Flash and Bones (29 page)

“Come back when the race ends. Joey won’t be hitting Victory Lane after this one.”

“Where?”

“At the hauler. We’ll be loading up.”

Pulling my hood over my head, I walked back to the gap where I’d stood earlier. Thunder and lightning were putting on quite a performance. Strong winds were whipping the rain into horizontal sheets.

Many fans had abandoned the stands for cover. Those who remained in their seats huddled under umbrellas or sat swaddled in brightly colored plastic ponchos.

Some drivers were still on the track. Others, like Frank, had opted for pulling into the pit.

I looked around for a dry spot to wait out the storm. Seeing few options, I decided to seek sanctuary with Galimore.

As before, he didn’t answer his mobile.

Annoyed, I resolved to find the security office on my own.

As I walked, head down, shoulders hunched against the downpour, disjointed data bytes ricocheted in my brain.

Slidell was certain Grady Winge had murdered Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble and buried their bodies in the nature preserve. But what motive did Winge have? And why would he kill Wayne Gamble?
To cover up his earlier crime? Gamble hadn’t died from abrin. He might have eventually, but had someone decided his death needed to be immediate?

Winge had the IQ of a brussels sprout. How had he gotten his hands on abrin? And why use it? Cindi and Cale had been shot, not poisoned.

Eli Hand had been poisoned. With ricin. But had that killed him? Larabee’s autopsy had also revealed head trauma.

Did Hand accidentally poison himself while experimenting with ricin? Were he and other crazies planning to use the toxin in some sort of terrorist assault? Was that what Cale Lovette and the old guy were discussing at the Double Shot?

Winge had access to the track, the barrel, the asphalt. Was he also responsible for Hand’s death?

Had Cindi and Cale discovered that Winge killed Hand? Was that why he shot them?

Had Winge truly been born again? If so, did his conversion spring from guilt?

Waterlogged fans crammed every shelter and filled every canopied or awninged foot of dry ground. At least a hundred huddled under the portico at the Media Center. Dozens had crawled under picnic tables outside concession stands.

Seeing a foot of space between a woman in a tissue-thin Danica Patrick tee and a shirtless old geezer in nothing but cutoffs, I darted under the overhang of a cinder-block restroom building. Thunder boomed as I dialed Slidell’s number.

Sweet Mother of God. Didn’t people answer their phones anymore?

Fine.

I punched 411. Made my request.

A robotic voice provided a number. Even dialed it for me.

“Reverend Grace.” The voice sounded a thousand years old.

“Am I speaking with Honor Grace?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you troubled? Is your soul in need of salvation?”

“No, sir. Are you aware that a member of your congregation has been arrested for murder?”

“Oh, my, my. Oh. Who is this, please?”

I identified myself, then cut off inquiry into the specifics of my authority by asking if a Detective Slidell had called.

“No. But I’ve been ministering to the sick all day and have yet to check my answering machine.”

“Are you familiar with Grady Winge?”

As I spoke, the Danica Patrick girl waved madly and shrieked, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Artie!”

“Are you all right, miss?” Grace sounded worried.

“I’m at the Speedway. Some fans are very energetic. Grady Winge?”

“Of course. Brother Winge has been a member of my church for many years. Is it he who is accused of this sin?”

“Can you comment on Winge’s whereabouts on Tuesday night?”

“Without reservation. Brother Winge was right here with me.”

I felt a chill that didn’t come from the rain.

“You’re certain?”

“Brother Winge comes every Tuesday to help prepare for Wednesday prayer meeting. This week I was taken ill. I don’t know if it was something I ate or a bug—”

“Winge was there for how long?”

“He arrived at six, as is his habit, and stayed all night. It wasn’t necessary. I was well by morning. But I was very thankful for his presence. The Lord does work—”

“Thank you, sir.”

I clicked off and pressed the phone to my chest. Beneath my curled fingers, my heart pounded.

Grady Winge hadn’t murdered Wayne Gamble.

Gamble’s killer was still out there.

I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply.

Did that mean Winge hadn’t shot Cindi and Cale? If not, who had?

Water ran from the eaves and ticked the gravel at my feet. People jostled and joked around me.

Wayne Gamble was killed at Stupak’s garage. Who could get past the barriers surrounding the Sprint Cup garage area?

Suddenly the whole wet world tilted.

Galimore had access to the entire Speedway complex.

Hawkins distrusted Galimore. Slidell hated him. Veteran cops
suspected him of impeding the Lovette-Gamble investigation back in ’ninety-eight. But what involvement would Galimore have had with ricin or abrin? Was Galimore in league with others?

Galimore had been missing when I received the threatening call on my mobile at Craig Bogan’s house. He’d been missing when Eugene Fries put a gun to my head.

He was missing now. Had been since yesterday morning.

I remembered Padgett’s comment about Cale Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse. She said she told a cop back then. A big guy with dark hair.

Had that statement made its way into any report?

The chill spread through my body.

I
STOOD PARALYZED WITH INDECISION. IF THE KILLER WAS STILL
free, was I in danger? I continued to puzzle over Galimore. Ricinabrin would not be his thing, but had he been protecting others? As a member of a group? As a hired hit man?

That made no sense. Had he simply colluded years earlier to protect the shooter? What was going on today? Was there a new plot in the works that Gamble was going to stumble upon?

Meanwhile, the rain. Where to go?

The security office. Galimore might be there, but so might others. Besides, he knew where to find me. He was not likely to snatch me from his own office.

My sneakers were soaked. My jacket was molded to my torso and head. Though the night was warm, goose bumps puckered my neck and arms.

“Oh, shit.” Slurred, from my right.

The Danica Patrick girl was swaying drunkenly. Dropping her can of Miller High Life, she doubled over and moaned.

I tried shifting left. The shirtless guy was right at my shoulder.

Lightning streaked. Thunder cracked.

Vomit hit the ground at my feet.

Any place was better than here.

Lowering my head against the deluge, I set out for Joey Frank’s hauler.

I was halfway down the Nationwide row when my iPhone vibrated.

Finally. Slidell returning my call.

I stepped between two enormous transporters and dug the phone from my pocket. Tugging my sleeve as low as possible for protection against the rain, I raised the device to my ear.

“Brennan—”

Something ticked my exposed fingertips.

Instinctively, I shook my hand to dislodge the insect.

My thumb accidentally hit the disconnect button, ending the call.

I punched redial. My finger slipped on the wet screen. I noticed that my skin was burning where I’d been stung.

Shoving the phone inside my jacket, I wiped moisture off the screen with my shirt.

I heard movement to my left, glanced sideways. The upraised hood blocked my peripheral vision.

I was dialing again when footsteps squished in the muddy grass. Hurried. Close.

As I raised my head, a viselike arm wrapped my throat.

The phone flew from my hand.

My head was yanked backward. Something snapped in my neck. Rain pummeled my upturned face.

I struggled.

Rapid breathing in my ear blocked all other sounds. A noxious blend of oily hair, wet nylon, and stale cigarette smoke filled my nostrils.

Terrified, I kicked back with one heel. Connected.

The arm tightened, squeezing my trachea and cutting off air.

I gagged. Clawed.

I saw rain slicing diagonally across the sky. An antenna. A light on a pole.

Dark spots.

Lightning sparked.

Then the world went black.

The rain had stopped. Or had it?

Overhead I heard pinging, like nails hitting tin.

My mind groped for meaning.

I was inside. Under a roof.

Where?

How long had I been here?

Who had brought me to this place?

Angry vessels pounded the inside of my skull.

My mind offered only disconnected recollections.

Synapse:
A narrow gap between haulers. Footsteps in the dark
.

I raised my head.

My stomach lurched. I tasted bitterness and felt a tremor beneath my tongue.

I eased back down.

I smelled loamy earth. Vegetation. Felt cold hardness beneath my cheek.

Synapse:
A body pressed tight against my back.

A real-time sensation intruded. Heat on my right ring finger.

I moved my hand. Tested the surface on which I lay.

Solid. Sandpaper-rough.

Concrete.

Synapse:
A chokehold squeezing my throat. My fingers clawing, my lungs desperate for air.

I breathed deeply.

Opened my eyes.

Saw nothing but variations on darkness.

Using both palms, I raised one shoulder and shifted my hips.

Before I could sit, nausea overwhelmed me. I hung my head and threw up until my stomach muscles ached.

When I’d finished, I backhanded my mouth, rolled, and rose to all fours.

And vomited again until I could only spit bile.

I sat back on my haunches, listening.

Over the drumming rain, I heard what sounded like grinding gears, the thrum of an engine. Muffled by walls.

And another sound. Soft. Barely audible.

A moan? A growl?

Close.

Dear God!

Some other being shared my prison!

I felt a flutter in my chest, as if my heart had broken free and was beating at my rib cage.

I strained my ears. Heard no movement. No further sign of another presence.

Was I mistaken?

I rose to my knees and waited for my eyes to adjust. The only break in the inky blackness was a hairline strip of gray at floor level off to my left. Too little light to dilate my pupils.

I got to my feet. Paused again.

My gut cramped once more, but there was nothing left to purge.

Arms extended, I inched blindly toward what I hoped was a door.

My fingertips soon brushed something hard and smooth. Metal. Vertically ribbed.

I stepped to my right. The steel ribs now ran horizontally.

I felt around, found a discontinuity. Traced it up, over, down to the floor. A rectangle.

Aiming my shoulder at what I assumed was the rectangle’s center, I lunged.

Metal rattled, but the door held.

I tried again and again until my shoulder ached. Then I dropped to my back and kicked with my feet.

My efforts were useless. I hadn’t the strength of a toddler, and the door was metal.

I lay on the floor, limbs trembling, breath rasping in and out of my lungs.

My mouth was a desert. My head pounded. My gut was on fire.

Get out! Find the bastard who put you here!

The orders came from deep in my brain.

I rose again on rubber legs.

Dizziness sent the world spinning and triggered new nausea.

When I finished dry-heaving, I lurched forward once more.

And followed the wall. In ten feet, it met another. At the intersection, on the floor, slumped large plastic sacks.

I pressed my thumb to the nearest. The contents felt heavy but grainy, like oatmeal. I drew my nose close. Sniffed. Smelled a mixture of soil, clay, and dung.

Turning ninety degrees, I edged through the dark.

Two feet from the corner, a shovel hung from a hook roughly a yard above my head. Beside the shovel was a pitchfork. Then a hoe, another spade, a hand tiller, a hedge clipper, and a pruner. Below the tools were three coiled hoses.

My mind processed. An outdoor storage shed. Galvanized steel. One door. Bolted from the outside.

Tears threatened.

No!

The shed’s interior was relatively cool. I knew that wouldn’t last. When the rain stopped and the sun rose, the heat inside the windowless metal box would become unbearable.

Move!

Eight feet down, the second wall met a third.

I made the turn.

I’d taken two steps when the toe of my sneaker nudged an object on the floor. I prodded with my foot.

The thing felt firm. Yet yielding.

Familiar.

Another image fired up from my gray cells.

A corpse.

I shrank back.

Then, heart pounding, I squatted to examine the body.