Braking Points Read online

  “Not yet, why?”

  She hesitated. “I hate to add to your troubles, but I heard a rumor he might not want you to return.”

  I had to look down to verify there was still ground under my feet.

  “It was only a whisper,” she said. “No idea if it’s true. But supposedly with your ideas of doing the 24 Hours of Daytona, Le Mans, some other races, maybe he’s not happy. Wants you focused on his team?”

  Because I wrecked? But I’m bringing money and exposure from Beauté. And Mike does other races. Was that why Jack looked so strange when I asked him about other drivers last night—because he’s working on replacing me?

  Juliana hugged me, her voice muffled. “I’m sorry. I figured you’d rather know.”

  I patted her back and extricated myself, focused on breathing, made myself smile. “You’re right, thanks. I’ll see you later at the track.”

  I got to my car as quickly as possible. Kept breathing. Waved at Juliana as she pulled out of the lot. Pounded my steering wheel a couple times. Really? I needed one more thing to go wrong now?

  Fine. I’d deal with this, too.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I arrived at Road Atlanta by eleven o’clock, refusing to let fears about job security take root in my imagination. We had a big day ahead, including our first practice session and a visit by a group of pink-clad VIPs. I was surprised when the “two representatives each from BCRF and Beauté” I’d been told to expect included the heads of both organizations—Beauté’s CEO, Lindsay Eastwood, and BCRF’s executive director, Jessica Whitmore, along with their heads of marketing.

  “@katereilly28: Ready to give Beauté and BCRF reps a tour of my #racing world. The #ALMS paddock goes pink for breast cancer awareness!”

  I introduced everyone to Tom, who was driving the six-seater golf cart I’d borrowed from the Series, and we headed back down the hill from the parking area. Once on flat ground, he rolled slowly through the paddock, dodging race fans whose attention was focused on racecars, not golf carts.

  Our team space sat in the middle of the front row of garages facing the pits, halfway between Pit Out at one end and Pit In, the Winner’s Circle, and Series trailers at the other. I stood out front with the four women to explain the physical setup of pits and paddock, as well as what happened in each space. I also covered the structure of the race and the weekend itself: different classes of cars competing on the same track for overall and class wins, multiple drivers sharing a racecar, technical inspections, practice and qualifying sessions, and the race itself.

  The Beauté marketing director looked up from a small notepad. “What makes this race so special, Kate?”

  “Petit Le Mans is based on the granddaddy endurance race of them all, the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in France. More than a decade ago, Don Panoz decided to run this race, and then he turned it into a series.”

  “Of course, Petit or little Le Mans,” Lindsay said.

  I nodded. “It’s ten hours or a thousand miles, whichever comes first, and it’s one of the major endurance races worldwide. Winning your class guarantees you an invitation to race at Le Mans. We want to win Petit for a lot of reasons.”

  Lindsay cast an eye down the paddock, then looked from Tom to me. “Can you?”

  “Anything can happen on any day,” I said. “We’re not always the fastest in our class, but the Corvette racecar is solid and reliable. Our team works incredibly hard. Simply finishing is a big deal—that’s a marathon in itself. Any spot on the podium would be a major accomplishment.”

  “Would you go to Le Mans if you won?” That was Jessica, the BCRF director.

  Tom spoke up. “Jack’s considered it. We’ve been eligible in the past, but he’s never gone—it’s quite an expense and undertaking. He hasn’t said no for next year. Like Kate said, anything can happen.”

  “Who’s ready to get in the car?” I led them to the garage side of our setup and introduced them to Jack and Mike. The rest of the crew kept to the background, looking amused at the influx of femininity.

  The door was off the car, offering an unobstructed view of the tube-frame, molded seat, and interior. I explained how to climb in, demonstrating once, and Lindsay got in first. I leaned across her to take the steering wheel from its ceiling hook and snap it into place on the column, as well as explain the functions of the buttons and switches she saw. Then we took photos of her before she climbed out.

  Tom went to fetch my helmet and HANS, at my request. After he helped Lindsay put them on, he spoke quietly to me. “Check the chinstraps. One seemed loose.”

  I nodded and continued my explanation. “Your helmet is tethered to the bit of the HANS standing up like a collar behind your neck, so your neck can’t move beyond a limited range. Instead, the HANS transfers the force of any impact—that might otherwise give you whiplash or worse—to the braces on your shoulders and the rest of your torso. The seatbelts also go on top of the HANS on your shoulders, which minimizes violent movement even further.”

  I helped the last woman take the helmet off and pulled the HANS away with it. As Jack stepped forward with team hats for each of them, I felt for my chinstrap. Tom was right, the webbed strap on the right moved too much. I turned the helmet over and found the material almost severed.

  “Kate, joining us?” Jack gestured at the four women entering the team’s transport trailer.

  “Right there.” I crossed to Aunt Tee, who sat near the motorhome. “My chinstrap’s split. Can you run down to the helmet guys and get them to fix it before practice today?” Stand 21, one of the two main suppliers of safety gear to Series participants, operated a combination storefront and repair shop in the paddock.

  “Of course, I’ll do it right now.”

  I hesitated before putting it in her hands. “Don’t give it to anyone else. And keep the strap.”

  “What—”

  “I’d like to see it. I owe you one.” I scooted into the transport trailer.

  For the next two hours, the women in pink and I met with Sandham Swift (Jack and Tom) and the ALMS (Stuart and two marketing minions) to discuss how the team and Series could support BCRF and Beauté. Jack’s talk of possible promotions next year gave me hope Juliana’s rumor was incorrect. In the end, all parties were excited about opportunities to reach new audiences for their products—whether makeup, racing, or cancer awareness.

  All four women thanked me lavishly as Tom prepared to whisk them back to their cars. Before she got in the golf cart, Lindsay made a point of telling me her door, or phone line, was always open if I needed advice—from one woman in a man’s world to another.

  “But…” I looked past her to the other women.

  “Even in a beauty products company, the business side of things—like our board of directors—is primarily male. I have an idea what you’re dealing with. But you’ve got the goods.” She gave my hand a quick squeeze and left with the others.

  As I watched the golf cart set off down the paddock, I noticed a young woman on the other side of the lane looking from the retreating golf cart to me. She nodded at me and crossed through the moving crowd.

  She approached, a hand extended. “Kate, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Colby Lascuola. I’m running World Challenge this year.”

  “Great to meet you, Colby. I’ve heard good things.”

  We shook hands, sizing each other up. She was a couple years younger than me, an inch shorter, slim, and fit. A sunshine blonde with long, straight hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She looked like she meant business, and her handshake confirmed it. We smiled at the same time, breaking the tension we both must have felt. I liked her.

  “I hear they insult you and call you the new me.” I put my hands to my hips. “I hope you tell them I’m the old you.”

  “Something like that.” She laughed. “I’ve heard worse, you know?”

  “Me, t
oo.”

  She gestured in the direction of the golf cart. “Was that a group from Beauté?”

  “And the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, yes. They were here for a tour.”

  “Thought so. Congratulations on getting that. I hoped they’d pick me.”

  “You knew about it? The first I heard was when they offered it to me.”

  “My management company told me Beauté was asking about me.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t supposed to know.”

  “Sorry you didn’t get it.”

  She laughed again. “No, you’re not. I’m not worried. Something else will come along.”

  I didn’t doubt her, because she was pretty, engaging, and well-spoken, besides being a good driver. With a management company. I might look into one of those.

  “Colby, were you in Atlanta Saturday night? Did I see you outside Ray’s in the City?”

  “Yes, but that couldn’t have been me. Dom—my brother, Dominic—dragged me to a place called Sweet Georgia’s Juke Joint. Good food.”

  “I’ll check it out.” I’d have to look up where that was, to see how close she and her brother had been to me.

  We chatted another minute about our races this weekend, wishing each other well, then exchanged contact information before she took off down the paddock. I was glad I’d met her.

  I looked at my watch: 2:20. More than an hour until practice. I found Mike, Tom, Leon, Aunt Tee, sandwiches, and fruit inside the motorhome.

  Aunt Tee pointed to my helmet, sitting on the kitchenette’s table. “They fixed the strap, checked it over. I haven’t let it out of my sight.”

  I let out a breath, releasing tension I hadn’t been aware of. “Thank you.”

  “But Kate…” She glanced at the others.

  “You boys,” I addressed them. “Don’t go running to the Ringer with this.”

  Tom shook his head, his mouth full of sandwich.

  “You always ruin our fun, mom,” Mike whined.

  Aunt Tee drew the strap from her pocket and showed me the clean edges of the split in the webbing. “They said it was cut.”

  I sagged down onto a couch next to Tom. “And no telling who did it.” During daylight hours, my helmet sat on a table at the rear of the hospitality space—not out of sight, but out of focus. Anyone with a legitimate reason to be in our area could have gotten to it.

  Aunt Tee nodded. “Every time I turned around the last two days, there was someone new here—and the crew didn’t notice anything, unfortunately.”

  “Who do you remember seeing?”

  She handed me a tuna sandwich and rattled off names that included Stuart, Holly, Leon’s father, Zeke and his wife, an SGTV camera crew, Scott Brooklyn, Felix, Juliana, a couple fans she recognized as such but didn’t know the names of, and “that bank representative and another young man in a suit,” which had to be my father and a colleague. No way to know who did the deed—though Felix’s name stood out.

  “I’ll store everything in here this weekend,” she decided.

  “Sure. Though I think the target was me alone.”

  Tom stood up, capping his water bottle. “I’ll help bring stuff in. But isn’t cutting a strap a pointless thing to do? You’d be sure to notice it. It seems petty. Flailing.”

  “Kid’s got a point.” Mike pointed at Tom with his half-eaten banana.

  I shrugged and kept eating my sandwich as Mike and Leon talked about the car and the track. I was eager to think about driving, to prepare for practice.

  Tom and Aunt Tee returned, their arms full of helmets and firesuits from the racks outside. Jack followed, carrying a single suit. Mine. With slashes down the front and stuffing spilling out.

  “This has gone far enough,” he growled.

  I felt sick.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tom shook his head. “That’s more than flailing. That’s pure spite.”

  “Or temper tantrum,” said Leon.

  I nodded, numb.

  “I’ve got the other suits, Kate, don’t worry,” Aunt Tee said. “And I’ll watch your gear personally from now on.”

  “You could help keep an eye on my food and drink, too.” I filled them all in on the possibility I was the target of Ellie’s fatal drink.

  “Kate, don’t go anywhere alone.” Jack pointed at the others. “Mike, stick with her. Tee, watch her gear and her food. No one’s messing with my driver, dammit.”

  He dropped my ruined suit on the driver’s seat, telling us not to touch it, and stomped out of the coach, grumbling about extra security.

  Mike smiled as I looked at him. “Big, ugly bodyguard, right here.”

  “Short, scrappy one here,” Leon added.

  “Thanks. I just want to get in the car and show the jerks they can’t win.”

  We changed into our racing gear, and I took an extra minute in the back bedroom alone, sitting on the bed. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing and pushing every problem out of my head. Drama did not get in the racecar with me. It wouldn’t run, or ruin, my life. Wouldn’t affect my ability to kick butt on track.

  Amazingly enough, practice went well, because the car was a rocket. At some races, the setup based on last year’s data—minute adjustments of suspension, downforce, brake bias, and more—was no good at all, and we spent hours in practice chasing the right feel and grip. Almost never were we blindly lucky that the first whack at adjustments was perfect. But it happened this race.

  I went out first, for the preliminary shakedown, but handed the car over to Leon quickly, because there wasn’t much wrong, and he needed laps more than I did.

  As he pulled out of the pits, I took off my helmet and turned to Mike, Jack, and Bruce. “The car feels like hour two of last year’s race: smooth and fast. Maybe Mike will find something. But…wow.”

  Mike took the lead in fine-tuning the car’s setup, since he had more experience. I was learning from him and beginning to offer the kind of precise feedback that helped the crew make adjustments. But even Mike had no suggestions. We kept our smiles small and our responses to questions subdued. No need to tip our hand yet.

  Gramps said the same thing when I talked to him later that night, after a team dinner that was Jack’s thank you to key suppliers for the season of support.

  “Don’t broadcast what you’ve got,” he commented. “Strategy is key.”

  Hearing his voice never failed to make me smile. “Busy in the shop, Gramps?”

  “I’ve got a few things cooking. Some orders for your competition next year.” He chuckled. Gramps was one of the most sought-after makers of racecar wiring harnesses—the complete set of wires needed to supply power and communication throughout the car—which he produced from his shop, a small structure in the backyard of my grandparents’ split-level 1970s home in Albuquerque. He loved the thrill of all kinds of racing, from pro to amateur, dirt track to drags.

  “But Katie,” he continued. “We’re worried about you.”

  “I’m doing fine, being careful.” I’d come clean to my grandparents about Ellie’s death and my being the target. I hadn’t mentioned the possible hit-and-run or my slashed equipment. But Gramps had sources.

  “We heard about your helmet and suit today, Katie. We don’t like the sound of that. And that horse’s ass Felix Simon—well, I’m sorry, Vivien, but that’s what he is.” That was directed to my grandmother, whose voice I heard in the background.

  Gramps again. “Occasionally a strong word is appropriate. Anyway, Kate, this Felix Simon. Someone told me he’s a real charmer, except for a vindictive streak.”

  “No kidding. I didn’t do anything to him, but he hates me. I heard a story he had issues with female drivers in his youth, but I’m trying to get past that. Juliana’s helping me broker a truce.”

  I heard indistinct voices on the other end of the line agai
n, and then my grandmother’s voice. “Katherine.”

  I closed my eyes. “Hi, Grandmother. I miss you.” As regimented and rigid as she was, I loved her dearly. The regularity of her habits—the weekly menu that never varied, the day of the week assigned to cleaning and the one for laundry, her evening ritual of a sparkling clean countertop, tea, one cookie, and a book—stifled me until I was out of the house. Then I understood them as comfort and defense against a chaotic world.

  She cleared her throat. “I miss you, too, Katherine.” Both of us referred to more than our physical separation. “Now then. I’ve never trusted some of those people in your business, but we raised you to have a good head on your shoulders. Keep your wits about you, and remember a handsome face or pretty manners can hide a viper’s nest. You’ve discovered as much before with some of those people you call friends.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to know people,” I muttered.

  “You’re too trusting, Katherine. Billy in high school, those girls in the formula series—”

  I broke in, thinking of the silly jealousies that affected the friendship between me, Juliana, and Ellie. “That was a stupid thing between kids. It’s different now, with Ellie gone. I’m glad to have Juliana around.”

  “Also Sam Remington and that family—” she broke off and took a shaky breath. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  It was the closest she’d ever come to the topic of my father.

  “I’m being careful, Grandmother. I promise you, I won’t let him hurt me.”

  I felt her withdraw again. “Good. That’ll be fine.” A pause. “All right, Horace, you can have the telephone back. Good bye, Katherine, I’ll speak with you soon.”

  “I love you, Grandmother.”

  “Yes, dear, I love you, too.”

  A rustling, and Gramps was back on the phone. “That was clear as mud.”

  “She’s saying don’t get hurt. Make sure my friends are really my friends by looking below the surface. You know, like you need to look under things for your keys?”