Braking Points (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Stuart had the same question when I saw him that night. He also asked the corollary. “Who knew you'd be at the hospital?”

“Holly. Everyone in the interview room, including the camera crew—who could have told Felix later. Or told the Ringer. Told anyone.”

“Do you think the Ringer did this? He's not usually active.”

I grabbed a stack of napkins and followed him to a bench outside the Bruster's Ice Cream on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, three miles from my hotel. “I didn't find a Ringer post about it yet, but both the Ringer and Felix are out to get me. At least with Miles Hanson fans, like those yahoos yesterday, I know why—can even understand it.”

“Obviously the Ringer has a habit of bullying—and no, I don't know who the Ringer is. As for Felix….”

“Do you think Felix could
be
the Ringer?”

Stuart looked blank, spoon poised over his hot fudge waffle bowl.

“I know, weird idea.” I scooped up a bite of my peanut butter cup sundae. “Holly didn't think so either. I keep pairing them because they're both after me.”

“It's an interesting thought. I don't think Felix knows how to interact with a woman as a peer—professionally or personally. I don't know why, but I've never seen it. Maybe Jack would know more. I think one of his brothers, or an uncle, raced at the same time as Felix.”

“I'll ask Jack.” I took another bite. “Good idea to get dessert.”

He smiled sideways at me. “I thought I'd change things up with you. Coffee seemed too adult.”

“You're calling me a child?” My tone was teasing, matching his.

“I have to be awfully serious all day at work. With you I like to lighten up, have a little fun. Try mine.” He extended his spoon with chocolate ice cream and chocolate fudge, and I let him feed it to me.

I couldn't resist a playful, lighthearted Stuart, damn him. But mixed with the pleasure I felt in his company was a kernel of unreasonable anger at him and Ellie. I should have been able to enjoy a new lover, to be comfortable touching him, being with him. Instead I felt tense and prickly because of my questions and fears.

“Where did you go, Kate?” He ate more dessert, watching me.

“Sorry, lots on my mind.”

“About that.” He frowned. “Maybe you could stay with me for a couple days after this weekend. So we can talk. Stay in the guest room if you want, but give us a chance.”

I felt relief out to my fingers and toes.
I can deal with racing first, him later.
“That would be good. I can't think straight now.”

“You've got a few problems, don't you? People spreading stories about you spun the wrong way, plus making you look like a diva to the press.”

Just before he picked me up at my hotel that night, I'd found articles online about my “duplicitous behavior” at the hospital. Most included quotes from a prominent women's activist group and a cancer-support organization taking me to task for a “blatant cry for attention at the expense of ordinary heroes trying to beat the odds.” I'd also found a public statement from my BCRF contact refuting the stories, but it wasn't widely disseminated. Being unjustly accused still stung.

Stuart went on. “Also, someone tried to poison you.”

“Don't forget trying to run me down.”

Stuart looked at me, disbelief on his face. I realized he didn't know about the incident in downtown Atlanta, and I quickly explained. For a long time, he didn't speak.

“Are you all right?” I finally asked.

He got up to throw his empty cup in the trash, and when he sat back down, he ran both hands through his hair, stopping at one point and pulling on the roots. When he removed his hands, the curly bits I liked flopped down on his forehead.

“Don't get yourself killed, Kate.”

“I'm trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

I went from mellow to annoyed in a heartbeat. “I'm handling everything as best I can. Don't get bossy on me. I know it's your natural tendency—”

“Give me a break,” he cut in. “I'm saying this because I'm worried. Because I am panicked at the thought of you in serious danger.”

Warning bells went off in my head. “If this is about racing—”

“This is not about your job.” He sounded disgusted. “Do not confuse me with ignorant boys in your past who tried to prove their manhood by making you something less than you are. I would never stop you from racing.”

“Holly told you stories.”

He waved a hand in the air. “This is about you being run down on the street or poisoned in a bar. I'm not willing to lose you.” He rested his hand on mine.

I nodded. “I don't want to be lost.”

“Good. Then keep yourself out of harm's way.”

“I also don't want to be told what to do.”

“Your team tells—”

“By a boyfriend, Stuart.”

“Then I'm asking.”

I nodded and bent my head to finish my ice cream. A minute later, I threw my own cup away and pulled the two lists of names from my purse. “There's a way you can help. Tell me who else was at Siebkens or near Atlanta those nights.”

He looked them over. “You have me down?”

“We were being thorough. Holly's there, too.”

He mentioned a dozen people at Siebkens, including my father and someone else from the bank, plus some journalists whose names I recognized but didn't know by sight. He had no input for Atlanta, but conceded that anyone who lived in the area could have been there—if they'd known where I'd be.

That raised an interesting point. Maybe the hit-and-run attempt was opportunistic, not planned. Or even a simple, unrelated accident. I put the names away and held out a hand to him for the walk back to his car.

“It's still hard to believe someone tried to kill me,” I said. “Trust me, I'm taking it seriously. I know there's an army raining everything from gossip to physical violence down on my head. I'm collecting names, but I have no clue—beyond members of Miles Hanson's fan club—about reason.”

“Maybe you should shake things up—I can't believe I'm saying this.” He stopped me next to the car, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I don't mean poke an alligator with a stick. But instead of being passive, at the mercy of whatever the bad guys do next, maybe you should take control. You'll be happier being active.”

He was right—moreover, what he didn't say was also right. I'd been passive since the accident in the race, ducking or running away from the insults. Trying not to rock the boat, except when I'd held emotion in too much and lost my cool publicly.

I searched his face, the affection and support in his clear, green eyes making me gooey inside. “Shaking things up might make them worse.”

“What's worse than feeling helpless and out of control?”

“Good point.”

If I could only figure out what “take control” meant.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

I woke up the next morning, my head buzzing with Stuart, a killer, lists of names, angry fans, pranksters, a new sponsor to please, existing sponsors to please, tweets to send, a race to run, a season championship on the line, and deals to set up for the next racing year. Plus my father to deal with and new family to meet—if I went to his party. I needed a workout to clear my head.

I ran a mile down the road outside my hotel before I realized running alone on a deserted, public street wasn't a great idea. I returned quickly, watching all directions for a possible attack, and finished in the hotel gym.

After cleaning up, eating a late breakfast, and packing my race gear in my Jeep, I picked up three dozen doughnuts, a spread of cured and jerkied meats, and an assortment of bottled beer—a further thanks to the team for fixing the car I'd wrecked. Then I headed out to the racetrack, pulling in to Road Atlanta around eleven. I relaxed as I drove through the paddock to Sandham Swift.
Finally, I can focus on racing.

I was opening the Jeep's back hatch when my phone rang with Lily and Matt Diaz on the other end, hoping I had a few minutes to talk. I sat down in the cargo area, legs hanging over the back bumper, and dug a notepad and pen out of my bag.

Lily sounded full of energy. “We've gone through your inbox.”

“Our intern did the basic sorting, to be honest,” Matt put in.

“Whatever, dude, don't interrupt,” Lily continued. “We've got subfolders of messages in a couple categories: media, fans to respond to, crazies to ignore, and crazies to watch out for. It's the last group we want to give you a heads-up about, Kate.”

It seemed to be time for me to speak. “All right.”

“We'll be e-mailing you the summary with pertinent details,” Matt said, “including which messages to respond to, and info on the media requests we're handling. We've noted some troublesome e-mails, since some of those are threats, as you discovered yourself. We'll help you keep an eye on those.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“But there are a handful of oddballs,” Lily said. “We want to talk about those.”

“I'm ready.”

“First,” Matt shuffled papers as he spoke, “there are four people who want to give you things—homemade jam, a twelve-year-old's drawing of you and your car, an embroidered wall hanging of your car, and a framed photo of you in the Winner's Circle.”

I was used to receiving drawings, photos, and other gifts—though the jam was new. “Sure, I'll respond to those.”

Matt spoke again. “The second issue is five addresses that contacted you in non-threatening ways multiple times. They offered support, but since they e-mailed more than once, you might keep an eye out for references to those names.”

“We use ‘names' loosely,” commented Lily, “given only one seems like a first and last name. The rest are nicknames, though one is pretty flattering.”

“Flattering?” I was getting a sugar high from smelling the boxes of doughnuts next to me.

Matt shifted papers again. “One is ‘racer28guy,' which could refer to you.”

“Or his own racing number,” I said.

“True.” Matt clicked his pen a couple times. “The others are jimbo67, peterwheeler, mainstreet35, and mrguarddog.”

I dutifully wrote down the e-mail names. “I see your point, Lily.”

“They may be people you want to talk to. They seem harmless.” She paused. “But there's one other sender that's a little odd.”

I didn't like that buoyant Lily had turned subdued and serious. “Odd how?”

Matt spoke before Lily could. “Lily has her own opinion. The facts are his e-mail name is ‘katefangmr' and he's e-mailed every couple days for the last two weeks.”

I considered. “That's back to right before the Wisconsin race. Is he yelling at me about Miles?”

“The opposite,” Matt said. “He's friendly, looking for your attention. He must have met you sometime, because he refers to that.”

“I meet so many people at races, that doesn't narrow it down.”

“And he doesn't give any clues to who he is. He says he admires you and wants to talk with you again. He grows increasingly attached as the e-mails go on. Tells you about his life and emotions.”

I didn't see a problem. “That happens with fans. They follow my racing career, see me year after year, and all that good fan stuff.”

Lily exhaled loudly. “That's usually great. But my gut's saying something different. You can't prove it from these e-mails, Kate, but if I had to place money? I'd bet you've got yourself a stalker.”

I leaned forward and put my head between my knees. Focused on breathing. Thought of my new pal, George.
He's such a normal guy, it can't be him. Right?
I didn't look forward to watching everyone for signs of weird behavior.

Matt disagreed with Lily's opinion, and she admitted it wasn't clear my correspondent had entered stalker territory. So far he—or she?—was only very friendly, which Lily told me I could see for myself when they sent me their packet of information. Matt told me they'd keep handling my inbox for a while, which meant I was still getting hate mail. We said goodbye, Matt promising to keep Lily from scaring me again.

I shook off my concern and got up to haul the treats into the half-arranged garage area, smiling with pleasure at the music of clanking tent poles, banging mallets, and jangling metal tool chests being rolled around. This, the Tuesday before Petit Le Mans, was setup day. Up and down the paddock, teams unfurled large awnings from the sides of transport trailers or snapped together sections of thick plastic mesh used as garage flooring. In pit lane, they erected popup tents over pit carts, tire racks, fueling rigs, huge plastic jugs of fuel, and person-sized bottles of compressed air trailing yards of hose. The racetrack looked and sounded like a circus had come to town, minus the elephant poop. It smelled like race fuel and cigarette smoke. It felt like home.

Over in the hospitality half of our team's setup, I saw Aunt Tee had set up two eight-foot tables, draped them with tablecloths, and placed sponsor and team information on one and snack food on the other. The two coolers were already stocked with sodas and bottled water. I saw her unfolding the hanging rack for firesuits and got my gear out of the Jeep.

“Good morning, Kate.” She gave me a hug after I'd set down my bags. “Bringing food for the team was very thoughtful.”

“I still feel bad about letting everyone down.”

“You're a sweetheart. This is everything?”

I handed over my helmet in a soft-sided case, my team firesuit, and a duffel containing my fireproof undergarments, my balaclava or head sock, radio cable with earplugs custom-molded to my ears, gloves, driving shoes, and Head And Neck Support or HANS device. Though the team had two other sets of my undergarment layer and two firesuits, I always traveled with my helmet and at least one set of gear, in case I was called on for promotional work or to drive when I wasn't with the team.

She got busy unpacking my bag, and I sat down in a chair to deal with a task I dreaded, calling Ellie's husband Ethan. He sounded tired as he picked up, but his tone warmed when I identified myself. I stumbled over condolences, and he thanked me, though he wouldn't hear my apologies.

“You're not responsible, Kate.”

“I know that logically. My heart doesn't listen.”

“I understand.”

“How are you doing? Do you have help with your twins?”

“Ellie's parents live four miles away from us. They've been a big help the last couple years, stepping in when we needed them, and the kids are used to being at their grandparents' house—that's where they are now, in fact. I'm here trying to go through Ellie's things.”

I felt a physical pain in my chest imagining Ellie's absence in his house. His life. “I shouldn't be interrupting.”

“It's fine. I need the break.”

I wasn't sure what to say. “I missed her all those years. I'm glad I got the chance to see how happy she was. I suppose I wanted to connect with you to say that.”

“It helps keep her close. She missed you, too.”

I blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay.

He chuckled, tired sounds. “Don't cry too much, Kate. You're at Road Atlanta this weekend, right? One of my favorite tracks.”

“You're in the business, I heard?”

“With Dunlop Tires. I'll be back to my Grand-Am rounds next season. In the meantime, maybe you can go out there and win one for Ellie.” His voice changed, as he choked up. “You know, so much was finally going well for her—the twins are strong and healthy, she'd turned a corner and found a goal, she had a new job to look forward to. It was all so positive. There was so much potential. It would mean something to her if you'd go fulfill
your
potential.”

Tears streamed down my face, and I tried not to sniffle into the phone. “I will,” I whispered. I spoke louder. “I'll do my best every time—for people like Ellie who won't have the chance. But this weekend's for her.”

There wasn't much more I could say, and I'd taken enough of his time. We disconnected with thanks for the conversation on both sides.