hope Timothy is recovering from his devastating loss. This letter is to inform you that we have liquidated the remainder of the Martin Carhardt estate with the exception of the truck you have in your possession, the miscellaneous items in storage, and the other item in the safe-deposit box.
“What item?” Tim said out loud. Tyson had told him his dad didn’t even have a will, and here was a letter from a lawyer that showed his dad had left something behind.
The letter continued.
After settling the fees to the various creditors and paying the rest of the loan on the truck, there is a positive balance of $324.56. Unless otherwise instructed, we will mail that sum to you at the end of the six-month waiting period.
The letter ended with instructions on how to get in touch with the lawyers and then added:
We are including a key to the safe-deposit box with this letter. We have a duplicate here at the office if you would prefer having us send you the contents.
Tim looked at the plastic case with the tiny key. He held it up and checked the number, wondering what could be in the box at the bank.
Chapter 3
Hospital
JAMIE FOLLOWED THE AMBULANCE toward the hospital, the radio off for a change. (She usually kept it on a local station and up loud.) She was lost in how great her run around the track had been and how awful she felt about Chad, her thoughts swirling like the lights of the ambulance in front of her. If she hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have tried so hard to beat
her. The whole thing was her fault.
Another part of her knew that Chad had made his own choices. Everybody made their own way, their own decisions, and Chad had made a bad one. The only question was whether he’d live to make any more.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, God,” she prayed out loud, “but . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped at a red light, the ambulance rolling right through it.
Who was she kidding? If God was more than just a hope and a dream her parents believed in, she might have kept praying or perhaps promised she’d go to church every Sunday for the rest of her life or become a nun in some convent or never use bad language when she blew a test in biology. Or all of the above.
If God was really up there listening, he’d probably written her off a long time ago for all the stuff she’d done, all the rules she’d broken, all the services she’d missed. She’d promised him those things before—several times—like in New Hampshire when her dad had T-boned the wall doing 185. She and her mom had rushed to the infield care center, hoping, praying. Her mother had been unbelievably calm but still concerned. Her dad had been okay in the end, but Jamie never forgot the promises she’d made to God and how much she’d gone back on every one of them.
“You don’t have any reason to help me, because I’ve done the opposite of everything I promised. But if you’d make Chad okay, I’d appreciate it.”
She had a hard time finding a parking space at the hospital, then ran into the emergency waiting room, where Mr. Hardwick paced. Chad’s father was at one of the computer terminals giving a lady some information.
“Do you know anything yet?” Jamie said.
“Butch said he was groggy but talking in the ambulance,” Mr. Hardwick said. “Chad didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was clear he didn’t want to come here.”
Jamie glanced around at the sad faces in the plastic chairs and couldn’t blame Chad. The hospital staff concentrated on their jobs, moving from area to area without looking at any of them.