Chapter Seven
Jamie skidded into the pit for what she hoped was her last stop. Her shoulders ached from nearly three hours of fighting the steering wheel. Countless times she had attempted advancing to the lead position with no success. Just leading for one lap would help her gain some of the Nextell Cup points she’d lost during her injury. She’d held second for five laps but lost it to Dunn on the last turn. He needed the lead as desperately as she did.
Trying to keep an eye on Clay was putting an additional strain on her. She didn’t trust him. Buster had repeated his warning to avoid Clay more than once during the last few hours, and Charlie Jones, the back stretch spotter, reinforced it. He had the feeling Riker was more interested in stopping her than winning the race.
Buster handed her a water flask while the crew went to work on the tires and fuel.
“Hang in there, kid,” Buster said. “Just thirty laps to go. Nothing wrong with coming in third.”
* * * *
In the Douglas backyard, a television had been moved into the gazebo, and NASCAR had gained ten new fans. Stephen, the only veteran in the group, fielded questions to keep the others up on what was happening.
Quint’s knuckles ached from gripping the edge of his seat. “Don’t they get tired?” he asked, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion.
“They operate on the high adrenaline rush that comes with participating in dangerous sports. It takes a special breed to put up with that kind of tension,” Stephen answered. “This is also one of the worst tracks. It’s old with a lot of rough surface. The body takes a major beating at Darlington.”
Virgil shook his head. “How can a woman do it? Does she have a special car?”
Stephen snorted. “Are you kidding? She probably works out just like the men do to maintain upper body strength.”
“I thought that was from using the crutches,” Quint said, flexing his strained fingers. He took a handful of peanuts from a bowl Delta passed around.
Stephen shook his head, popping a peanut in his mouth. “She only used them for two or three weeks after the Indianapolis wreck.” He gave Quint a sideways grin. “You got to feel up her arms then, huh?”
Delta gave Stephen a playful slap on the shoulder. “Will you stop that? He only carried her to the carriage, for goodness sake.”
Virgil and Quint exchanged a quick look that caught Stephen’s eye. He grinned and made a discerning sound deep in his throat. The NASCAR commentator’s animated voice drew his attention back to the race.
“…Grady is in some kind of trouble. There’s black smoke billowing from the front of his car. I can’t tell if it’s a tire or the engine. Now Dunn is going into a slide. It looks like Grady lost control and clipped Dunn’s fender.
“LeCorre was back just far enough to squeeze past without piling into them. Riker was so close behind her that they kissed bumpers, but there doesn’t appear to be any damage to either car. Looks like we have a yellow flag, folks, and when it lifts Jamie LeCorre will be the first female driver in NASCAR history to take a lead position. How unfortunate for Mitch Grady. He’s been leading most of this race. Just goes to prove it ain’t over until it’s over. And it’s still not over. Will Jamie LeCorre make history by winning this race? Who’s going to stop her? Clay Riker hasn’t been able to overtake her in 300 laps. I don’t know how he’ll manage to do it in twenty.
“Whoa—something is going on in the Riker pit. Kent Riker appears to be irate. I sure would like to know what he’s all worked up about. He’s screaming into the headphone speaker to Clay. You think he’d be celebrating instead of yelling. His son was just handed a sure spot in second place.
“Well, it looks like Grady and Dunn are okay but their cars both had to be pushed off the track. We have the green flag, and Jamie LeCorre is indeed leading this race. Riker is literally on her bumper, and he appears determined to pass her…
As he went down the list of drivers, calling out their order of standing in the race, the camera switched briefly to a private party, focusing in on a tall affluent man in a dark gray Armani suit. He was surrounded by a group of strikingly beautiful women dressed in a variety of sporty outfits. They displayed the Pink Mink trademark of pink fur, low cleavage, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination style. They were on their feet cheering, screaming, hugging, and high-fiving. The announcer identified the man as Ray Bentler and his Pink Minks.
“… with three laps to go LeCorre is still in the lead, and Riker has made five attempts to pass. The last two were downright foolhardy. The man is just not willing to settle for second place. Or is it that he’s not willing to admit a female is out-driving him...
“… one lap to go here at Darling International Speedway’s Labor Day Mountain Dew 500. Jamie Lecorre had been leading this race for the last twenty laps, and it looks like… what the… what is Riker doing? He’s not letting up on the third curve. He can’t pass on a 25-degree curve going that speed, that’s suicide. He’s squeezing her into the wall and she has nowhere to go… I don’t believe it… she’s backing off… letting him pass… but he can’t control it.
A stunned audience watched in awe as Clay Riker’s car hit the wall in front of number thirteen. His car went into a spin. Jamie, unable to avoid contact with Riker, took a direct hit to the front of her car and another on the side when she scraped the wall. She went into a slide. Bentler’s private party came to their feet screaming. Riker’s car flew end over end, coming to rest on its top.
The crowd watched in awe as Jamie managed to bring her car under control and veer around the wreckage. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, forcing as much power as possible out of the damaged vehicle. Four cars passed under the checkered flag. She was the fifth. Flames burst from beneath her hood as she pulled to the inside ring after crossing the finish line. A volley of troops descended on her car with fire extinguishers. Her steering wheel was yanked out and she was pulled from car number thirteen and handed over to a medical attendant.
A fight broke out in the pits between the Riker and LeCorre crews. It was hard to tell who was swinging fists and who was trying to prevent an all out melee.
Clay Riker managed to crawl out of his overturned car and get to his feet to a combination of cheers and boos from the grandstand. Buster LeCorre was swearing and raising a threatening fist at the younger man. It was only the restraints of two of his crew members that kept him from charging onto the oil-splattered track and enhancing Clay Riker’s apparent minor injuries.
The Douglas party watched in shock as the replay showed the eventful crash over and over.
Quint shoved himself out of his chair, his face a mask of fury. “That son-of-a-bitch deliberately tried to take her out. She would have won.”
Stephen looked equally angry. “That’s the way I see it. That bastard saw he couldn’t pass her, so rather than settle for second, he took himself out and tried to take her with him.”
Virgil laughed shakily. “Well, I’d say the joke’s on him. She still took fifth.”
“She could have had first.” Quint said. “They said she’s never won.”
Stephen grunted. “Believe me, she’s not the only driver who’s never taken first place. More than half the guys in that race have never done better than tenth. Her brother raced for four years and never won a Nextell Cup race.”
“Why do they keep racing if they don’t win?” Delta asked.
“Heck, Ma,” Stephen said. “She made more money taking fifth than I’ve made all year.”
“Did it look like she was hurt?” Quint asked.
“I didn’t see any blood,” Stephen said, grabbing a cold hot dog off a plate on the table. He looked at it with distaste then shoved half of it in his mouth. “Those cars are pretty well padded. Look what Riker walked away from.”
“If I ever get my hands on him,” Quint said, adding a muttered curse, “he won’t fare so easily.”
Virgil nodded. “I had the feeling Buster LeCorre felt the same way.”
“I�
��ve got to call Hunter,” Quint said starting to leave. “Maybe he can ask Nicole where she lives.”
The entire group turned to stare at him. Only Delta spoke. “Hunter and Nicole are on their honeymoon in the Bahamas.”
“He must have his cell phone with him.”
Delta’s fine carrot-colored brows arched. “If knowing where she lives is so important that you would disturb Hunter on his honeymoon, why don’t you just ask me instead?”
Quint stopped to stare at the woman he thought of as his mother. “You know where Jamie lives?”
Delta smiled. “Of course. I had a long chat with her at the reception. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you since you obviously spent a lot of time with her. Now if you’ll explain why you want to know, I’ll be glad to tell you.”
Quint glanced at Virgil before he spoke. “I have some apologizing to do.”
“I knew it,” Stephen chimed. “What did you do to her anyway, kick her crutches out from under her or step on her toes at the dance?”
“Back off, little brother,” Virgil said. “You’re treading on dangerous ground.”
After bestowing a warning look on both her sons, Delta turned to Quint with a smile. “She lives in a townhouse on the west shore of Lake Michigan. I don’t know the name of the town, but it’s a suburb of Chicago. The development is called Sunrise on the Bluffs. It’s not actually on a bluff, but she said she gets a spectacular view of the sun coming up over the lake.”
Quint’s eyes widened. “How did you find all that out?”
Delta shrugged. “I just asked her where she lived. She seemed extremely proud of her little home. She has a sunroom with lots of plants and she feeds the hummingbirds in her backyard. She’d like a dog but said she’s gone too much to care for it properly, so she goes running with an elderly neighbor’s English sheepdog.”
“Jeez,” Stephen cut in, laughing. “I can see why Quint and Hunter have jobs getting information. They got their tactics from you. I’m surprised you didn’t get the name of the dog.”
Delta lifted her nose with a smirk. “That would be Liebers. I think it means lover in German or something like that.” She turned back to Quint. “You spent more time with her than I did. What in the world did you talk about anyway?”
Quint exchanged a swift look with Virgil. “Me,” he replied. “We talked about me.”
“You can probably get her phone number on the Internet,” Virgil said.
“I don’t need the phone number. I need her address, and knowing her real name is going to make getting it a lot easier.” Quint bent down and gave Delta a swift kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom. You’re a sweetheart. I’ll call you when I get back from Chicago.”
Stephen received a sharp jab in the ribs when he opened his mouth to say something to Quint’s departing back.
Chapter Eight
Jamie had plenty of time to think on the three-hour flight back to Chicago. Rarely did she travel with the crew anymore. It was just too exhausting, and gave her little or no time alone. Not that she actually had another life to get back to, but she did enjoy her townhouse and the panoramic view of energetic Lake Michigan. She replayed the race over and over in her mind and could not come up with a reason why Clay would deliberately take out his own car to keep her from winning. She knew he didn’t like her racing. That was the number one argument in their relationship; he had wanted her to quit driving.
The association had given Clay the benefit of a doubt. They believed he just wanted to win so badly he was taking foolish chances. After all, hadn’t she caused a pileup in Indianapolis that had eliminated Clay and four others? Their logic rankled, but after Buster’s repeated warnings and Charlie’s comments, she had to admit it did not look accidental.
Buster had been furious; she couldn’t tell if he was angry with her for not getting first or reacting to Riker’s attempt to eliminate her. He even swore at his long time friend, Kent Riker, as though it had been Kent’s fault Clay had driven like an obsessed moron.
Buster had seen it coming before she did. He had instructed her to back off and let Riker pass. Fortunately, that was one time she’d listened to him.
She put a hand to her throbbing forehead, wincing when she touched the bandage the medic had put on a cut above her eye. Her head had hit hard when she slammed into Clay. At the time she hadn’t even been aware that it was bleeding inside her helmet.
She laid her head back and tried to sleep, but tired as she was, sleep eluded her. Instead, an unsolicited image of Quint Douglas stepping out of the bathroom in his birthday suit flashed through her brain.
They had made love five times that night. Each experience was monumental. It wasn’t just great sex; it was spectacular. She guessed one of the reasons she’d been able to let herself go was the fact that she knew she’d never see him again. She’d been prepared to deal with that.
Anger and something equivalent to betrayal flared through her in turbulent waves. Why did he have to go and spoil it all by leaving money? The note, Thanks for a good time, Quint, was simple and acceptable. After all, she’d had a good time too, and she hadn’t expected him to make phony declarations of love or anything like that, but leaving money turned a beautiful thing into something humiliating and shoddy.
She rang for the stewardess and ordered a glass of wine. Maybe it would help her sleep, help her forget that hundred dollar bill, help her forget magnetic azure blue eyes.
It was midnight by the time her plane landed at O’Hare. She picked up her car and headed home. The throb in her head had eased, but the situation with Clay Riker still rankled, and she had not managed to get Quint off her mind. She was frustrated, angry, annoyed, and she could think of at least ten other words that described her feelings—none of them complimentary to men.
She parked her car in the garage, and trudged into the house trying to decide between a quick shower and a long hot soak in the tub. Her thoughts were interrupted by a red glow from the kitchen counter. Her answering machine. She had five messages. The first was a hang up. She checked the number, it was local but she didn’t recognize it. The next two were from Grady and Dunn. Both expressed their irritation with Clay. At least, she thought sardonically, there was some hope for the male species of the world. The fourth call was from her elderly neighbor, Charlotte, saying she had seen the race and asked if Jamie was okay. The fifth was another hang-up. She checked the number. It was the same as the first, and had come in only a half hour ago. Obviously, somebody wanted to talk to her in person.
She was too tired to care who it was and not in the mood to field any questions, so she turned off her phone, deciding on a long hot shower. Afterwards, she carried a glass of orange juice out to her back deck where she could stare out at the water. Somehow the dark brooding lake reflected her restless mood and did nothing to calm her. She drained her glass, and went to bed.
The next morning she rose early and did a half hour routine in her cracker box gym. The little room off her screen porch was actually designed to be a tool shed, but she liked the idea of having a view of the lake while she exercised, so she’d had large square windows installed facing the lake. There was just enough room for her scaled down weight lifting machine, a Stairmaster, and treadmill so she could jog inside during inclement weather.
Her workout finished, she donned old running shorts and a baggy sweat top, and walked next door to pick up Liebers. Taking care not to wake Charlotte, who never got up before the sun, Jamie released the exuberant sheepdog from his kennel, and took off to test her leg on a short run along the wind-swept trail that lead down to the beach and paralleled the west shoreline for several miles.
She loved predawn when the only sounds were morning birdcalls, and a few diehard fishermen motoring out to their favorite holes, ever hoping to land a fish big enough to brag about. The commercial rigs had long since left the docks.
By the time she got back, the September sun had crested the horizon, radiating a pink-fingered glow rippling over the lake. Th
is particular morning the sun was the only thing that separated the blue-gray lake from the blue-gray sky. Several sailboats, their colorful sails hanging limp, were desperately waiting for even the slightest breeze to carry them on their way. She paused behind her townhouse to watch the landscape give birth to the day. It was a spectacle that never ceased to captivate her. Beside her, Liebers pulled at his leash with a low growl.
“Jamie?”
She whirled around to face Quint Douglas. Her emotions flip-flopped. Her heart raced for the span of two beats before she exploded with fury.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—”
“That wasn’t a question because I don’t care why you’re here. You have exactly four seconds to get off my property before I activate the alarm.”
Dragging a reluctant English sheepdog behind her, she headed for the back of the house to do exactly that.
Quint followed. “Jamie, wait, please. I want to explain, to apologize.”
“Not interested,” she snapped over her back. The only reason the alarm hadn’t already sounded was because she was towing a sixty-five pound ball of hairy weight that had dug its feet in.
Quint seized the opportunity to stall her. He hunched down and called out to the dog. “Liebers, come.”
Liebers came, wagging his traitorous tail, dragging Jamie with him. She didn’t take time to speculate on how Quint could possibly know the name of her neighbor’s dog. She dropped the leash, ran for the house, and leaped on the deck intending to trip the emergency switch that was guaranteed to have a resident security guard there within two minutes.
Quint stood up, stepping aside to avoid the oversized mop romping toward him and blurted out, “I’ll help you get the tape you were looking for.”
Jamie paused with her hand on the back door alarm button. Without turning around, she battled with her emotions. She was breathing more heavily than she had on her two-mile run. She knew his mention of the tape was a ploy to get her attention, and she hated admitting, even for a split second, it worked.
Secret Sacrifices Page 7