Braking Points (22 page)

Chapter Forty-three

I saw Zeke approaching, his head bent close to that of a driver from another team. Zeke wrapped up his spiel as he reached me, stopping to shake the driver's hand. “Just remember, Zeke Andrews, Z-A—like A to Z, but in reverse.”

In a flash, I remembered the Ringer's post about a possible source of trouble close to home, simple as A to Z. I waved at Zeke to stop, pulling up the Ringer site on my phone. I found the post and showed it to him.

He read it, then looked at me, stricken, which tied my stomach in knots. He led me away from my pit space to the fence and spoke close to my ear.

“It's not what it looks like. Give me a second to explain.”

I made a “hurry up” gesture with a hand.

He sighed. “It's about Rosalie. I haven't told you about the part-time job she picked up this year. She's running Miles Hanson's fan club.”

I pulled away, my mouth open in shock. “Miles Hanson?”

“She's done what she could to defend you.”

Something in his voice made me look him in the eye. “Has she?” Though Rosalie was outspoken, I'd always thought her easily swayed by the loudest voice in the crowd.

“She tried to stop the witch-hunt.” He rubbed a hand over his face and looked guilty. “This has been a mess. She's a mess. There are other issues, and she didn't do as much as I wanted her to with the fan club.”

“Other issues?”

He cupped his hand around his mouth next to my ear, so no one could see what he said. “Emotional issues. All of a sudden she's insecure, doesn't want to leave the house. Worse, she's crazy jealous of anyone I talk to. Especially women. Even you. She keeps saying she's afraid I'm going to leave her.”

I was shocked. “You'd never do that.”

“Not until she drives me to it.” He laughed, a humorless sound. “Never mind. That's what the damned Ringer post is about. What a shit-disturber.”

I couldn't argue with that. I assured Zeke I would keep his secret, and he apologized. We parted because we both had jobs to do, not because anything was resolved.

I crossed back into our pit space and grabbed a radio headset to listen to transmissions with Leon, then found a seat facing the monitors. The ten screens on the back of the pit cart carried the same feeds as the ones suspended above the bench seat and desk where Jack and the others sat. One showed live timing and scoring, currently displaying Leon fourth in class; one showed the live SGTV feed; and the others carried camera feeds for different corners. They were arranged in order left to right across the top row of monitors, then left to right across the bottom. We had nearly constant video coverage of our Corvettes.

A few minutes later, just before the hour mark since the last pit stops, the crew of both cars stirred, pulling on balaclavas, helmets, and gloves. Uncoiling air gun hoses and inspecting tires. Similar activity happened up and down pit lane as teams readied for green-flag stops. Soon cars rolled by, engines sounding wounded with fewer cylinders firing under speed limiters.

Bruce kept talking to Leon, counting down the laps until he'd come in and telling him to stay in the car for a double stint, as planned. Two laps to go. Race still green. Crew in position, crouching on the pit lane wall with tires, air guns, fuel hose, fire bottle, and windscreen cleaner ready. Waiting. One lap to go.

“Pitting this lap, Leon,” said Bruce.

“Copy,” came Leon's response.

As Leon barreled down the back straight—race still green—Bruce called again. “Pitting this lap. Stay to the right coming out of 10b.”

Leon didn't respond, but did as told, pulling smoothly to the right out of the flow of traffic and into pit lane. I imagined him downshifting three times. Pressing the speed limiter as he crossed the line marking the start of pit lane. Breathing. Less to do this time through, since he wouldn't get out.

Bruce counted down, guiding Leon into our stall, where Leon stopped and shut down the engine. The crew leapt over the wall, and the fueler plugged the hose in. For safety reasons, while the fuel flowed, only a driver or someone to help the driver—such as cleaning the windscreen or buckling a driver in—was allowed to touch the car. For those twenty-plus seconds, tire changers crouched waiting and ready, air guns only inches from their targets. The fueler disengaged and the other four crew leapt into action, two men working each side of the car.

One pushed an air hose into the outlet to deploy air jacks. Two others, one on each side, used air guns to remove wheel nuts from the front wheels. In a single motion, each man pulled the gun away with his right hand and pulled the tire off with his left. The second man settled the new tire on the hub. Brrrrrrtttttt, went the air guns, tightening the new wheel nuts. Two choreographed steps to the rear wheel, repeat. Four tires changed in ten seconds. A hand up from the crew on each side when tires were done, and the air gun man on the near side yanked the air jack hose free. Leon fired the engine as the Corvette plopped down on its tires, and he pulled away. All in thirty-eight seconds.

If my job was a marathon, the pit crew ran the hundred-yard dash over and over.

Half an hour into Leon's second stint, Mike climbed down from the top of the pit cart and high-fived me as he walked to his pit locker for his gear. If we stayed green, he'd get in for his own double-stint in thirty more minutes. Jack waved me over, offering me the space on the pit cart Mike vacated. I'd just climbed up the three steps when all hell broke loose on the track.

A gaggle of Porsches—some from our own GT class and some from the slower GTC or Challenge class—wreaked havoc through Turn 3, when two cars tried to fit into space for one. They touched. The car on the outside of the pair spun rear-out to the left, ending up stalled across the curbing on the exit of the turn. The car on the inside checked up from the impact, causing a Porsche behind him to punt him to the right, beaching him nose-in on the apex curbing. The third car, slowing up, was hit from behind, though he displayed admirable off-road skills going through the grass wide around the first car. A fourth car banged into the third and chose badly, opting to dive to the inside of the turn, where he was blocked by the second car and had to come to a stop and reverse to try again.

Bruce was already talking to Leon, who was in Turn 7. “Wreck in Turn 3. No flags yet.”

More cars arrived on the accident scene. Two prototypes threaded the needle neatly in the slice of open track and continued on their way. The third prototype—the current race leader—wasn't so lucky, because the Porsche stopped on the outside of the track decided to move and tagged the leader, sending them both spinning.

Another prototype crested the hill and reacted poorly. He saw the action on the outside of the turn, and hit the throttle while steering to the inside—right into the stopped Porsches. He sideswiped the Porsche trying to reverse out of trouble and slammed into the one stuck at a right angle to the track. The momentum of the prototype carried it down the hill past the Porsche, taking the Porsche's right rear tire and suspension assembly with it, carbon fiber bodywork from both cars flying like confetti.

Before the car bits touched back to earth, our crew was scrambling for their equipment and helmets. The track would go full course caution. Since we were past halfway in the stint, the 28 would come in for fuel, tires, and a driver change. Mike was already helmeted and pulling on his gloves as the double-yellow flew.

“Full-course caution, Leon.” I heard Bruce on the radio. “When pits open, come in for driver change.” Leon was in Turn 12, and Bruce added, “Careful through the debris.” Shards of carbon fiber were dangerous to tires. No matter how well course workers cleared the track—and they were good at their jobs—more than one car over the duration of the race would end up with a flat from debris there.

Our crew hustled and was ready two laps before the pits opened for the Le Mans Prototype classes. A lap later, our GT classes entered. I sat forward, tense, cracking my knuckles as Leon pulled the car in. Bubs and Mike went to work making the change. Leon out. Mike in. Fuel done, car up. Front tires done. Bubs slamming the door. Back tires done. Car down, engine fired, Mike away.

I sat back and breathed again.

Next to me, Jack pointed to the monitor showing a Ferrari following Mike out of pit lane. He pushed the transmit button on his radio headset. “Pit crew gained us a spot in the pits. We're out P3, ahead of the Ferrari. Good work.”

The crew carried on for two minutes, shaking fists in the air, beating their chests, slapping each other's hands.
Sprinters winning the dash
. I was proud of them.

I looked at the circulating pack on the monitor again. Mike was only four cars behind the second GT in class, with the leader only five cars ahead of that. I nodded. Still in it with a fighting chance. Only five or six more hours of racing to go.

 

Chapter Forty-four

Pit lane was calm again in minutes, and I saw Juliana walk past our setup. Scott Brooklyn ran after her, stopping her in the 29 car's space by grabbing her upper arm. She jerked out of his grasp, and I could feel the anger she blasted at him from where I sat. I looked at them going toe-to-toe and worried for her. Then Scott pointed a finger in Juliana's face and said “No!” adding a downward slashing motion with his right hand.

He'd turned his back on her and continued on his way when he turned and saw me watching. His face hardened. I ducked my head to the timing and scoring screen, the tips of my ears warm. When I glanced back a second later, he was still staring at me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out, grateful for the distraction. A text message, from Holly. “Good news: nice stint. Bad: check out new Ringer post.”

I pulled up the Racing's Ringer blog on my phone. “Show Down on the Grid!” read the header, complete with the eyeball graphic. “NASCAR fav Miles Hanson took his life in his hands today, willingly getting close to Calamity Kate on the grid for Petit Le Mans. Calamity (who, I have to admit, deserves a Ringer shout-out for her pole position) must have benefitted from Miles' appearance. Everyone on the grid shined brighter in his presence, and those he granted the honor of a photo were extra lucky.”

I looked up at the sound of a wounded prototype limping down pit lane to stop a few doors away from us. I wondered if the Ringer was serious or poking fun at the cult of Miles Hanson.

“Of course, Calamity was extra, extra lucky,” the Ringer continued. “She got Miles' attention for EIGHT WHOLE MINUTES, and an apology from Miles' fan club president. But we and our Ringer Readers want to know: did Calamity apologize to the FC Prez for calling him a redneck???”

I guess the Ringer doesn't know everything.
I accidentally hit a link and when I pressed the back button, the page refreshed, displaying a brand new post: “P.S. To Calamity.”

I had to close my eyes and take a breath before reading.

“I hear you behaved well, so I guess you've got some class after all. I'd still watch out for that guy in the background.” I studied the photo of Miles and me smiling full-wattage at the camera. Also there: Nash Rawlings, regarding me with hate-filled eyes.

I knew I didn't believe him
. I switched to the photos on my phone for the shots Holly had taken. There were five, including one of Miles and me smiling at each other. I posted it to Twitter.

“@katereilly28: Nice to shake hands with Miles Hanson (and his fan club prez) today over racing incident. [pic]”

With the image of Nash Rawlings in mind, I surveyed the background of the photos for other revealing emotions, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Leon looked happy. The Sandham Swift crew looked relaxed.

My next swipe took me to the photos Tom had taken of me, Juliana, and Ellie at Siebkens Tavern, which I'd saved to my phone. This time, I looked at the background of both shots, and what I saw made my breath catch. Scott Brooklyn was in the wide-angle photo, somewhere on the other side of our table. So was the preppy, East-Coast guy I remembered—who I now recognized as Billy Reilly-Stinson. In addition, I saw not only Nash Rawlings in the crowd off to one side, but also Jeff Morgan, the super fan, hero-guy. I kept looking but couldn't find George Ryan in the shot, though I knew he'd been at Siebkens that night. All of them had been in close proximity to us—and our drinks.

Everyone who was out to get me in the same room that night?
I'd said it myself: everyone at a Road America race weekend ends up in Siebkens. I shouldn't be surprised to have photographic proof.

Holly texted again. “Re. Felix. No new interests/topics other than you. But seemed more ‘amused or smug' since Tavern night. Supports idea he saw/knew something.”

That doesn't help much.

Jack flinched next to me, and seconds later, crew members scrambled to their feet, reaching for helmets and hoses. Jack pointed to one of the monitors, where SGTV helpfully showed the right front tire on our car sagging, then folding over from a puncture. Mike stayed offline and out of the way as much as possible, driving slower than race pace, but as quickly as he dared, back to the pits. My eyes were glued to the monitors, willing the tire to hold up, stay intact—above all, not shred into pieces, whip around with every revolution, and destroy body parts, as happened to Eddie.

“Ready for you, Mike. Take her easy,” Bruce reminded him.

Mike didn't respond. I knew he was fully occupied with the fight to go slowly enough the tire wouldn't come apart, but fast enough to not lose many positions. For a racecar driver, there was no lap as slow as the one with a flat tire or a damaged car. I'd been where Mike was, and it was agonizing. I cracked my knuckles and reminded myself to breathe.

Three minutes later, he was back under way, and the race stayed green. We'd been lucky, with no damage to the car and the loss of only one lap to the leader. Only five cars remained on the lead lap, and we were the first car a lap down, along with three others in our class. We knew we'd have opportunities to make it up, through our efforts or through the leaders having issues of their own. An endurance race was a fight against attrition. Four GTs were already retired, and we weren't even halfway.

I stayed on the pit box for the next hour, willing Mike on as he clawed his way back to the leader and got our lap back when the leader pitted under green—because of our stop for the puncture, we were on a different schedule of stops than the leader and others in class. Then we got lucky with a full course caution caused by a prototype whose steering broke as he came over the hill and under the bridge. He arrowed straight down the hill, over the curb, over grass, and into the tire wall at the outside of Turn 12. The safety workers hustled and everyone watching held their breath—because it wasn't clear from the camera angles if the driver's head in its open cockpit was under tires or not.

It turned out he was stuffed against them and unable to get out of the car, but unhurt. Jack, who'd been around racing for decades, could tell that from the safety workers' manner. When the tractor tugged the car free, I did a double-take. It was Dominic Lascuola in the Benchmark prototype.

Payback's a bitch,
I thought, then scolded myself for being ungracious.

Forty-five minutes later, I wondered if Dominic—or the universe—was getting me back. Leon had taken over behind the wheel under the long caution to extract the prototype and fix the tire wall it disarranged. He was twenty minutes into a green-flag run when we lost another tire.