Avoidable Contact (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

7:45 P.M. | 18:25 HOURS REMAINING

I couldn't process the words. Couldn't form a response. Stood there looking from Holly to Tug to Jack, waiting for what she'd communicated to make sense. To seem reasonable. For anything in the world to seem fair.

Jack drew a sharp breath and moved away from everyone into the center of the paddock lane. He stood, hands on his hips, face to the sky.

Tug stepped aside to speak quietly to the senior Series official standing at the rear of the flatbed.

I realized I was clenching Holly's hand, and I forced myself to let go. “Holly.” It came out in a whisper. “What happened? Wasn't he conscious?”

“They're not completely sure yet what—why…he was awake when they got to the car—spoke to the first responder. But he fell unconscious pretty quickly after that. They were working on him, trying to figure out where he was injured, but he…died. Minutes ago. They couldn't save him.” Her eyes swam with tears.

I hugged her and let my own tears fall.

She sobbed the words. “It's not right. I can't believe it.”

“Kate? What's the news?” Mike stood next to us, looking like he already knew the answer.

I shook my head as more tears welled.

Holly spoke through her tears. “Ian died, Mike.”

Mike flinched, as if he'd been punched in the gut. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. He put an arm around each of us and leaned his head on mine.

My thoughts were stuck in a repeat loop of snapshots of Ian in the days leading up to the race and my final vision of his helmet silhouetted in the car against a backdrop of flames.

A couple minutes later, Jack finished his solitary communion and walked back to us. In the light from the garage, I could see his eyes were red and damp. “Holly, how's Greg handling this? I can't imagine what losing a son might do to someone.”

She pulled away from us and exhaled, shaking her head. “Not well. He's angry at everyone, from the track staff right on up to God.”

Mike wiped his eyes and looked at Jack. “Do we stop or keep racing, Boss?”

I hadn't considered what this meant to the rest of the team.

“Do you want to go on?” Jack asked us.

“Yes,” my answer was out of my mouth before my brain even engaged. Mike agreed.

Holly pressed a tissue to her eyes. “Greg said he wanted Sandham Swift to keep racing, as a tribute.” She smiled, the smallest upturn in the corners of her mouth, “He expressed with some force to ‘not let those fuckers win.'”

Jack looked grim. “I'm going to assume that means the Benchmark team—and specifically the 77 car.”

I waited for a lesson on turning the other cheek, Jack's typical response to any on-track conflict. But he surprised me.

“Let's be clear.” He leveled sharp looks at me and Mike. “There will be no retaliation. But beating that team fair and square on the track is a goal I can get behind. Something I want more than any winner's watch. You both with me?”

“Absolutely. Let's kick some butt on track,” Mike said. “For Ian.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Jack rubbed his hands together. “Mike, take time to deal with this and get to the pits when you're ready—Miles can stay in for a triple if we need it. Kate, get cleaned up and dry so you don't get sick. Both of you, grieve as you need to. But when you come back to the pits, be focused and ready to do this. I want a hundred and twenty percent effort.”

He straightened his shoulders and looked past us to the car. “Now I'm going to handle everything.”

After a short exchange with Tug and other Series officials, Jack moved to speak to the Sandham Swift crew members stationed in the garage. Holly, Mike, and I stood close together, touching, needing the physical connection.

Tug looked strange as he approached us, his natural exuberance subdued. “I'm so sorry for you all. I'm not sure what else to say. If there's anything the Series can do, please call on me personally.”

Mike lifted his chin. “Are they going to bench the 77 car driver? Arrest him for homicide?”

“Easy now.” Tug held up his hands. “I can confirm they assessed a penalty on the 77 car for avoidable contact.”

We waited for more.

Tug's eyes widened. “Surely you don't think this was anything but a tragic accident? The team reports the throttle on the 77 car stuck. The driver tried to brake, but couldn't override the wide-open throttle. At that point, he was a passenger. The team asked us to pass along their condolences to Sandham Swift and Ian's family.”

“A young man with a brilliant future ahead of him loses his life,” Mike's voice cracked, and he paused. “And the guy who caused it says, ‘Gee, sorry' and gets a—what? A stop-plus-seventy-five?” Mike referred to the usual penalty for avoidable contact: a stop in the penalty box plus being held for seventy-five seconds, which totaled the equivalent of a single lap.

“I understand your frustration,” Tug responded.

Holly snorted.

Tug raised an eyebrow at her. “It hurts us all to lose a member of our community, especially in the middle of this iconic race.”

He'd feel less terrible about it if Ian's death happened during practice?

“But this is racing,” Tug concluded. “As safe as we try to make it, it can be a very dangerous sport. And dreadful, horrible accidents sometimes happen.”

Mike frowned. Holly crossed her arms over her chest.

Tug hurried on. “As I said, the 77 car has been assessed a penalty. They are back running on-track, but they're some thirty laps down. I can also tell you the driver involved was sent to the infield care center and diagnosed with a concussion. He will no longer be participating in the race—though, to be clear, it's for medical reasons, not through Series action.”

I shook my head. “At least I won't have to worry he'll run
me
off the road also.”

Tug looked as if he smelled something bad. “I understand you're upset. But may I suggest—or perhaps, request—you keep those comments to yourself and don't share them with the media?”

My sad turned to mad pretty fast. Tug must have seen the change on my face, because he held up both hands again and spoke quickly. “You have every right to say whatever you want. I'm asking you as a favor—and I expect it's what Stuart might ask of you, were he standing here.”

I closed my eyes.
Low blow, Tug. Are you fighting to stay alive, Stuart? We all need you back here, because you'd handle things better than this over-promoted peacock.

Mike's hand tightened on my shoulder. “I'm sure there will be a team statement. We will let that—and our on-track performance—speak for us. I'm sure you realize we're speaking from the emotion of the moment—and we trust you won't repeat anything indiscreet. Personally, I don't see a need to badmouth that car or driver. His actions speak louder than any words we could say.”

Tug looked self-satisfied. “Very wise. Of course, I won't repeat anything you've said. Again, please let me know if there's anything I can do for you.” He nearly bowed as he took his leave.

“That guy.” Mike shook his head.

I felt shaky and anxious from grief, cold, and lack of food, as well as a vague sense I'd missed something.

Holly must have felt me shudder. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Mike gave us one last squeeze. “I'll pull myself together and get to the pits to relieve Miles. You hang in there and get ready to kick some serious ass.”

“Have a good stint,” I told him. “I'll see you in a bit.”

As we moved away, the flatbed carrying the 30 car rumbled to life and moved off down the lane, headed for a secure impound location. Holly and I stopped to watch.

The inside of that car might have been the last thing Ian saw.
I bit the inside of my cheek in a futile attempt to stop my eyes from welling up.

“I'm sure the technical inspectors will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.” Holly drew in a ragged breath. “I just—my God. I can't imagine Ian not here.”

“Holly, if you need to be with Greg, go ahead. I can take care of myself.”

She shook her head. “He's got his daughter and friends there. I can't do anything now. Trying to get back to sort-of normal is a better idea.”

We both caught sight of a reporter and cameraman rounding the corner of the paddock lane, headed for Jack and the Sandham Swift garage area. We glanced at each other and made for the garage exit on the double.

I wondered if we'd ever feel “normal” again.

Chapter Fifteen

8:05 P.M. | 18:05 HOURS REMAINING

Holly and I crossed the speedway road behind the garages, waved our credentials at a lone security guard watching the entrance, and entered the dark and deserted team motorhome lot. Our goal was a quintet of rigs in the back, right corner.

Typically for a twenty-four hour race, Sandham Swift would have one motorhome per car, and the four drivers who shared a car would also share the rig for rest periods, showers, and food. But a couple drivers had come to this race with their own equipment. Thomas Kendall had the motorhome he traveled in to rock concerts, and he'd shared with Ian. Miles also had his own coach and shared it with Mike to give Colby and me some privacy. In turn, we'd invited amateur driver Chris Syfert to join us in the “ladies' RV.”

The only person in our motorhome when we arrived was Aunt Tee—officially Tina Nichols, but an honorary aunt to everyone in the paddock. Since Aunt Tee had gone straight from the pits to the motorhome, Holly had to break the news about Ian. I headed for the shower, as desperate to get out of my wet clothes as I was to have some time alone. A few minutes later, I emerged dry, warmer, and dressed in a clean firesuit. I'd shed more tears in the shower—for both Ian and Stuart—and though I still felt off-kilter, I was better.

Aunt Tee gave me a big hug before she dished up the double-portion of food Holly had collected for me from Linda's Catering Services. Usually, Aunt Tee cooked or provided whatever meal we needed for a race. But with three times the number of drivers and crew to feed for a full twenty-four hours, we'd signed up with one of the two catering services that fed teams and staff out of big, mess hall-like tents. Holly had collected the food while I showered.

“Holly's also getting Gina for you,” Aunt Tee told me. She pointed to the frozen hunks of chocolate-chip cookie dough she was arranging on a baking tray. “I thought we all needed a little comfort.”

I agreed with her and dug back into my heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Holly returned with Gina as I was wiping my plate clean with a roll and finishing my fourth bottle of water.

Gina was a volunteer for the Sandham Swift team, an amateur racer who liked attending races, but wanted to feel useful while she was doing it. We welcomed her into the team because she was smart and friendly, but also because she was a chiropractor. She happily gave drivers and crew members mild adjustments and a bit of massage or physiotherapy anytime we needed it. I liked a tune-up after every stint.

Gina set up her portable table in the middle of the main area. While she worked on me, Aunt Tee changed cookie trays and Holly worked her phone.

After the shower, meal, and Gina's tune-up, I finally felt able to cope. Gina waved off my thanks and left with a hug. Aunt Tee departed with her, taking half the baked cookies and leaving Holly in charge of taking the last tray out of the oven.

I sat down next to Holly on the couch and eyed her phone. “What's the news?”

She frowned. “You ready to deal with this?” At my nod, she continued. “Stuart's still hanging in there, but they've only gotten through some of the surgery. I'm not sure if you want details.”

I waved her on and bit into the cookie Aunt Tee had left me.

“The biggest issue was a skull fracture and blood causing pressure on his brain, so they had to make a hole to get the blood out—but they've done that successfully.”

“That means drilling a hole into his skull?”

At her confirmation, I put my half-eaten cookie down and took a deep breath. “That's only the first part?”

“Next they're going after internal bleeding in his abdomen. After that, they'll address his broken bones.”

I stared at the floor, stunned by how tragic this day had been for so many close to me.

“He's fighting, sugar.” Holly put a hand on mine. “I think he's going to make it.”

I sighed. “The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.”

“It sure doesn't.”

I picked up my cookie again. “All right, he'll make it. Any other news from Sandham Swift? About Ian's accident? How Greg is doing?”

She shook her head. “But you've gotten a few texts and emails.”

“I forgot about the anonymous reporter.”

“He hasn't responded yet.”

I picked up my cell phone and read my recent messages. Zeke, up in the SGTV broadcast booth, was worried about me and wanted to meet once he went off the air around midnight. I typed a quick text response telling him I was surviving and that he could find me in the pits before my early-morning stint.

My grandfather's email was short and to the point:
Call us.

He picked up on the second ring. “Katie, my dear. Are you all right?” I'd rarely heard him so subdued.

“You heard?”

He sighed down the line. “Where to start? A friend called to tell me about Stuart. We're upset for you—for him, of course. We like him.”

I blinked back tears at the memory of Stuart's visit to Albuquerque four weeks ago over New Year's. He'd been there two days, staying at a nearby hotel—spending part of one day in business meetings I was sure didn't need to be face-to-face. But he'd come out to meet my grandparents and see where I grew up and still lived. It had been an important step in our relationship.

I sniffed. “It sucks, Gramps. I'm coping, and he's hanging in there through the first surgeries—we got that update recently. It helped to get in the car—at first, anyway. You also heard about Ian?”

“I had heard, yes, and they recently announced it on the television coverage.” Gramps had a network of racing cronies from his decades in the industry as a wiring harness supplier. He often got news at home before I heard it at the track. “I knew that accident was bad from the start. And there you were, passing right by.”

His words set off a replay of the accident in my mind and a roiling in my gut.

Gramps kept talking. “Poor Ian, and his poor father and sister. I feel so badly for them and your whole team. But listen to me, Katie, you need to take care of yourself. Don't neglect yourself because you're upset—don't allow yourself to get careless. Get some rest and good meals, and don't ignore your body's needs.”

I promised him I'd stay focused, which calmed him down, until I told him about the exchange with the anonymous reporter.

“Do the police think Stuart was hit deliberately?” He sounded agitated again. “Or is that only the nameless reporter's opinion?”

“I don't—”

“This reporter has no proof of his accusations, but he wants you to spy on people who might be dangerous? Katie, do
not
put yourself in danger. Do you hear me?”

I waited a moment, to be sure he'd stopped. “I hear you, Gramps. I promise to be careful. Holly and I are only keeping our eyes open. I'm also talking to the police. I'm not hiding anything from them.”

“Please put Holly on the line for a moment.”

Surprised, I gestured to Holly and handed her the phone.

“Yes,” she said. Then, “I agree. Don't worry, I will.” She smiled. “Yes, sir, that's a promise.” She returned the phone, the smile still on her face. “I'm to keep you in line.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Feel better, Gramps?”

“Not much, but as you're an adult, I'll have to trust you.”

I started to protest, but he cut me off. “I have a very bad feeling in my bones about you out there. Please, Katie, for me, stay focused on the race and be careful.”

He'd never sounded that concerned for me before—not in my entire career as a racecar driver. “I swear, Gramps. I'll be extra cautious.”

Short of crawling down the phone line, there was nothing else he could do. I told him I loved him and would call him in the morning after I woke up.

I looked at Holly as I disconnected. “I've never heard him so worried.”

“Maybe he's got reason. We don't know what the hell's going on. We have to be careful not to stick our necks in a bear trap.”

“That's a good goal.”

Holly stood up. “Are you ready to go deal with the rest of the world again?”

I considered. Imagined being asked for status on Stuart. Pictured receiving condolences for Ian. I was steadier on the first topic than the second. But I knew, ready or not, it was time.

“One question first.” I hesitated. “Ian—the cause. I mean…did the fire have anything to do with it?”

I saw concern and maybe pity on her face. I rushed to explain. “It's not about the fire—or not totally. I have two images I can't stop seeing. One is his car full of flames. The other is seeing the 77 dive-bombing him.” I frowned. “I'm not sure why I'm holding onto only those images.”

Holly blinked back tears. “He wasn't burned. What I was told—” she paused to swallow. “The issue was the impact.”

“Thanks.” I hoped the information would dispel some of my uneasiness. Then again, I knew witnessing the fatal accident of a teammate would always stay with me.

With a sigh, I checked the race time. “It's been six hours and change since the start of the race. Still more than seventeen hours of racing to go.”

“All I can say is, they'd better not be as eventful as the first ones.” Holly wiped her eyes. “I don't think we can take much more of this.”