Avoidable Contact

by Tammy Kaehler

  Carbon fiber shards worked on tires like knives worked on soft butter. All of the cars past the injured prototype were sitting ducks for debris. Which included Mike.

  The 28 Corvette dodged hard left, both left-side tires cut down.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  10:50 P.M. | 15:20 HOURS REMAINING

  The yellow flag flew for debris. Mike steered down onto the flat apron of the track, planning to enter the closed pits—which would incur a minor penalty. The alternative was to ride around on track until the pits opened, but since the tires wouldn’t last even a full lap, there was no choice. Our crew scrambled for their tools.

  By Series regulation, a car that couldn’t safely continue on track—due to a flat tire, not enough fuel, or another issue—was allowed to come in for service on the problem item only, even if the pits were closed. However, it had to rejoin the field on-track and return to the pits during regular pit stops for full servicing. Mike arrived within seconds. Our crew changed the two cut tires but didn’t do anything else, and Mike went back out.

  We’d lost positions, but it could have been much worse. The rapidly disintegrating prototype had slowed its pace to a crawl, still depositing debris around the track. It was only now entering pit lane. That car looked to have suspension damage in addition to the torn bodywork and disintegrated tire. The driver had paid a tough price for his lack of patience.

  A few minutes later, Mike followed most of the GT field in for a full service of fuel and tires all around. The good news, though we’d lost positions on the field, was we were only one lap down to the leaders, in eighth place. Our Corvette had suffered no lasting damage to anything but the tires. With more than fifteen hours still to run, we had plenty of time to fight back.

  Holly and I exhausted our memories of people we’d seen associating with Arena Motorsports, and I reviewed the list while she threw away the remains of my snack. A minute later, we stood at the monitors to watch the field go back to green—which stuck this time. As the cars settled into a rhythm, we did also, leaning against the chain-link fence in the pit walkway. We kept one eye on the monitors and the other on the comings and goings at the Arena setup.

  I elbowed Holly, seeing two men walking down pit lane. “Isn’t that the main SGTV guy there?”

  “Yep, the one next to the head of Porsche Motorsport Worldwide.”

  I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Who do you figure they’re there to talk to?”

  “Arena himself? Ed Grant? Look who’s greeting them.”

  I turned to see the SGTV and Porsche representatives standing in the walkway with my father. “He’s been in with that team this long?” I felt uneasy again about his loyalties.

  Before the three men could exchange more than hellos, they moved into the tent to get out of the way of the WiseGuy crew removing the last of their equipment—the main pit cart, with folding tables lashed to the top—from pit lane.

  Holly and I crossed to the pit wall in the now empty and dark space between Sandham Swift and Arena Motorsports. Across from us, behind the start/finish line, rose the tall grandstand. I squinted up at the tower building looming above the stands, trying to make out spotters on the roof, high above suites housing Race Control, broadcast and other media booths, and top-tier hospitality suites.

  In the sudden quiet caused by no cars in front of us, we heard a voice from the tent next door. “Richard! Come meet—”

  The rest was drowned out by a Porsche on-track. Holly and I looked at each other. We took three steps to the right, close to the canvas wall of the Arena Motorsports tent.

  We heard a mixture of voices: “This year…cars…sponsors and drivers…funding…features…possible.”

  Then three sentences in another long lull between passing racecars: “I’m aware it takes money to make money. But it’s better if you throw in a little more. I encourage you to be creative, gentlemen.”

  Then nothing but a sense of movement next door and one last phrase. “Protect my brother.”

  “Who’s talking?” I hissed to Holly.

  She shrugged and pointed to a gap where two canvas side panels overlapped. The rope that laced through the wide grommets of each panel had missed a set of holes, leaving an opening that flapped open and closed depending on wind or someone pushing on the canvas. I carefully positioned my hand to keep the flap on my side from blowing open and exposing me, then put my eye to the small opening. I jumped back immediately at the sight of Ed Grant’s angry face.

  I waved Holly off when I realized he couldn’t have been looking at me. I peeped through the canvas again. Grant stood a few yards away, talking to someone. I shifted and saw Billy listening to him, with my father next to Billy, closer to the tent wall. Then Grant turned to his right as someone else spoke.

  A gust of wind swept past us and sucked the other panel open. It was only a two-inch movement, but it felt like complete exposure. My instincts took over. I dropped straight down into a crouch below the opening and waved Holly out of the pit space. She scurried out to the walkway. I crab-walked a few feet before standing up and following her. Thirty seconds later, we were leaning against the chain-link fence behind our pits, half hidden behind a rack of tires, when Billy walked out of the Arena pit and around to the spot we’d vacated.

  My heart pounded in my ears as we watched Billy stick a hand and then his head through the opening.

  He withdrew and turned to leave. I pointed to something in the Sandham Swift pits, saying to Holly, “Look over there so he doesn’t think we’re watching him.”

  “That was close.”

  I laughed, too loud, releasing tension. I turned to her, glancing at the walkway. Billy watched us. “Too close. He’s still looking this way. Come on.”

  We kept our attention on our own team area as we crossed the walkway and entered our pits.

  I collected two bottles of water from a cooler and handed her one. “Grant, Billy, and my father were talking. There was at least one other person, but I couldn’t see who.”

  “Could you ask your father?” She saw me squirm. “You did ask him for information already.”

  “He’s been over there talking to them for so long. And that’s his brother. I’m not sure who he’s more loyal to.”

  “Speaking of brother, you think it was your father saying ‘protect my brother’ about Grant or Grant saying it about him?”

  I thought back to the voice we’d heard and frowned. “I don’t think it was my father’s voice, but I’m not sure.”

  “Probably it was Richard Arena demanding people think creatively about making money.”

  “I wonder who he was talking to. My father? My uncle? The SGTV or Porsche guys?”

  “Seems like a bold demand to make to the head of a network or a car company.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Seven cars in his stable. ‘Bold’ is an understatement.”

  “The coast is clear, let’s go back out to the walkway.”

  “No more peeping Tom. I’m not cut out for this spy stuff.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  11:05 P.M. | 15:05 HOURS REMAINING

  I made it back to the chain-link fence in time to watch my father leave Arena Motorsports with the SGTV and Porsche representatives. He looked in my direction and lifted a hand. I nodded, not wanting attention called to my presence. He kept walking.

  At the Arena tent, Monica reappeared. My stomach clenched. She stood with a different man with close-cropped dark hair and long sideburns.

  “Who’s that with her?” I asked Holly, my words swallowed by a prototype roaring out of the pits past us.

  “The hatchet man.”

  “That’s his title?”

  She laughed. “Rumor is he does the dirty work for Arena in the team. Officially, he does a combination of computer setup and logistics. Nice guy, more friendly and open than some of the others ar
ound there.”

  “Except for maybe being a hatchet man.”

  “I think his name’s Ryan. Ryan Johnston.”

  I glanced back and saw Ryan and the witch greet Tug Brehan and Elizabeth Rogers. I looked at Holly. “When did I start thinking of the Arena team as the evil empire?”

  Holly pointed to the empty pit space between our teams—except it wasn’t empty any longer. The wall panels between the Arena space and the former WiseGuy space had been unlaced, and someone had rolled a tool chest into the opening to hold open one flap of the tent wall. “You did call him bold,” she noted.

  I drained the last of my water and walked to the garbage can near Arena’s tent to toss the bottle. Two plastic chairs and a cooler were set up next to the pit wall in the WiseGuy space. A crew member ducked through the opening into the dark, empty pit space and lit up a cigarette. A second guy arrived a minute later, and the two held an animated conversation, judging by the red ends of their cigarettes being waved around.

  “Taking full advantage of the space,” I commented to Holly. “Is that allowed in the rules?”

  “Doubtful.”

  I shook my head, pulled out my phone, and typed an update to Calhoun.

  Holly glanced over. “Are you ratting them out to the Series?”

  “Calhoun. Updating who else we’ve seen.”

  “Wrap it up, because someone’s on his way to talk to you.”

  I caught sight of my father headed back down the walkway toward me.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Holly crossed to the tent.

  He greeted me, taking Holly’s spot. “How are you doing?”

  I shrugged. “I’m coping. I’ve had better races. Better weekends. Did you—were you able to find anything out for me?”

  “Not much more than you already know. The Series staff I spoke with said they’re keeping you informed, and I could only press them for so much.”

  Keeping me informed? He’s not talking about Arena, he’s talking about Stuart. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. Guilt washed over me. I hadn’t forgotten about Stuart. But I was focusing more on the details of who’d done him wrong—at least I could have some impact on that.

  “Kate, are you all right?”

  I dropped my hands and tried to find a smile for James. “What did they tell you?” He hesitated, and I pressed him. “I’d rather hear it from you than through paddock gossip. You know it’ll get out.”

  “And better you hear it from me than from someone excited about the details of someone they don’t know.”

  I braced myself.

  “The scuttlebutt concerns some of the more distressing details of the accident itself.” He took a deep breath. “A witness says when Stuart was hit, he flew at least fifteen feet and bounced three times. Also his non–life threatening injuries are more severe than they’ve reported to you. Both arms and both legs are broken, along with a shoulder blade and an undetermined number of ribs.”

  My throat felt like it had seized up. I fought to drag a breath into my lungs.

  My father put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  I felt numb, my whole being focused on a vision of Stuart being hit by a car. Almost killed. Maybe dying on an operating table. I surprised myself with a single sob, though my eyes were dry.

  My father hesitantly reached out and pulled me into his arms, patting my back softly. It was the first time we’d hugged. I relaxed into him for three heartbeats before realizing I didn’t want our relationship to make the rounds of gossip along with the details of Stuart’s injuries.

  “I’m all right.” I pulled away, but gently, trying not to notice his disappointment.

  He cleared his throat. “On another topic, did you see that your—my daughter, Lara, is here? With Benchmark Racing?”

  “I saw her. What’s she doing? Isn’t she still in college?”

  “She’s majoring in math and wanted some experience running computational models on the raw data the cars transmit.” He smiled, obviously proud. “I’m not sure of the details, but she’s volunteering for them. Maybe you can stop in and say hello. She mentioned hoping to see you this weekend.”

  I hesitated. Thought of all the reasons why not to see her, primarily my reluctance to leap into the bosom of my father’s family, as well as not wanting to broadcast the connection. I sighed. “I’ll try.”

  My father looked around and lowered his voice. “What was it you were asking me about Richard Arena?”

  “I need some information, and I can’t exactly explain why. And I need you to not tell anyone. Please.”

  He regarded me solemnly for a moment, then spoke. “As long as it’s not illegal or immoral—which I don’t expect, mind you—I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  Now I’m going to owe him, dammit. “Thank you. I don’t think this is either. I’m looking for information about who is interacting with the Arena team. Who the team principals are—besides Richard Arena, of course. Who the partners and sponsors are, who the drivers are, especially the gentlemen drivers.” I saw him start to frown. “I’m not asking for any information that’s private—I don’t want to know who’s spending what or why. I’m looking for names. Even photos of the scene and people would be great.”

  “I don’t—sorry. You can’t say why.” He paused. “Forgive me, I have to ask this. The information won’t compromise the team or car—or bring harm to anyone?”

  How do I answer that? “Not unless they deserve it.”

  “I can live with that.”

  He gave me a brief rundown on the corporate sponsors of each Arena team car, most of which had a company executive doing a rotation behind the wheel. “That includes my brother Edward, of course,” he said. “You knew that.”

  “I didn’t think he was here. I didn’t see his name in the program.”

  “He goes by Ed Grant—his middle name—when he wants to downplay his relation to the bank.”

  “He’s not the most popular driver in the paddock today, after mixing it up with the prototype.”

  My father looked momentarily troubled. Then he shrugged, an unusual gesture from him. “That’s his situation to manage. Nothing I can do about it.”

  My father ran down the basic, public facts about Richard Arena, adding he’d been impressed with Arena’s focus and business acumen, even through limited interaction. “To be so successful across multiple corporations—and racing teams—almost requires some amount of aggression or ruthlessness. I speculate that exists. I don’t know it.”

  He paused again. “Let me think more about other individuals who may have a connection to him. I’ll send a message with anything else.”

  “Thank you. Again, please don’t tell anyone. Especially not Arena. Or your brother.”

  He went still. “My brother can take care of himself.”

  “I didn’t know if you were concerned with…protecting him in some way.”

  “My brother doesn’t need my protection—and I’m long past taking his advice, especially when the topic is y—my personal life.”

  I wondered if he’d started to say “when the topic is you.” My insides twisted at the thought of his brother saying anything at all about me.

  My father put a hand on my shoulder and spoke again. “Besides, Kate, this is what families do for each other—and you’re family now. Finally.”

  I found it hard to breathe again. That’s what I was afraid of.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  11:15 P.M. | 14:55 HOURS REMAINING

  After my father left, I joined Holly at the side of the tent. We had a view of a pit stop by the Viper in the pit space on the other side of us—an unplanned stop, if the smoke coming from the engine was any indication. As we watched the mechanics work, I filled her in on what my father told me.

  She
studied my face. “Are you all right about Stuart? I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “Had you heard it?”

  “No, but I knew something was making the rounds.”

  I felt visceral pain at the thought of how badly Stuart was hurt. “I’m dealing with it.” Almost without thinking, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check for messages. Nothing. I texted Polly to ask when the next surgery would take place.

  “If your father’s not interested in protecting his brother,” Holly went on, “it wasn’t him we heard in the Arena tent.”

  “We can’t assume every stray comment we hear means something.” I shrugged and handed her my father’s list of names.

  She raised her eyes from the list. “I didn’t realize the Arena team was also sponsored by SunWise Oil.”

  “Isn’t that a typical supplier deal where the team runs the sponsor logo in return for a discount price on the product?”

  “I think there are only three teams using SunWise: Arena, Benchmark, and Western Racing.”

  “I’m not sure what that tells us.”

  “Hell, me either,” she said on a laugh, turning back to the list. “Here’s something interesting.”

  I looked at the name. “Willie, the Michelin rep?”

  “Willie used to be married to Cecilia, down at Carnegie Performance Group.”

  Sam’s team. “That’s interesting?”

  “Cecilia and Willie don’t get along so well these days. Cecilia’s brother Robert hates Willie with a passion. Robert is here driving with his Grand-Am team, Redemption Racing, which is owned by CPG—CPG is the parent company, only runs NASCAR, and Redemption is the sportscar racing offshoot. Here at this race, they’re really one team sharing resources.”

  “Two teams associated like that is pretty standard. Didn’t one of the main tech guys from the ALMS end up with Redemption? Plus Raul Salas is driving for them.”

  Holly smiled. “Mmmm, Raul. And you’re right, Bob Something-long-and-Slavic wound up there after not being invited to join the new series. Plus Redemption is home to Joe Smith.” She gave the name air quotes. “Robert’s good friend and teammate here and in Grand-Am.”