Overdrive

by Chris Fabry

  “Until the engine blew,” she said. It was interesting hearing his voice right next to her instead of coming through the TV speakers. But he moved his hands and used the same expressions he did on the air.

  “Yeah, but there are a lot of people talking about how you’re at the top of the new wave of drivers,” the man said. “Younger. Stronger. Better trained. Better athletes.”

  “Prettier too,” her dad said.

  The man laughed. “You got that right. I’m convinced the good old boy network is giving way to a new generation. More diverse, more open to different backgrounds—and especially females. We’ve had some really good women drivers, but nobody’s had the chance to be the female wunderkind—the Tigress Woods, if you will.”

  Jamie laughed.

  Her dad looked at her. “The Tigress has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “I could paint the car with black stripes and wear a tail on my fire suit.”

  The commentator’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. “I really believe you have what it takes, young lady. I’ve seen a lot of flashes in the pan, guys who looked promising but fizzled. You’ve got a good teacher here, so listen to him. I want to call your first win.”

  Jamie couldn’t help smiling as the commentator got up and walked away. He stopped to shake hands with someone at another table. Butch Devalon.

  “Oh, good grief,” Jamie muttered.

  “He’s coming this way,” her dad said.

  Devalon strutted over to the table and pulled up his straight-legged jeans by his diamond-studded belt buckle, making sure they saw his championship ring on his right hand. He gave a little smile and nodded to both of them.

  “I wanted to come over and apologize about what happened in Indy,” Devalon said. “My son overheats like a bad engine, and he accused the boy living with you of some things. I wasn’t a very good influence in the matter, and I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Jamie’s dad looked at her like he’d just heard a dog sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” In French. While accompanying himself on the piano. “Well, that’s nice of you to say, Butch. We both appreciate that.”

  “I wonder if you two would accept a ride tomorrow in my chopper over to the football stadium. Mile High something or other. I’m supposed to do a commercial shoot with a few of the players for one of the Monday Night Football games, and it’d be a treat to have you along.”

  “What about qualifying?” Jamie said.

  “Oh, I’d have your dad back in plenty of time for that.”

  “Kellen would be drooling all over the table if he heard about it,” her dad said.

  Jamie kept her mouth closed. Butch Devalon was the last person she’d want to be seen with.

  “That’s nice of you, Butch, but I don’t think—”

  “One of your sponsors will be there. And there’s press covering it. We can use all the good press we can get—don’t you think?”

  “It was an olive branch,” Jamie’s dad said to her later as they were going up the elevator, the lights of Denver twinkling in the distance.

  “It’s not an olive branch. He’s a snake with a stick. I’m surprised you don’t see it.”

  “Won’t hurt to go with him. Maybe he’s a changed man. Plus, it’ll take my mind off the qualifying. You and I both know I need a good spot to start from, and I have to finish well for any hope of getting into the Chase.”

  “I’ll be at the track,” she said.

  Chapter 41

  The Address

  LATE FRIDAY NIGHT Tim was watching a movie with Kellen, laughing at the antics of a silly-looking guy with long legs who did lots of stunts. There wasn’t much to it except for him eating weird stuff or tripping over things, but it still had them rolling on the floor.

  When it was over, Tim said, “If I had an address for a person and wanted to find out where that was, how would I do it?”

  Kellen said he could go to a Web site and plug in the address, and it would show not only a map of the area but also a way to view the building with a satellite. “If the person you’re looking for was playing basketball in the driveway when the satellite last took the picture, you could actually see them.”

  “Cool,” Tim said. He went to his room, then came back upstairs when he was sure Kellen had gone to bed. He had talked to Mrs. Maxwell about the contents of the box, but he hadn’t been specific about what the letter said.

  He typed in the address and clicked the Search button. The computer worked a few seconds, as if it were teasing him. Then a screen popped up that said, “Several locations were found for this address. Please select one below.”

  He scrolled through the list, but only one matched. He clicked on it, and up came a listing for the Kathryn A. Ross Women’s Correctional Facility.

  Tim looked at the address on the envelope, then stared at the computer. He shook his head and turned the computer off.

  Chapter 42

  Qualifying

  JAMIE WENT TO THE TRACK and visited the team readying the car for qualifying. Her dad had left early for the meeting with Devalon. She’d heard the helicopter go overhead. Her dad’s spotter, Scotty, walked through the hauler, eating an individually wrapped spice cake made by one of the sponsors. Jamie made a comment about him watching his weight.

  Scotty frowned. “Easy for you to say. Everything I eat goes straight to my hips.”

  Jamie laughed. “You hear where my dad is?”

  “He said he was going with Devalon somewhere. Hope he heard they moved qualifying up.”

  “To when?”

  “First car rolls off in an hour. T.J.’s at the meeting now for the draw.”

  Jamie dialed her dad, but he either had his phone off or wasn’t taking calls. As much as it pained her, she walked over to the Devalon hauler and saw Chad’s mom scurrying.

  “Excuse me,” Jamie said. “My dad is with your husband. Do you have his cell phone number?”

  She looked up like a frightened squirrel. “I can’t give that number to anyone. Butch would string me up if I did that.”

  “But I have to get in touch with my dad. They’ve moved qualifying up.”

  “Why don’t you talk to his crew chief?” she said.

  “He’s at the draw now and . . .” Jamie hesitated as she saw Tad Renfro, one of the Devalon backup drivers, come out of the hauler with a fire suit on.

  Devalon’s crew chief walked up. “We got the 10th spot,” he said to Tad. “Do your best.”

  Jamie hurried back to the Maxwell hauler as T.J. came in. “Hey, where’s your dad?”

  “He’s with Devalon. Didn’t he tell you?”

  T.J.’s face turned white. “I got a call from Devalon’s pilot that they canceled the shoot. I left a message on Dale’s phone and at your room. He didn’t get it?”

  Jamie shook her head. “What did the pilot say?”

  “Told me Dale was having breakfast with them and would be over for qualifying.”

  “Something’s not right. Dad wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t cut it so close, especially with so much at stake. And I just saw Tad Renfro with a fire suit on.”

  “Renfro’s going to qualify for Butch?” T.J. said, taking off his hat and scratching his head. “I think you’re right. Something’s fishy.”

  “Why would Devalon do this?”

  “Your daddy’s the strongest and hottest racer out there,” T.J. said. “If Devalon can keep him out of the Chase, do you think he’d do it?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Your dad drew qualifying position number one. If he’s going to make it, he’s gotta get back here right now.”

  Jamie tried his cell again, but there was no answer. “Maybe we can call the football stadium.”

  “You work on it. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Jamie dialed home and got Kellen. He was on the computer and looking for a number at the stadium in seconds. Jamie got it, dialed, and got a voice mail. She listened to the op
tions and chose an extension. Anybody who was alive would do.

  “Hi, this is Rhonda and I’m not in the office right now, but if—”

  Jamie punched the Star button to return to the tree and tried someone else.

  After five tries a guy who sounded like he was bored answered. “This is Tony.”

  “Tony, are you at the stadium right now?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the office. Who is this?”

  Jamie told him. “My dad is supposed to be there with another guy shooting a commercial or something for Monday Night Football.”

  “Yeah, I heard they were here to do that—”

  “I have to talk to him. It’s an emergency.”

  “Let me transfer you to Shirley’s cell—I think she’s down there with them.”

  Please, God, Jamie prayed, let me get through to him.

  The phone rang seven times before a harried woman answered. She seemed peeved.

  “My dad is there with Butch Devalon. His name is Dale Maxwell—”

  “Are you one of those NASCAR groupies trying to get an autograph?” she snapped.

  “No. I’m his daughter, and he needs to get back to the track or he’ll miss qualifying. Something’s wrong with his phone, and I can’t get through to him.”

  With an edge to her voice she said, “Hang on.”

  A second later Jamie heard, “Dale Maxwell.”

  “Dad, qualifying’s about to start.”

  “What?” her dad yelled.

  “I’ve been trying to reach your cell!”

  He groaned. “It got turned off somehow.”

  “You have to get here quick.”

  “Butch told me qualifying was moved back an hour.” There was a commotion behind them. Somebody shouted for quiet, but her dad spoke to Devalon. “You told me qualifying was moved back.”

  “No, I said it had been moved up,” Devalon said in the background.

  “Get your pilot out here now!” her dad hollered.

  “Wouldn’t make any difference,” Devalon said. “We couldn’t get you there in time if you have an early draw.”

  “What’s my number?” her dad said to Jamie.

  “You’re first up.”

  Her dad muttered something through clenched teeth. It was the closest to cursing she’d ever heard. Then he spoke to Jamie. “Okay, listen. I’m in the race on owner points, but I don’t want to start too low. I need your help.”

  “Dad, if the chopper can’t get you here in time—”

  “No, I can’t make it. You’ll have to get suited up and take the car out.”

  “Me?”

  “Have T.J. walk you down to report. Show them your license and tell them about the situation.”

  “Driving a simulator is a lot different from—”

  “Jamie, this is my only shot. I don’t have another backup driver. Go out there and show them what you can do.”

  “What if I mess it up? ram into the wall or something?”

  “I have every confidence in you. I’m not letting this guy shut me down, okay? You were right about him. Now let’s turn this back against him.”

  Chapter 43

  Jamie’s Turn

  JAMIE PUT ON her dad’s fire suit, which hung on her like a tent. T.J. walked her to the NASCAR hauler and notified the officials that a backup driver would be qualifying for Dale. Jamie gave them her license, and there was a big discussion about it—she was sure it was because of her age. There had been talk in the past few years of lowering the age to 17, although some wanted it raised to 20.

  Finally T.J., who was not one to mince words, said, “If she has a license, she’s qualified. They waived that rule at the school. Now we’re first up in qualifying, so we need to get moving.”

  The official eyed Jamie and pushed a clipboard toward her. “Sign here.”

  Outside the hauler she nearly threw up. She put on her helmet and ran to the pits, climbing into the car and strapping into her HANS device and the harness.

  T.J. handed her the steering wheel. “Show ’em how to go fast out there.”

  Jamie pulled to the end of pit road and idled as an official stood glaring at her. Or maybe she was just imagining that. It could have been the face he used with every driver.

  She didn’t have her racing shoes or gloves, and her hands were sweating like crazy. Her stomach was in knots. She wished she could talk to her dad and tell him the seat was too big for her—that his rear was way too wide.

  “Just relax and have fun,” she imagined him saying. “Enjoy your first time qualifying.”

  Chapter 44

  Nerves

  THE TRACK RECORD, which was only two years old, was 186.44. Jamie tried to push that from her mind and go into her zone, but her HANS device suddenly felt like it was digging a hole in her neck. Behind her were the very racers she’d watched on TV every weekend of her life. She shook her head to clear it.

  Focus, she told herself. It’s just a couple of runs around the track to see who can go fastest. I can do this.

  The official at the end of pit road put a hand to a headphone and nodded, saying something into the microphone.

  She closed her eyes for a second, praying that the guy would not come over and tell her she’d have to get out of the car.

  When she opened them, the guy gestured toward the track.

  Jamie put the pedal down, roaring past him. Picking up speed and shifting through the gears on the backstretch, she felt more comfortable. The car was solid and the engine hummed. As she took turn three, the massive incline felt just like the simulator. She shot out of turn four toward the green flag, flooring the accelerator.

  The car felt like it was responding to every move. She drove low to the yellow line and inched up as she punched through. On the backstretch she really felt the speed and rode a bit higher in turns three and four, but when she passed the start/finish and got the white flag, she knew she’d had a good first lap.

  “Good job. Now give me one more a little faster,” T.J. said in her headset.

  Her arms tense, her hands gripping the wheel until her knuckles were white, she flew around the turns.

  “The Tigress is here, boys,” she whispered to herself.

  When she crossed the start/finish, she slowed a little into the turn and drove to the garage. T.J. was there to meet her, not saying a word about her time.

  “How’d I do?” she said.

  “Well, after one car, you’ve got the pole,” he said.

  “Funny,” she said. “Seriously, how did I . . . ?” She took off her helmet and studied the scoring pylon. What she saw took her breath away.

  About the Author

  CHRIS FABRY is a writer, broadcaster, and graduate of Richard Petty Driving Experience (top speed: 134.29 mph). He has written more than 50 books, including collaboration on the Left Behind: The Kids, Red Rock Mysteries, and the Wormling series.

  You may have heard his voice on Focus on the Family, Moody Broadcasting, or Love Worth Finding. He has also written for Adventures in Odyssey, Radio Theatre, and Kids Corner.

  Chris is a graduate of the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. He and his wife, Andrea, have nine children and live in Colorado.

  If you’d like to get in touch with the author, you can reach him at chrisfabry@comcast.net.