How did they know about the sabotage?
There must’ve been another article in the Courier on Saturday. Between inventory observation and the meeting with George, she’d never looked at the newspaper.
A familiar voice grated across her nerves. “I told you I saw him working on Shaw’s rig. I bet you a hundred bucks Price was the one who fucked with that suspension. Who else would know how to?”
She spotted him immediately.
Randy Kapaska.
Asshole.
He stood with a group of guys, running his mouth. His black eye was the same shade of green-yellow that Tate’s had faded to. She wanted to storm into his circle, slam her fist into his face and make a matched set.
Except he’d hurt her without batting an eye, and she had no interest in going to jail.
“Who does Price think he is?” Another guy in jeans and a wife-beater dug his elbow into Randy. “No way Williamson’s gonna give him that ride.”
“That rig’s yours, Kapaska. No way Price is gonna screw you over.”
Holly fumed. Like Tate wanted the damn ride, or Tyler Williamson would hire a dirt bag like Randy.
She hurried to the sponsor section, remembering not to storm in like Godzilla. At the edge of the seating area, she stopped and scanned the tables. Most were full. Sponsors and their guests raised glasses and followed the progress of the competing rigs. She glanced at the bar, then at the grassy area in front of the seating area. With a shudder, she remembered the brawl that had taken place there the previous weekend.
The brawl Tate had been in the middle of.
The brawl that jerk Randy had started. Damn him.
The brawl that had opened the latest screwed up chapter in her life.
George stood with a group of men near the tent, watching the obstacle course. Forcing herself to stroll, to look vaguely interested in the rig currently climbing the ridge, she closed the distance between them.
George slapped one of the men on the shoulder and both laughed. He swung toward the closest bar table. His eyebrows lifted as he caught sight of her. “Holly.” He waved, a genial swing of his hand. “Join us.”
“Hi.” She moved closer and cast a general smile at the circle of men.
“You know Holly Price,” George turned to his friends. “Best accountant in eastern Washington.”
She gave an “Aw, shucks” grin and shook hands over a flood of names she’d never remember.
“You have a rig running?” Her gaze traveled around the circle.
Several nodded. One man cocked his head. “Price. You related to Tate Price?”
“I am.” Her chin came up and she almost dared him to say anything bad.
“Good man. George suggested we try that new suspension of his in our Ford this week. Brought it along instead of just running our Toyota. Damn thing’s amazing.”
Her shoulders—and her tension—dropped a notch.
“I’m sure Tate, George and Mikhail will be happy to hear that.” She smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “Have you seen Tate today?”
The guy pulled off his John Deere cap and scratched his head. “He was over at Mikhail’s tent a while ago.”
“I was over there about, oh, half an hour ago.” Another man spoke up. “Price was just leaving. Looked like he might’ve been headed to the pit area.”
“I’ll run over there,” she said. “I need to ask him something.”
George eyed her, looking like he wanted to ask her want was up, then thought better of it. “Stop by after you talk to him and have a drink with us.”
“Sure.” She tweaked her mouth into a smile. “It was nice meeting all of you. Hope to see you later. You’ll be at the award ceremony?”
They nodded. As soon as she stepped out of the circle, they returned their attention to the course. Raucous laughter immediately floated from their group.
She glanced back. George was still watching her, a vaguely worried expression on his face. Behind him—apparently the subject of the men’s laughter—a rig was perched atop a boulder. It’s front tires spun futilely in the air. The rear tires bit into the mud, digging the truck deeper into an impossible position. It was as trapped as a turtle on its back.
She shook her head. Even she could tell the driver was making his position worse by the second. At least he’d keep the crowd occupied and entertained for a while.
She strode past the vendor tents to the access road and entered the prep area. This late in the tournament, there didn’t seem to be anyone working on a rig. Several trucks were parked in numbered sponsor slots, but no one was leaning over a tire or a fender.
“Tate?”
Where was he?
She wandered down the row of prep stations, peering around each truck.
She rounded the next to last vehicle and froze.
Tate sprawled in the dirt beside a bright yellow rig. A pool of blood spread around his head.
“Tate!”
She raced to his limp body. He didn’t move. Didn’t respond to her frantic calls. Her fingers touched his arm, flew to his wrist.
Was that a pulse?
Fingers shaking, she reached under his jacket collar and pressed his neck. A thready pulse tapped against her fingertips.
Nearly fainting with relief, she whipped out her cell and dialed.
“911, what is your emergency?”
She’d heard that phrase a few too many times in the past month. “I’m at Boulder Bounders the rockcrawler event,” she told the dispatcher. “A man’s hurt, he’s bleeding badly and isn’t conscious.”
“Emergency services is en route. Please stay on the line.”
Suddenly, Holly remembered Shaw’s wreck. “Isn’t there an ambulance already here?”
She dropped the dispatcher and opened her “recent” phone file. George had called her on Friday from the course, which meant he’d used a cell. Where was the number? There...
“Hello?” Crowd and truck noise intruded around George’s voice.
“Tate’s hurt! He’s unconscious. Where’s the ambulance?”
“Holly? Where are you?”
“In the pit area. The end of the row. Hurry.”
She knelt beside Tate, searching for the source of the blood.
What am I supposed to do?
She franticly tried to remember anything useful from the first aid course Ashiro had made them take as a team-building exercise.
ABC—Airway, Breathing, Circulation.
Okay. He’s breathing. He has a pulse.
So much blood. Where’s it coming from?
She scanned the visible skin. His head. Her fingers hovered over his hair. She was afraid to touch him anywhere else. Would she hurt him worse if she moved him?
Running footsteps sounded, and a man in a black security shirt skidded around the rear of the rig. He rushed forward and checked Tate’s pulse.
“Looks like a head wound,” Holly told the security guy. “I was afraid to move him.”
He nodded as he unclipped a radio. “Slip two,” he spoke into the mike and then rattled off some codes she couldn’t decipher. He stepped across the access road to a red cross emblazoned box and returned with a silver space blankets and a small emergency kit.
She did the silent head slap. She hadn’t noticed the emergency supply box.
“How long has he been down?” The guy draped the blanket over Tate’s body. After running gloved hands over his limbs, he gently probed the back of Tate’s head.
“I don’t know. I just found him.”
“What were you doing back here?” His gaze flicked over her face and settled on her badge.
Probably checking her name.
“Looking for him.” She gestured at Tate.
“Why?” He pulled a wad of gauze from the kit and pressed it against Tate’s head.
“Should you be doing that? The EMTs will be here in a second.” She heard gravel crunch from wheels and more footsteps pounding down the access road.
He
frowned at her. “I’m an EMT.”
“Oh. Good.” She edged out of the way as the next wave of rescuers surged into the small space.
In a weird detachment, she watched the ambulance doors swing open and two EMTs emerge. They scanned the area, swept a quick inspection over her, then focused on Tate. The man reached into the yellow truck, while the woman crouched beside Tate’s still form.
The man pulled a gurney from the rear of the ambulance and rolled it next to Tate’s prone body. The woman shifted the blanket and checked the now bloody gauze on Tate’s head. With practiced moves, they turned Tate and transferred him to the gurney.
A faint tremble shook Holly’s body, like the warning precursors of an earthquake.
A quick upward tug and the stretcher lifted. The medics rolled it to the ambulance and loaded it into the back. While the man started an IV on Tate, the woman stepped across to her. “Are you okay?”
I’m freaking out probably wasn’t the right answer. “I’m fine,” Holly said.
“How many people were working on the truck when he was injured?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Did he fall? Hit his head on a car part while he was working on it?” the medic asked.
Feeling useless and ignorant, Holly repeated, “I don’t know. He was on the ground, alone, when I found him.”
“You weren’t involved in the accident?”
“I have no idea what happened.” Panic waited at the edge of her mind. She pushed it aside. Not helpful.
Two deputies pushed through the rapidly growing crowd.
Apparently satisfied she didn’t need medical attention, the woman strode to the ambulance. The door slammed behind her and the vehicle left on a cloud of dust and siren noise.
Before the deputies could capture her in their million questions routine, Holly turned in the other direction, pushed through the crowd and headed for her car.
No one was stopping her from getting to the hospital.
Tate needed her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Brave for You (The XX)
The hospital’s waiting room was as stark as any waiting room anywhere in the country. Stiff, seen-better-days chairs and sofas lined the walls. Faux wood tables were littered with tattered magazines that people pretended to read.
Holly perched on the edge of a grungy chair. Hands clasped, forearms pressed against her knees, she watched the red minute-hand tick around the clock face.
It was taking forever. Where was the doctor? What was happening to Tate?
Every second was a good thing, she argued with herself. No news meant Tate was alive. Being tended to.
It was a head wound.
They bled a lot.
That was all.
She clenched her hands, forcing herself not to wring them or to rock.
The doors swung open. Tension pinged from faces and shoulders all around the room. Every eye in the room darted that direction. Another couple, worried, vaguely bewildered expressions in place, dropped onto one of the sofas.
Time ticked past.
Doctors emerged, spoke in hushed tones to friends and families of anonymous patients. More worried friends and family arrived.
The door whooshed open again. JC stepped into the room and locked in on her. “Holly.”
Just her name brought tears to her eyes.
He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. For a long moment, she rested there. Inhaling his scent. Drawing on his strength.
“Why didn’t you call me?” His words whispered across her temple.
With tiny movements, she shook her head. Why hadn’t she called him?
Fear.
A hiccupped sigh escaped.
Fear he’d blame Tate, assume he’d done something wrong to provoke the attack.
Fear JC wouldn’t be there for her when she needed him so badly.
“What happened?” His tone was gentle.
“I don’t know.” Her fingers tightened on his jacket. Please be asking because you’re concerned. For Tate. For me. “I went out to the venue to talk to Tate. I found him on the ground, bleeding, and called 911.”
“You didn’t stay to talk to the deputies.”
Despair surged through her. No. Don’t be doing this because you’re a cop. “There wasn’t anything I could tell them and I wanted to be here, not trapped in Pointless Question Land.”
“Will you answer a few for me?”
“Now?” She raised her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“It has to be done.”
“And you wondered why I didn’t call you.” Defeat—and a thread of anger—laced her voice.
“Come on, Holly. Don’t be like that.” He squeezed her shoulders. “It’s me or someone who doesn’t know you.”
Still sheltered under his arm, she straightened. He had a point. It might be better to talk to him. At least in theory, he knew the situation. She wouldn’t have to bring a different cynical detective up to speed. “I’d rather talk to you, but I wish you’d be here for me instead of your job.”
“Holly, that’s why I’m here. I knew you’d be worried about your cousin. I didn’t want someone else questioning you. Someone who doesn’t know you and Tate.”
“Okay.” She raked her hands through her hair, buying a moment to pull her thoughts together.
He shifted his arm, pulling her close. “What made you go back to the pit area?”
She pressed a hand down her thigh, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans. “A guy, you’ll have to ask George who he was, told me he’d seen Tate at Mikhail’s vendor tent, but he was leaving. He thought Tate was heading to the prep area.”
“So you went to the prep area looking for Tate?”
She nodded.
“There weren’t any security cameras in that section, so the deputies don’t have a recording of any activity. Think back to when you entered the area. Did you see anyone? Anything that looked unusual or out of place?”
She twisted her lips and ran the movie in her head. “There were some trucks parked back there, more than I saw earlier in the week. In the distance, I could hear the crowd and whatever vehicle was running the course. That kinda emphasized how deserted it was back there. That was different.”
Talking, stepping back from the emotion and worry, did help. She straightened and turned to look JC in the eyes. “Today was the last day of Boulder Bounders, but was that the last run—the one right after the truck got stuck on top of a rock? Shouldn’t whoever was up later have been in the prep area? When I went there before, there were lots of guys working on their rigs.”
“Good question. I’ll find out. What else?”
She sank into his embrace and thought about it. “Tool chests. A couple of the stations had tool chests. Do you think someone used a wrench from one of those kits to hit him?”
She shuddered and he tightened his grip. “Another good question. Anything else?”
“After I saw Tate, I was so focused on him, I didn’t see anything else.”
“Understandable. You said you went out to the site looking for Tate. Why were you looking for him?”
Twitching her shoulder, she kept both her expression and her answer vague. She’d hoped to avoid this part of his questioning. “I wanted to see the final events. And I wanted to talk to him.”
“About?”
Her hands tightened. “A client issue.”
“What kind of issue?”
She rolled her head and stared at the ceiling. JC was going to be pissed, but she couldn’t disclose the inventory problem without George’s permission. And there was no way she was telling JC about that blasted vendor record. Straightening, she moved out of his embrace. Chin lifted, she turned to face him head-on. “Confidential.”
His lips flattened but he said, “Okay. When was the last time you talked to him?”
It had been such a crazy weekend. She scrolled through her memory. “Friday night? Before we went out?”
“I met Rick early on Saturday for work.”
JC nodded. His gaze landed on the scuffed tile floor.
She watched thoughts flicker behind his eyes. “What?”
He pulled in a deep breath. “Tate called and said he wanted to talk. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Now I’m wondering what he wanted.”
Why on earth would her cousin call JC? Hadn’t she convinced Tate to work through an attorney if he had to talk to the cops? Or had he stumbled onto something that cleared his name? “I wish I knew why he called you. When did he call?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“That must’ve been while I was still working. He came in late last night. I was beat, went to bed and didn’t hear him.”
“I’m glad you texted when you got home last night. I worry about you driving when you’ve been working late.” He reached for her hand. “Look, I know this is tough. I want to help. Do you want to come out to my place tonight? Put some hamburgers on the grill? Or I could go get you a sandwich if you want to stay here. Whatever you want to do.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here until I know more about Tate. The last guy who was left alone at the hospital… Will the police keep an eye on Tate? After what happened to Danny Shaw?”
“I’ll find out. Then I’ll pick up some takeout.” JC waited a beat, then asked, “Any idea where Tate went last night?”
“Out with friends would be my guess. When I talked with the other drivers this week”—she caught his raised eyebrow—”I wanted to know if they were worried about the new part or about him. They weren’t. With the Boulder Bounders event wrapping up, the drivers and their friends might’ve gotten together since the tour will move to the next location now.”
A muscle in JC’s jaw flexed. “They may not be openly concerned about Tate, but that sabotage story is still floating around the event.”
Anger peered around her worry. “You mean Randy is running his mouth to people who don’t know anything about Tate, the part or anything else.”
JC smiled, a quick twitch of his lips, then sobered. “Unfortunately, somebody appears to have listened.”
In It For the Money Page 21