“What is it now?” Folsom asked as Cal buried his face in his phone.
“I got a message from some follower.”
“Another clue for you, Sherlock?”
Cal rolled his eyes. “No, but it’s making me question everything.” He turned the phone’s screen toward Folsom. It read:
I know who did it
CHAPTER 6
TODD CASHMAN PUNCHED the button on the speakerphone and propped his feet up on the conference room table. He braced himself for the onslaught of questions about his victory celebration in Texas while a fellow driver was dead a few hundred yards away. He had no idea Carson Tanner was dead after slamming into the wall. And it was the truth.
But Cashman didn’t care whether Tanner was alive or dead. Making the finals of the championship chase was all that mattered to him. He’d let the journalists parse out the details. He was going to run wide open in Phoenix without any fear of the consequences, since he’d already qualified for the final four.
“You ready, Todd?” asked the NASCAR media relations director.
“Let ’em fire away,” he answered.
Fire away, they did.
“Harold Bailey from ESPN. What did you see from your perspective on that final lap in regards to Carson Tanner?” asked the first journalist.
“I saw Tanner fly into the wall.”
“Any thought of slowing down?”
“This is racin’, man. I never think about slowing down unless the caution is out or I’m told to pit my car.”
Another journalist chimed in. “Gerald Stockton from Fox Sports. How bad did you think Tanner’s crash was?”
“It looked bad, but I’ve seen worse and watched guys walk away from it. I figured he would’ve been fine.”
“Shelton Bingham from Speed51.com. Do you have any regrets about your post-race celebration?”
Cashman sighed. “Not at all. We battle hard every week—and to be in this position at this point in the season is worth celebrating. Had I known Tanner was dead, maybe I would’ve toned it down a bit. But how was I to know. Besides, that’s karma for you.”
“Bailey here again. What exactly do you mean by ‘that’s karma’?”
“Come on, Bailey. You saw the race in Martinsville. Tanner put me into the wall and caused a massive wreck. He’s always drove reckless and I’m not surprised that it’s what also got him killed. I mean, I feel bad that it happened and really bad for his family, but if you race like he did, you’ve got to expect that something like that is going to eventually happen.”
The line went silent. Cashman wondered if his connection remained live.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
“The conference call is still in progress,” the NASCAR official said. “Any more questions?”
Cashman fielded a handful of questions about what his approach would be to the race in Phoenix. He also answered some questions about his state of mind going into the race, knowing that one of his peers just died. They weren’t the kind of questions he wanted to be answering. This was Cashman’s moment in the sun and Carson Tanner was still casting a dark shadow over him even after his death.
When the fifteen-minute session ended, Cashman hung up and yelled for Brooke Wyatt, his media relations director.
“What was that all about?” Cashman demanded once he found her.
“What was what all about?” she asked.
“Those questions. Weren’t you listening?”
She nodded. “You weren’t expecting anybody to ask you about Tanner’s death?”
“Well, no, maybe like a question or two, but not practically the entire time. I felt like they were giving me the fifth degree.”
Staring down at her iPad, she cut her eyes at him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned how his death was karma. Maybe you could’ve been a little gracious.” She paused and wondered if she should continue before casting aside better judgment. “Maybe you shouldn’t have acted like an insensitive jerk—and maybe they would’ve left you alone.”
Cashman puffed his chest out. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk to me like that any more. You are aware of what happened to my last media relations director, right? They didn’t tell you that story?”
“I’m not sure I would’ve believed it, even if you told it to me yourself.”’
He stooped down and glared at her, eye to eye. “She had a smart mouth, so I fired her.”
She appeared unflappable, ignoring his threats. “Much better than having a dumb mouth, like yours. If you think it was bad before, just wait until word of this press conference circulates. You’re going to be public enemy number one.”
Cashman grunted and looked down at his phone. “Enough of this nonsense.” He stopped and shook his index finger at Brooke. “Don’t ever let me get caught like this again. It’s not cool. Not for the team or our sponsors. You got it?”
She gave him a half-hearted nod.
“Good. Now, let’s get back to work.”
***
AT THE DAVIS MOTORSPORTS HEADQUARTERS, the crew members shuffled into the meeting room and bantered about who made it home first.
“Did you get my text?” Holmes said. “12:04 in my driveway last night.”
“That’s because you only live thirty minutes from the airport,” Ross said.
“I can’t remember. We were playing miles-per-hour rules or first one home?” Dirt asked.
“If it was miles per hour, I would’ve won,” Burns said.
“We were playing first one home—period,” Holmes snipped.
Ross didn’t miss a beat. “Said the guy who made it home first.”
Burns waved everybody off. “It doesn’t matter, to be honest. What matters is that we get our car ready for whoever is going to drive it on Sunday.”
“I can’t even believe Davis is going to try to get someone to drive the 39 car this week,” Holmes said.
“The show must go on,” Burns said. “But there’s something we need to do first.”
“Which is?” Dirt asked.
“Listen to Cashman’s conference call. I wanna hear what he has to say.” Burns surfed to the website and cranked up the volume.
Twenty minutes later once the interview was over, Ross stood up and slammed the laptop closed in disgust.
“Can you believe that guy?” Dirt asked.
“Yeah,” Ross said. “If he didn’t say junk like that, I’d think it was an impostor on the line.”
“Well, I never wish ill-will on anyone, but I’ll make an exception for Cashman. I really hope his car bursts into flames on the first lap. It’d serve him right for those comments. Besides, anyone with a pair of good eyes knows that Tanner never touched him in Martinsville. Cashman went into the wall all by himself. I can’t believe he’s still peddling the idea that Tanner bumped him.”
“Let him hang himself,” Ross said.
Holmes remained quiet, content to type away on his phone to his sizeable Twitter followers irate over Cashman’s comments.
“What’d you think, Holmes? You’re not saying a word,” Dirt said.
“Leave him be,” Ross said. “He’s having woman problems.”
“Well, we all need our heads in the game this week,” Dirt snapped. “Woman problems or not. We need to do whatever we can to get this car running like a dream for whoever takes it over.”
Holmes broke his silence. “I heard it was going to be Beaumont.”
“Seriously? We got no chance now.”
“Who cares if we win or not this week,” Holmes said. “It doesn’t matter any more. We’re out of the chase.”
“It matters to me,” Dirt said. “I want to prove to someone out there that I’m the best there is—and even if there’s a driver change mid-season, I can still get a car in shape to win a race.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “You really think any of this is all about you?”
Dirt sat up straight and glared at Holmes. “Dang straight, it is. The best driver in the world ain’t gonna win
a soapbox derby without a fast machine.”
“True. But nobody cares about what we do on Sunday. It’s just window dressing at this point,” Holmes said.
Ross scanned the room, staring at his fellow crew members. He turned his attention toward Dirt. “What I really can’t believe is that you ever used to work for that scumbag Cashman.”
Dirt shrugged. “You do whatever you can to break in. I can’t say I’m proud of it, but it is what it is. You would’ve done the same, given the opportunity.”
Ross grunted. “I doubt it. I’ve always hated that SOB.”
“Now, gentlemen, is this anyway to start our Tuesday morning?” Holmes said.
Dirt grunted. He glanced back down at his phone and began to type a message.
“Whatcha doin’ there, Dirt?” Ross asked.
“Just buzz off, man. I’m not in the mood this morning,” Dirt said. His fingers flew furiously on his cell phone. He pounded out his message: It won’t be long now.
CHAPTER 7
JESSICA TANNER EASED onto the examination table while her doctor waited. She was well past the first trimester, which had taken its toll on her, and over halfway past her second. Her body had been handling all the changes just fine up until Tanner’s death. If she could’ve just locked herself in her house and curled up in a corner, that’s what she would’ve done. But her connection to her husband remained alive through the little baby growing in her womb. It was the one thing in her life that kept her from losing all hope amidst the insanity.
“How have you been feeling?” Dr. Margaret Woodland asked. “Any changes you think you need to tell me about?” She poked around Jessica’s belly.
“Not really. I mean, I’ve never been pregnant before, so I don’t exactly know what normal is. If you mean, am I still craving ice cream? Yes. But that was no different than before, to be honest with you.”
The doctor shared a laugh with Jessica as she continued the examination. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said before she stopped. She backed away from Jessica and made some notes on her chart. “You can put your shirt down now.”
Jessica sat up. “So, is everything all right?”
“Well, your most recent blood work has shown some slight irregularities and I want us to take a closer look at the baby.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a screening procedure we can do to test to see if there are any abnormalities with your daughter.”
“What kind of procedure?”
“There’s several actually. One is an echocardiogram. But there’s also a more invasive one. Have you ever heard of amniocentesis?”
Jessica shook her head. “No, should I?”
“Since this is your first pregnancy, probably not. It’s a test we use to determine if your baby might have genetic defects. We just want to make sure everything is okay, or if we need to take a more invasive approach to correct any abnormalities.”
“What do you think is wrong?”
“Well, it’s too early to tell at this point if it’s serious or not, but I think there may be some problems with the baby’s heart.”
“Fine,” Jessica said. “Let’s do it. Do them all. I want to do whatever I can to help this little girl.”
***
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Jessica awoke from her nap when the phone buzzed. It was Dr. Woodland.
“Jessica, I’d like to schedule a follow-up with you tomorrow, if you can make it at all,” Dr. Woodland said. “I know you’re going through a tough time and have a lot going on, but this is important.”
Jessica sat up. “What is it, doc? Is there something wrong.”
“Now, these tests aren’t a hundred percent accurate, but we found some of those abnormalities I was afraid of.”
“What does that mean?”
“For now, it means that we need to keep a closer eye on your baby’s development.”
“Don’t beat around the bush. Does she have Down’s Syndrome?”
Dr. Woodland sighed. “No, but your baby does have a congenital heart defect.”
“What does that mean?”
“We need to do some more tests, but based on my early prognosis, I think we might need to perform an open fetal surgery. It’s that severe.”
Jessica dropped the phone and wailed.
No! How could this be happening to me?
She started to hyperventilate.
Breathe, Jessica. Breathe.
She stood up and started to pace around the house.
It’s okay. You’ve had bad stuff happen in your life before. You can do this.
She walked into the kitchen and began to slice an apple for a snack. She was less interested in eating a piece of fruit than she was in relieving the tension she felt welling up within her. As she concluded her nervous culinary habit, she jammed the tip of the knife into the cutting board.
“I can’t do this,” she cried aloud as she crumpled to the floor.
Snap out of it, Jessica. You can do this. Just pull it together.
She stood up, brushed her blouse off, and strode toward the living room to retrieve her phone. Just as she was about to dial her mother’s number, she noticed she had a voicemail.
“Hi, Mrs. Tanner. This is Stewart Paxton from National Insurance. We need to talk with you pronto.”
Jessica took down his number and dialed it.
“Mr. Paxton? This is Jessica Tanner. You left me a message.”
“Yes, Mrs. Tanner. Thank you so much for calling me back. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m afraid I’m calling with a bit of bad news, which I know isn’t what you want to hear at this time, but I wanted to let you know now so you could plan accordingly.”
“What kind of bad news?”
“Your husband’s coverage only dealt with death or illness that happened to something unrelated to his racing.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that if he died in a car accident on the way home from the airport, he would be covered.”
Jessica grabbed a tuft of hair with her free hand and pulled. “So, he’s not covered?”
“That’s correct, ma’am. We’re going to have to deny this claim.”
Jessica’s breathing became short. “What do you mean, you’re denying this claim? I’m not going to get anything?”
“I’m really sorry, but that’s the case here. His policy covered hardly anything that happened on the race track.”
“Hardly? So, there’s something that it did cover?”
“In the very rare and off chance that someone intentionally and willfully attempted to end your husband’s life on the race track, then, yes, the policy will be paid out. That’d fall under the murder clause. But NASCAR released their findings to us this morning and they determined it to be a faulty part that caused the accident. Unfortunately, that’s not covered.”
“You have to be kidding me? This is crazy. I’m pregnant! And my baby needs an expensive surgery!”
“Again, Mrs. Tanner, I’m sorry for your loss and I wish there was better news or more I could do for you, but at this time, that’s it.”
“You better believe you’re gonna hear from my lawyer,” she snapped before slamming the phone down.
She crumpled to the floor, an even bigger mess now than she was five minutes ago. Without giving it a second thought, she wiped her nose with her sleeve and stood up. She stumbled back toward her bedroom where Carson had left her with a contact list of people to call in case something ever happened to him.
“Where is that number?” she said as she scanned the list. Her finger finally fell on it. “Ah-ha.”
She punched in the numbers on her cell phone and waited.
“This is Eddie Simpson.”
Jessica cleared her throat before speaking. “Hi, Mr. Simpson. This is Jessica Tanner.”
“Oh, Mrs. Tanner. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I appreciate tha
t.”
“If there’s anything we can do for you here, please let us know. We’d love to help.”
“Well, in that case, can you please release a statement saying that Carson’s accident was no accident?”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“I just got a call from my insurance company telling me that they are denying my claim for Carson’s life insurance policy payout because the accident was just that—an accident. If someone willfully tried to put him into the wall, they would’ve paid out. But because Carson was cheap and bought a crumby life insurance policy, I’m stuck.”
Simpson let out a long moan. “Oh, Jessica. I’m so sorry. I wish we could do something about that, but I’m afraid we can’t. Our investigators have already wrapped up their inquiry into the matter and we just found it to be a faulty part.”
“There has to be something else you can do,” she insisted. “Surely there’s some bereavement fund or assistance for the family of lost drivers.”
“Right about now, I wish we’d started one. But that’s simply not the case. At this point, we can’t do much—and while I want to help you, I can’t falsify any documents just so you can receive a life insurance policy payout.”
Jessica stamped her foot. “All this talk about NASCAR being a family is bull. What kind of family ignores the loved ones of a lost driver?”
“I understand you’re upset, Mrs. Tanner, but the facts are what the facts are. It doesn’t make it any less tragic, but it’s what happened. And I—”
Jessica didn’t wait to hear the rest of his rant. She was done. Done with all of it. She wished she could just stay in her room and drown her sorrows in bowls of ice cream—or alcohol.
After a few moments, she took several deep breaths and regained her composure.
Then she felt her baby kick again—and another wave of sorrow rolled over her.
CHAPTER 8
RON PARKER STARED at the desert, his scenery out of the front of his RV windshield for the past ten hours. But a scene from a few days before that lasted all of ten seconds dominated his thoughts. He knew what he saw, yet he had no idea how to proceed.
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