Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  That’s what you were doing.

  Zeke said good-bye to the other guy and rejoined us. “I’ve got to be off to my dinner. Perry, which way are you going?”

  “I’ll walk with you toward Linda’s.”

  Zeke gave Holly and me each a quick hug. “I’ll pass the word if I hear anything else. Tell me what I can do for you.” He headed off with a jaunty wave, Perry at his side.

  I looked at Holly, my eyes wide. “What was that?”

  She shook her head. “Self-absorption at its finest. Also an example of how even someone who’s better off after the merger still has strong feelings about it.”

  “I expect Stuart is one of his ‘geniuses in the front office.’”

  “Seems likely. Let’s keep moving.”

  Holly and I finished crossing through the Fan Zone and entered pit lane at the opening nearest the garages. A Chevrolet-powered prototype went by, making a loud, uneven, popping sound. We stuck our fingers in our ears until it passed.

  Western Racing was the fifth team along, and we stopped briefly, not expecting any news, but unable to walk by without comment. Holly was right: emotions ranged from grief to despair to anger, usually in the same person, in the same two minutes. The team might be reduced in numbers, but everyone who remained had been with Greg for a decade or more and had watched Ian grow up. They were hurting.

  I worked hard to keep the tears at bay as I exchanged condolences or hugs with half a dozen people. I was determined to hold it together while I was in the pits. The motorhome, and if need be, the team lounge, were my safe zones for excess emotion. The pits were where I focused.

  We set off again down the walkway behind team pit spaces. Lights blazed in every active pit setup, and we peeked into them as we walked. We saw every approach to equipment and configuration: big, small, ornate, sparse, and everything in between. Carnegie Performance Group, or CPG, had some of the nicest gear and pit boxes, which wasn’t surprising, since that team primarily ran NASCAR—a series second only to Formula 1 in terms of the opulence of team equipment. As we passed CPG, I was glad I knew Sam to be safely back in the garage area, so I didn’t have to worry about being ambushed.

  Holly nudged me. “You going to let the boy have his say this weekend?”

  “Sam? There’s nothing I want to hear. There’s no point.”

  We’d been following the on-track race action from one set of team monitors to another, and as we pulled even with the Benchmark Racing tent, the race went yellow for debris. We stopped, along with a handful of other non-Benchmark people who were in the area, to watch the replay of an incident between a prototype and a Ferrari.

  The two cars had tangled after successfully navigating through the infield and exiting Turn 6 onto the NASCAR banking. Typically the slower car stayed low on the oval and left the high line to the faster car, but the Ferrari swung wide to avoid a Porsche nursing a deflating tire—and swung into the prototype. The impact sent both cars into the outside wall, then back down the banking onto the flat, grassy shoulder area, where the Ferrari narrowly missed also taking out the wounded Porsche. The prototype’s left front tire was immediately cut down. Half a lap later, it tore open and started whipping apart the car’s bodywork. Debris from the car’s carbon-fiber panels littered the back straight, which brought out the full-course caution.

  We stood near the entryway to the Benchmark pits watching the incident replay, the flying car parts, and the eventual decision by the affected car’s driver to stop and wait for a tow. I checked the crawl at the top of the screen. Mike was still in third place.

  Someone in a team shirt I didn’t recognize asked Holly a question. As she answered, I looked around the pit space. It was triple-wide, to support their three cars—all Porsches, the numbers 72, 73, and 77. My stomach plummeted to my feet.

  Of course, the 77 car. Benchmark Racing. The car that took Ian out.

  I looked at the people in the tent and saw subdued expressions, bowed heads, and no smiles. Granted, that might be the case for many teams up and down pit lane. I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t imprinting on them what I expected to see. But everything about the team felt muted, except for one crew member in a green Benchmark team shirt who sat on a drinks cooler staring at the ground in front of him, arms wrapped around himself, his whole body shaking from the jittering of his right leg up and down.

  I stepped back into the walkway to wait for Holly, feeling like I was prying by staring at the team that had caused Ian’s death. A man on top of the big pit box turned around to look for someone, caught sight of me, and waved exuberantly. It was Vladimir—or Pyotr, I wasn’t sure—one of the Russian brothers. I saw the other brother and Vinny, their minder, sitting next to them.

  I felt someone watching me, and I glanced around, catching sight of a young woman on the next pit box over. Slim and blond, with familiar blue eyes. She raised a hand when she saw recognition on my face, and I returned the gesture. She looked intrigued. I hoped I looked blank—instead of dismayed at the thought of having to interact with more members of my father’s family.

  “Isn’t that…?” Holly spoke at my elbow.

  “My half-sister, Lara. I wonder what she’s doing here.”

  “At the race or in these pits?”

  “Either. Both.” I lowered my voice still further and changed the topic. “It’s hard to accept the 77 car is still running.”

  She sighed as we resumed our trek down the pit lane. “Racing can break your heart.”

  “Ladies,” said a lovely British baritone right next to us.

  We’d only gotten twenty feet, but that had brought us to the next team tent, this one for the LinkTime Corvette team, our competitors in the GTLM class. Our rivals for Corvette glory. And, let’s face it, our superiors in all but determination, given the might and wallet of GM behind them.

  Duncan Forsythe, one of the Corvette factory drivers, leaned against the chain-link fence opposite his tent, a hand raised.

  His gesture seemed more “stop” than “hello,” so I moved out of the middle of the lane toward him. “How’s the race going for you, Duncan?”

  He shrugged. “Fine so far. Early hours yet. I wanted—all of us did, really—” he gestured to the tent, indicating the rest of the team “—to express our condolences and support.” He paused. “Bloody dreadful, that was.”

  “Thank you,” I managed.

  “If you need anything at all, let us know,” he continued. “I mean that, Kate. You’ve got friends here in the paddock—all of you at Sandham Swift do. We may compete out there, but we’ll back you up, should you ever need it.”

  I studied him, considering. We were both professional drivers, Corvette drivers, and part of well-respected teams that had been with the former American Le Mans Series for the majority of its fifteen-year duration. The message felt like a welcome to a more exclusive club. “You sound like you’re offering to hold someone down if I need to beat him up.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps I am.”

  “Do we get a secret handshake with that, sugar?” Holly drawled.

  “If you like.” Duncan went from chuckling to serious. “I don’t care for what I’ve seen around the paddock at this race. I don’t want the good teams and people,” he gestured at us, “to be drummed out by those who lack good sportsmanship.”

  “By those with more dollars than sense?” Holly suggested.

  “Just so.”

  I lowered my voice. “We’re talking about Arena?”

  Duncan frowned. “I suppose so—the team, at least. The man himself seems to have some class. I was thinking more of Benchmark next to us. There’s a secretive feel to the team that’s very strange.”

  “Why do you say that? Is it the Russian guys? They were nice and so was Vinny. Then again, I’ll never forgive the people with the 77 car.”

  Duncan pushed off from the fence, looking to his
pit where someone waved at him. “The Kulik brothers seem all right—aside from an occasional violent streak. But maybe you expect that from blokes who sell alcohol and live in Las Vegas. And Vinny Cruise seems nice also—I don’t know for sure. They all seem nice. It’s a feeling.”

  “How have the Kulik brothers been violent?” I asked.

  “Saw one of them nearly get run over by a crew member from their own team,” Duncan explained. “Before you could blink, he had the guy by the neck up against the chain-link fence. His brother had to calm him down.”

  “That seems extreme,” Holly said.

  “Indeed it does, though it seems to have been an isolated incident.”

  “Since you offered help,” I said. “Keep your eyes open and tell us if you see anything that backs up your feeling.”

  “I’ll do that,” he replied. “You all take care. Kate, I’ll see you out on track.” He crossed the pit lane back into his tent.

  Holly and I started walking again in silence.

  “How does that connect to anything else?” she asked, a few pit spaces later.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Duncan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I’ll mention it to the reporter, in case.”

  “What about the cops?”

  I shook my head. “Latham didn’t like my speculation about Monica, so I’ll hold on to this, unless Duncan finds evidence.”

  We’d reached the first opening in the long Arena pit tent, finally nearing our Sandham Swift pits, when we were nearly run over by two men who only looked where they wanted to go, not where anyone else might be. One of them bumped into Holly, knocking her into me. He turned to help catch her before she took a nose dive.

  We all froze, recognizing each other. Holly recovered first, finding her footing and slapping the man’s hands away. I heard her mutter, “Snakes.”

  I flashed back to the previous October and the threats these two men had made after being introduced to me as family. The menace they radiated in my direction wasn’t dimmed by time. My heart rate picked up, from equal parts trepidation and anger.

  As usual, Holden Sherain glowered at me. This time he also glared at Holly, no doubt blaming her for the collision he’d caused.

  Billy Reilly-Stinson grinned, also as usual. “We meet again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  10:10 P.M. | 16:00 HOURS REMAINING

  I waved a hand up the walkway. “Don’t let us stop you from rushing away. Please, carry on.” Out of my sight. Out of my life.

  Holden, the dark, brooding one of the duo, took a step before realizing Billy wasn’t moving. A gaggle of cars went by on the front straight, momentarily stopping all communication. I itched to be in one of them so I didn’t have to deal with my irritating pseudo-family members.

  Billy was planted, arms crossed over his chest. I wondered if others saw malice in his smile. “We’ve got a moment to visit with family. How have you been, Kate?”

  I played along. “I’ve had better days. Yourself?”

  “Fine, thank you. How’s the race been for your car?”

  Why are you here and what do you want? “We’re holding our own so far. Are you here with your father?” I’d known of the possibility my father’s brother Edward would drive in this race. But I hadn’t seen his name on the official driver roster, which had relieved me. Disappointment was a mild word for what I felt as I faced my cousins.

  Billy glanced at Holden, who still hadn’t said a word—this too, according to script. “Here with my father,” Billy confirmed. Maybe his father was here but not driving.

  Billy lifted his nose higher in the air. “We’re also here as official representatives of the bank, which is sponsoring two cars, as well as the entire United SportsCar Championship.”

  As if I hadn’t noticed? I looked at Holly, who seemed content to observe the farce playing out in front of her. I turned back to Billy and fake-smiled. I didn’t speak, merely looked at him and his cousin.

  “Billy, come on.” Holden finally opened his mouth.

  I raised my eyebrows at them. “Don’t let us keep you from whatever deals you need to make. People to see, all that.”

  Billy followed Holden down the walkway, with a look back over his shoulder at us. “We’ll talk more later. See you, Kate.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I replied, for Holly’s ears only.

  “It’s too bad they’re such jerks, because they’re damn finelooking.”

  “What do you suppose that was about?”

  “Clear as the day is long. They want something—at least Billy does.”

  “I’m not giving them anything. This is not the day to mess with me. I’ve had enough already.” I pulled my phone out—no new information about Stuart.

  We started walking again. As we passed the big tent, I was dismayed to observe my father inside talking to Monica and three men: the man I assumed was Richard Arena, along with the fiftyish, gray-blond man who’d nearly run us over earlier in the evening—who I suspected was my father’s brother—and Raul Salas.

  My stomach churned as I considered the timing. Not thirty minutes ago, I’d sent my father a request for information on Richard Arena. The next thing I knew, he was talking to the man himself.

  Is my father ratting me out? Should I feel guilty wondering that about him?

  Yes, he was my father, but I didn’t know him very well. Didn’t know who or what came first in his loyalties. I assumed he’d help me and keep my secrets, but was I sure?

  Calm the hell down, Kate.

  I forced myself to breathe deeply as Holly and I finished traversing the length of the Arena pits and arrived at Sandham Swift. I waved her into the tent and moved to the fence side of the walkway. I took three more breaths of race-scented air, thinking about why I’d leapt so quickly to assume betrayal.

  I heard Grandmother’s voice in my head. Betrayal’s all you can expect from that family.

  I didn’t know for sure what had happened at the time of my birth between my grandmother and my father’s family—or even who had been involved besides my father and his father. All I knew was my parents had met, fallen in love, gotten pregnant, and gotten married while attending Boston University. My mother had died in the hospital two days after I was born, and my maternal grandparents had raised me in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I’d met my father for the first time three years ago, only because the racing world had brought us together.

  My grandparents’ side of the story—via Gramps, because Grandmother refused to discuss it—was my father and his family hadn’t cared about me, didn’t want me, and didn’t have the decency to see me in the hospital. I had photographic evidence the latter wasn’t true, as well as my father’s word he and his father had cared.

  A cautious relationship with my father was one thing, trust was another. While I had two years of my father offering support and affection—at arm’s length, by my own choice—I had a lifetime of knowing the only people I could count on were myself and my grandparents.

  I’d grown to trust Holly and Zeke. But I’d also trusted Sam, and he’d let me down. Was it too soon to be sure of my father? He’d given me no reason to distrust him—except for his continued association with my scheming cousins. Could I blame him for his family?

  And what was Raul doing mixed up with those guys? He’d seemed like a good guy, but maybe he wasn’t to be trusted either. Or maybe he was as big a flirt with everyone as he’d been with me, and he was trying to get close to Monica. Which shouldn’t be hard, right?

  I’m turning into a hypocrite.

  I saw members of our pit crew stand up, stretch, and start to move to hoses and other equipment. I shook off my gloomy thoughts. Time would make my father’s actions clear. Until then, I had better topics to focus on. Like the race. Or Stuart. Or trying to figure out who hurt him.

  I pulled out my
phone. Still no news. I texted Polly again for an update and got a prompt reply of no change in Stuart’s condition. I moved across to our tent to think about my job.

  Colby shifted to make room as I joined her in front of the monitors. I quickly located Mike in our 28 car coming through the tri-oval. I ducked down to look at the small section of track we could see and spotted him as he passed.

  I spoke to Colby. “We’re still on schedule? You’ll be in after Mike does a triple?” My next turn in the rotation, a planned triple stint, would come after Colby did a triple—probably somewhere between one and two in the morning.

  “That’s the plan.” She paused. “Kate?”

  I transferred my gaze from the monitors to her, and she continued. “I know we’re all trying to deal with what happened to Ian, but you’ve got extra to deal with. You’re clearly coping. I know you’ll be as tough as you need to be to finish this race. But let me know if I can do anything.”

  I smiled, feeling pleasure in Colby as a friend and a fellow warrior. She knew exactly what it was to be a woman in the male-dominated racing world. To be tougher than many men, but still feminine. To bury emotion. To always have something to prove.

  I hugged her. “I’ve got your back too, whenever you need it.”

  We stood together watching the monitors for the next fifteen minutes, until Mike brought our car in for a green-flag stop—our ninth of the race. The crew, including our Michelin tire representative, inspected the tires carefully, but didn’t change them. They filled the car with fuel, cleaned the windscreen, and sent him away again.

  After the stop, I climbed onto the pit cart to get an update on the car from Jack and Bruce. Their verdict: everything working fine so far, brake wear within expected levels, and double-stinting tires now that the track was dry and cool. We were still on schedule—which I took to mean something would go wrong soon, simply because nothing ever went according to plan in a race as long as this one.