Avoidable Contact (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

7:05 P.M. | 19:05 HOURS REMAINING

Raul and I had just swung onto the back straight out of NASCAR 2 when I noticed the wrong kind of motion in the distance. I saw cars entering the Bus Stop chicane, arrowing through the turns instead of swinging side-to-side through them. Going way too fast.

I kept pushing, pressing the Ferrari ahead, but I was ready for cars off-track, debris, or a flag. I wasn't ready for racecar carnage. For flames.

Over the next minutes and hours, I pieced together what I saw from a combination of split-second glances as I passed, and from video replays they showed briefly on SGTV.

My sister car, the number 30 Sandham Swift Corvette with Ian Davenport behind the wheel, had come out of the track's inner loop onto the banking of NASCAR 1 behind one of the all amateur-driven Benchmark Racing Porsches, the 77. Though the driver of the 77 tried to make his Porsche three lanes wide, he couldn't keep Ian behind him in the Corvette. As the track flattened out onto the back straight, Ian had passed the Porsche and begun to pull a gap.

Then came the Bus Stop.

Ian braked and turned in for the first, left-hand bend of the four-turn complex. The Porsche behind him slowed enough to make the first turn—barely. Then everything went wrong. The Porsche slammed into the left rear corner of the Corvette, which propelled both cars across pavement and grass, straight into the wall. Hard.

Neither driver could change the trajectory of the two-car missile—turning and braking were useless efforts when tires no longer had grip on the track—and the recent drizzle of rain meant the slick grass of the runoff area offered more help than resistance. Ian was fortunate to make impact with the right-front corner of the car first, so there was more car to absorb energy from the impact. But it was a huge hit.

Nearly every wall in the Speedway was lined with steel and foam energy reduction, or SAFER, barriers, designed to absorb and dissipate the forces in an accident. That action reduced deceleration forces on a driver and vehicle and hurt drivers less. In addition, in high-impact areas, walls were lined with stacks of tires that absorbed even more impact and energy. But tires and foam can only do so much.

Somehow Ian's Corvette swung around at the last second before impact, so the car slammed into the tire wall broadside at something north of 150 mph, burying the passenger side of the Corvette in the stacks of rubber.

The bit of turning by the Corvette opened up the driver's side to bear the full impact of the Porsche—which also managed to pivot. The end result was the worst possible: the Porsche's engine swung like a pendulum and smacked into the driver's door of the Corvette. The heaviest piece of the Porsche hit the Corvette at its point of least crumple zone for the driver.

Most of this was visible to me in the moment only as a vague sense of movement and plumes of dirt, mud, and grass kicked into the air. Plus an explosion of foam in the air as the cars hit the wall. As I followed the Ferrari down the back stretch, I didn't even know which cars were involved.

I braked on my mark. Glanced left again, looking for my line and trying to gather information on the accident—how bad it was, who it involved, and if it would bring out a caution.

First glance. Only two cars. Green Porsche limping away from the wall. Turn in to the left-hander. Sighting my line for the two right-handers.

Second glance. Dark car gleaming under the lights. Black Corvette against the wall.
One of ours?!
My breath caught in my throat.

Right-hand turn. Sight the right-left turn combination to get back onto the banking. Next to the incident now. Green Porsche on the grass verge three hundred feet away. Turning my head away from the track more than really safe. Having to know.

Third glance. Our 30 car. With a cockpit full of flames.

Time elongates for drivers in a race, as we process large quantities of information at an extremely rapid speed. But time did one better for me at that moment in the Bus Stop, as I watched my sister car burn. Time nearly stood still, along with my breath and my heart.

Stop! I've got to stop. I've got to help. Now! I need to stop.

It took envisioning the steps—getting my car slowed down and parked on the shoulder of the track, unbuckling and extracting myself, and running a hundred yards back to the 30 Corvette—to realize I'd never make it there before the safety crew. Plus I'd have no tools or gear to put out flames or care for the driver. And I'd be in danger of getting hit by other cars.

Corner workers and safety crews were trained for these situations. I knew the nearest corner workers would be there in seconds with handheld fire extinguishers. A full crew in a truck with fire-fighting equipment could be there in a minute or two.

You're driving, Kate, you can't stop!
I shouted to myself as I bounced over the curbing of the second right-hander at 95 mph. I dragged my attention back to my car before I bobbled the left-turn exit to the Bus Stop. Focused on accelerating and breathing.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod that was bad. Is he okay? Ohmygod, ohmygod.

It took all of my training and will to dam up the worry I felt and focus on my line and my car.

Once I was settled on the banking of NASCAR 3, trembling foot on the floor, I keyed the radio. “That's Ian in the wall. Hard.” I choked up and released the button. I swallowed. Hit the button again. “Where's the damn yellow?!”

The lights blinked on, garish against the dark sky beyond the Speedway. I lifted my foot from the throttle.

“Full-course caution now, Kate, slow it down.” Bruce sounded calm, which both reassured and infuriated me.
Why isn't he worried or upset?

Jack's voice on the radio. “What did you see, Kate?”

I took a deep breath.
Be a pro.
“Green Porsche and 30 car straight after turn-in to the Bus Stop. Straight into the wall. The Corvette is right side to the wall, driver's side to the track. Porsche moved off slowly after impact. Flames in the cabin of the Corvette.” I swallowed again. “Is he okay?”

Jack was back on quickly. “Ian doused the flames from inside the car.”

That meant Ian was conscious and able to hit the button to activate the fire extinguisher mounted in every car for exactly this possibility. My arms shook with the force of my relief.

Cooper, my spotter, radioed instructions about where the pace car would pick up the field in relation to my current location. Bruce repeated the information from Race Control that the whole field would take the Bus Stop bypass, staying on the oval track, instead of going through the turns. I followed their instructions and thought about what I'd seen.

Foam flying wasn't good, because it meant an impact heavy enough to break up the barrier. The Porsche being able to move off again after impact could be good—maybe that suggested the damage to our car wouldn't be that great. But flames in the cabin meant something important had broken. I wondered if Sandham Swift would be able to repair the car. If they could get it back out to finish the race.

Of course, the big question was if Ian was injured—but he'd been conscious. Maybe he was hurt—a broken bone. He'd been awake.

I followed the line of cars down the back straight and through the Bus Stop bypass. I looked left to the accident site and couldn't see the 30 car for the cluster of trucks with light bars flashing. The view was unchanged on my second time by. I called in to the pits.

“Is Ian out of the car yet?”

“Negative.” Jack's voice.

“You said he was conscious, right?”

“He activated the fire bottle. He's not out yet. That's all we know.”

I bit my lip, wanting more. Wanting reassurance.

Bruce spoke next. “I'm sure they're being careful. Safety crews are staffed by experts.”

I knew he was right. Expert doctors, firefighters, and safety crew worked races for a pittance to be involved in a sport they loved, and as a result, they were highly skilled teams. Knowing it didn't ease my concern over Ian.

Bruce went on in his smooth voice. “How are you doing, Kate? How's the car?”

What do you mean, how's the car? How's Ian?! How's Stuart, for fuck's sake?!

I drew a breath and pressed the radio button to transmit those sentiments. Then I released the button and took another deep breath. The answer to Bruce's question? I was more than a little freaked out.

I breathed deeply twice more and put everything and everyone outside of the car. Only room for me in there. I pressed the radio button again and made sure I spoke calmly. “I'm worried about Ian. I didn't like seeing the fire.”

I really didn't like the fire. I never liked fire.
Truth was, fire scared me more than anything. Spiders, snakes, bad guys in dark alleys, amateurs on track with me…I could cope with those. Fire gave me nightmares. I wasn't proud of it.

I focused on the car and spoke to Bruce and the team, describing changes over the ninety-plus minutes I'd been driving. “Any indication if something broke in the 30 car to cause his accident, Bruce?”

He heard my unspoken question. “Nothing to be worried about in your car, Kate. We think he was an innocent victim of something going wrong in the Porsche.”

“Other than incompetence?”

“Easy,” Jack put in. “We don't know anything yet.”

I knew Race Control and anyone with a scanner—including other teams—could be listening to our conversation. But I'd exhausted my small store of calm, and I didn't care. “All I'm saying is some of the amateur drivers in this race have been a menace.”

My hands tightened on the Corvette's steering wheel. “And they're going to need to watch out if Ian and the 30 car end up paying the price for their mistakes.”

Chapter Thirteen

7:10 P.M. | 19:00 HOURS REMAINING

“Enough, Kate. Not on the radio.” Jack sounded angry.

“I'm not saying anything everyone else doesn't know. Someone needs to stand up for those of us getting run over out here!” I stopped, finally hearing the shrill quality in my voice that must have been apparent to everyone else listening. I was short of breath and my heart raced. Those symptoms weren't unusual while I was in the car, but not while I was in the car under caution for the fourth lap.

“Kate, no more.” Jack's voice was lower and more formal than usual. “I repeat. No. More.” He paused. “Pits are open, and you will pit with GTs in two laps. You will change to Miles. Do not transmit anything that is not about the car. Do you copy?”

I felt embarrassed and suddenly exhausted—though anger and fear overrode those emotions. “I copy. Pitting in two laps, driver-change.”

I spent those laps fretting and straining to see something of the 30 car in the scrum of emergency vehicles. Seeing nothing only ratcheted up my anxiety. The second time by, when three ambulances still waited next to the four emergency trucks, I realized my whole body was trembling. I hit myself on the side of the helmet and called myself a few bad names, which got me steady and focused on the procedure for our pit stop.

Once I was out of the car and over the wall, Miles roaring off with a full tank of gas on fresh rubber, my knees gave way. I collapsed into a plastic chair in our pit space. Disgusted with myself, I yanked my gloves off and pulled at my helmet's chin strap. Aunt Tee helped pull my helmet and HANS off and offered me a clean, wet towel once I'd peeled off my sweaty balaclava.

I wiped my neck and face with the towel, then tilted my head up, draped the towel over my face, and breathed for a minute. No more shaking or weakness. Bad things happen on the street or in a race, but they're unusual. I wasn't going to live my life in fear.

I looked around. The 30 car crew milled about their portion of the pit space, each person expressing tension their own way—one pacing, a couple obsessively cleaning and organizing tool drawers, another biting his nails. Chris Syfert, the music agent and amateur driver who should have been climbing into the 30 car at this stop, stood square behind the pit cart, helmet still on, eyes on the monitor, arms folded. Her rock-star cousin, client, and racing partner Thomas Kendall stood next to her, also staring at the monitor. In the other two-thirds of the Sandham Swift tent, the 28 and 29 car crew and drivers cleaned up after pit stops.

On the central pit box, the command center, Jack ran the whole show. He turned my way, studied me a moment, then beckoned me over.

Aunt Tee handed me a bottle of water and my cell phone. “Holly left this with me, when she went to see Ian and Greg.”

I clutched Aunt Tee's arm. “Stuart?”

“Nothing more yet.”

I closed my eyes and breathed again, then drank half the water down before I climbed up to sit next to Jack.

He spoke before I could. “We don't know anything yet. They're not showing that part of the track on the feeds.” He paused, and I heard what he didn't need to say out loud,
Which isn't a good sign.

Broadcasters of auto racing were quick to replay footage of accidents and their aftermath over and over to fill the yellow-flag period—and to satisfy viewers' lust for wreckage—unless there was any concern about the well-being of the driver. Then they kept cameras pointed away.

The butterflies I'd momentarily calmed sprang to life again in my gut.

Jack went on. “As soon as there's status, Holly will let us know.”

“Did they show a replay of the accident?”

“A couple times right after it happened. Nothing tells me what the hell happened to that other car. But Ian was an innocent bystander taken along for the ride. Nothing wrong with our car then. Plenty wrong now.”

“And it's that car's fault.” I pointed to the monitor showing the Benchmark Racing team working on the 77 Porsche. Near us, I saw two members of the 30-car crew make furious gestures at the screen.

“It may be,” Jack said, “but you need to calm down and keep your mouth shut. No one goes vigilante on them. We'll let Race Control respond.”

“Did they get a penalty?”

“The incident is under review. We don't know yet if it was driver error or mechanical failure.” The former would be assessed a penalty by Race Control, but the latter wouldn't.

“I hope it's mechanical, because that kind of driver mistake is so unacceptable it's criminal.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at me.

“Who was the driver, anyway?” I asked.

“Some rich kid. Ricky Amick, I think. He may have made it back here in that car, but they sent him off to the medical center also. He didn't look steady.”

I shrugged. I'd give the driver a wide berth if he got back out on track.

“Can you keep your cool, or do we need to keep you away from video cameras and microphones?” Jack's tone was dry, but I heard the force behind the question. He was reminding me that part of my job was to represent the team in a classy, appropriate way—something I'd slipped up on, memorably, in the past.

I stiffened. “I'll be appropriate in public.”

Jack pointed a finger at his radio headset. After listening a minute, he leaned over to glance at the 30 car's chief, who nodded at Jack and gave instructions to the car's crew. Within seconds, the 30 car team departed at a run, presumably for the garage. Chris—still helmeted—and Thomas followed them more slowly.

Jack confirmed it. “They've got Ian out, over to the infield care center, and they're loading the car up to bring it back to the garage. Repairs are going to be extensive.”

“But—”

Jack shook his head. “Still no word on his condition.”

We were silent as the field passed on the front straight, still behind the safety car, still full-course caution. The live camera feed showed the Bus Stop area again, starting with a shot of our Corvette leaving on a flatbed, a huge blue tarp covering it, front to rear. Then the camera swung back to focus on track workers and forklifts repairing the damaged track wall.

The combination of the wall damage and the blue tarp on the car made my stomach jump around more.

Bruce leaned over and spoke in Jack's ear. They turned to me.

“We need a straight answer, Kate,” Jack began. “Are you all right?”

“I'm a little cold, but I'm fine.”

Bruce shook his head, and Jack spoke again. “Emotionally. First Stuart, then seeing this accident—maybe it's too much. You were upset in the car and shaky after…are you going to be all right when you get back in the car?”

The fog in my head cleared. I understood what they were asking. Finally understood what everyone's concern would be. Was I emotionally stable enough to drive?

I could almost hear Gramps in my head:
Figure out if you're all right, and let people know. Don't malinger, because it doesn't help anyone.

I definitely heard Zeke's voice:
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Kate. Suck it up and pull it together.

I sat up straighter and looked each man in the eye. “I have a thing about fire—it's the only thing that freaks me out. But it happened, Ian put out the flames, it's fine. I'm good. That's why I was rattled in the car.” I paused, embarrassed. “I'll be fine in the car again. I'm fine now. My concern over Stuart has nothing to do with my ability to race. I'm upset about the 30 car being damaged—and Ian possibly being hurt by an idiot driver—but I'll be extra careful. I'll make sure it doesn't happen to me.”

Jack and Bruce shared a glance.

I looked from one to the other. “Are you asking this of everyone? Or only me, the female? You don't need to coddle me.”

Jack held up a hand. “Easy, tiger. I asked Miles and the others if they had any concerns. You're the only one who saw the accident close-up. And you're the one with a significant other in the hospital.” He quirked a corner of his mouth up. “Trust me, if anything, I think you and Colby are tougher than most men.”

I tried for a smile. “Thanks.”

Jack flicked his eyes to the ceiling and pointed to his headset again. Message coming in. He turned to me. “Car's pulling up. I'm heading over. You may as well ride with me, so you can get to the motorhome and clean up.”

I followed him out of the pits to the golf cart parked outside the nearest pit lane entrance. I realized the rain had finally stopped as Jack whisked us back through the paddock and around the garage building to the back row containing our three spaces. The 30 car was on the flatbed in front of its space, but hadn't yet been unloaded. Jack parked the cart and walked toward the four Series officials gathered around the back of the rig.

I followed more slowly, not sure if I wanted to hear the outcome of the discussion or excuse myself to the motorhome where I could get clean and dry.

Another golf cart pulled up with a flash of headlights, Tug at the wheel with Holly in the passenger seat. She looked shattered. My heart leapt into my throat, and I couldn't hear the roar of cars on track over the hammering of my pulse in my ears.

Holly and Tug approached Jack, and I followed. Holly reached out and clutched my hand as if I were the only thing saving her from drowning. She looked from Jack to me and took a deep breath. Then finally spoke.

“Ian's dead.”