Braking Points (14 page)

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 again, 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?”

He let out a loud breath. “Forty-eight years of marriage. I know she hides them on purpose now. There's a reason she always finds them when I can't.”

“The reason is your lack of diligence in looking for them.”

“That's terrible. You sounded exactly like her.”

“Now you're being mean, Gramps.”

I rode to the track the next morning with Mike and Leon, since we'd all start with the same team meeting before our ten o'clock practice and end with night practice from seven to nine. It would be a long day, but all three of us were excited to see how the car held up over more running time and different track conditions. A hum of excitement now accompanied the current of fear I'd lived with for a week and a half.

Jack ran the morning meeting, in which our crew chiefs—Bruce Kunze for the 28 car and Walter Bryant for the 29—talked setup and adjustments with the three drivers from each car. Sam Nichols, who was Aunt Tee's husband as well as the chief engineer for both cars, discussed track conditions. Jack chimed in about strategy for the three practice sessions we'd have that day.

Jack also informed everyone about the incident with my helmet and firesuit, telling them to be careful with equipment and watch for people who didn't belong in the team paddock. Sam assured us the crew checked every bit of safety equipment in the cars, verifying all was in perfect working order. We'd also had a security guard posted overnight to ensure no further damage.

The drivers stuck around when the others left to get cars to the pits and ready for practice in half an hour. The 29 car drivers—Lars, Seth, and their third driver, Paolo Ramalho, a Brazilian from the Indy Lights open-wheel series—wanted to know the current status of public opinion about me and the wreck at the last race.

“We know what's been out there on the Ringer's site,” Lars said, his Danish-accented English sounding stilted and choppy to ears used to a Southern drawl. “I expect ill-will from the NASCAR side, but the idea of someone acting on their anger, not only spouting bad words, is not good.”

“Maybe it's jealousy,” suggested Mike.

I looked at him in surprise. “Pretty extreme for jealousy.”

“You've gotten a lot of air time—more than some drivers get in their lifetimes. That
People
article last year, media wanting comment at every race, this sponsorship deal now taking you way beyond the racing world…some people could be angry you're getting all the attention. Especially if they've worked for years with little recognition. I mean drivers, but a team owner could feel the same way.”

The other drivers nodded, and Leon spoke. “I can see that.”

I was dumbfounded. Defensive. “I don't
ask
for it.”

“
We
know that,” Lars said. “You're the novelty, what sells—and you're good, so at least you back up the flash.” He winked, to soften the blow. “Plus you look lovely in the photos.”

“What do I do? Turn the media down, point them to ‘more worthy' drivers? Besides, Mike, you don't…” It was hard to finish the question.

He waved his hands and grinned. “I'm happier in the background. You bring attention to the team and handle media better than me. I'm on Team Calamity over here.”

Paolo leaned over to Mike. “Wasn't it Team Violent?”

Seth, a gentleman driver with a day job running luxury hotels, spoke up. “No one here has concerns, but I expect some out there do. You get a lot of exposure, and jealousy is a fact of life, especially in a small environment with many outsized egos. Is there enough jealousy in this paddock to lash out? I'm not sure.”

Paolo stood, all five-foot-one of him, fists to hips. “There are two expressions, I believe.” Paolo was infamous for trying to master—and always mangling—English idioms. “The first is, ‘The cream, she will be on top.' The other is the attitude you take to those jealous ones, ‘If you can't take the heat, get the kettle off the stove!'”

I patted him on the shoulder as we got up to head to the pits. “Close, Paolo, and thanks.”

 

Chapter Twenty-eight

The schedule for Thursday gave us an hour on-track from 10:00 to 11:00 that morning, an hour starting at 2:30, and two hours at night to prep for the racing we'd do in the dark. I offered my morning practice time to Leon to give him more laps. So while Mike went out for the first few minutes of the session, I sat in my street clothes on top of the pit cart next to our crew chiefs.

I kept an eye on Mike's times, ignored fans and other teams around me, and browsed the Web on one of the team laptops. The Ringer offered sarcastic comments about the combination of my new beauty company sponsor and the team's hunting superstore sponsor, as well as my suitability to be a representative of either one.
The same questions I ask myself, he's just public and rude.
I shrugged and navigated to other motorsports news pages.

The pit crew started moving around, pulling on gloves and uncurling hoses, in preparation for Mike to bring the car in. No one in a hurry, since Jack decreed we wouldn't work on driver changes until later that afternoon. Mike turned the car off and got out, stopping to say a few words to Leon at the front of the Corvette before patting the top of Leon's helmet and climbing over the low pit wall. While the crew inspected tires and topped off the fuel, Leon settled in.

I saw more than heard Bruce next to me do a radio check with Leon—Bruce wore a radio headset combining ear muffs and a microphone, while I only wore earplugs—and tell him to start it up when ready. A minute later, Leon was gone, forty minutes in hand to get comfortable with the car and track.

I turned my attention back to the website for
Racer
magazine, where I found an article by my old friend Mitch Fletcher, titled “The Yin and Yang of Being Kate Reilly.” I was apprehensive about the content, but shouldn't have worried. While the Ringer spouted gossip and innuendo—with occasional kernels of truth—Mitch and
Racer
had always been fair. Real journalists. While this editorial capitalized on the recent popularity of Kate Reilly stories and rehashed some of the worst rumors, it also linked to a full transcript of Felix provoking me into an outburst—the only media outlet I'd seen do so. The article was an objective discussion about why I'd become such a story. I was curious, too.

Mitch examined the recent highs and lows of my popularity and speculated about the impact of bloggers on the story—those who were influential, as well as those actually knowledgeable about racing. In today's Internet age, he suggested, any individual with a loud enough voice or a big enough platform, credible or not, could influence the story—as might be expected in a culture where people were famous for being famous. He concluded hating me was a trend on its way out.

His last words were, “I won't claim Kate Reilly is a perfect driver, because no one is. But she has considerable talent. I've read much that's been written about her and have spoken with and observed her myself. I've seen a young woman building a career and simultaneously coping with a lightning-strike of popularity and attention. She's earned her place through hard work, but she's also been lucky, and I don't think she'd disagree. My own hope in any endeavor is to be judged by my work and my character, not by what other people say about me. So, however jealous, astonished, or skeptical I may be of her good fortune, I owe her no less.”

I dropped my head in my hands, nearly weeping with relief. Boy or girl, I'd have to name my firstborn “Mitch.” I was glad he felt negative sentiment against me was lessening, because I didn't yet see it in this paddock. His article was a good start.

After a quick glance to check Leon's lap times, which dropped steadily as he got more comfortable, I tweeted a link to the article, then sent it to Matt and Lily, asking if they thought things were looking up. Five minutes later, I got a response from Lily who agreed my image was improving slowly, but was concerned over the helmet incident I'd mentioned to her. She asked me to call later that afternoon.

The essay in
Racer
made me feel confident enough to look at the communications from my strange fan. Though I didn't have the first two e-mails in the chain, I could deduce their contents. The initial contact would have praised my driving and expressed hope of meeting me some day. To eight or ten messages like that each week, I responded, “Thank you for your kind words. I hope to see you soon at a race, and I appreciate you cheering us on!”

I made those guesses because the e-mails from “katefangmr” started off by telling me I was welcome and he—
had to be “he,” right?
—would definitely see me at the Road America race in Elkhart Lake. Another e-mail before the race weekend reiterated how much he looked forward to meeting me. One from Saturday night told me he saw me in the paddock but couldn't get close enough to say hello, but he'd see me race day at the autograph session. Everything signed “Your #1 fan.”

The fourth e-mail from him in this collection expressed his condolences for the accident I'd had in the race, as well as his delight at talking to me twice that day. He added, “Please don't worry about your PR person cutting our conversation short. You're so busy, and you had to go do something else. We'll have other opportunities!”

We would?

I thought back to the autograph session at the last race and remembered Tom moving talkative, lingering fans along. I always made a point to stay until everyone had the autograph he or she wanted, but these people had their signatures and wanted me to listen to them—which I didn't have time for on race day. I struggled to picture who'd been there, but only came up with two women and a blond, goateed man, who wore a red shirt tight over his pot belly.

The last e-mails were more familiar in tone, as if we were close friends. One was short, saying he'd had a bad day, but thoughts of the last race of the season had kept him cheerful. “I can't wait to see you in Atlanta,” he wrote.

In another very long e-mail, he told me his life story—without any town or company names to identify him. I didn't read it all, because my skin was crawling partway through. “Katefangmr” freaked me out, and I sent a message to Lily asking what I should do about him. Then I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, listened to the cars in the pits and on the front straight, and centered myself on my job. I opened my eyes to see Leon clocking a lap time two tenths of a second off mine from the previous year. I turned to Jack with raised eyebrows.

He grinned. “Yeah, you'll have to up your game.”

I gave Jack a thumbs-up and returned to e-mail for one last action I'd been putting off. I pulled up Tom's message from the previous weekend and opened the two photos he'd taken of me, Juliana, and Ellie.

One was a wide-angle shot of the whole Siebkens room, taken while we were moving into position. The other was a close-up, an exquisite photo of all three of us. Juliana outshone us with her pageant-perfect posture and smile, Ellie looked heartbreakingly happy, and I grinned like a school kid. I relived the emotions I'd felt that night: love and excitement, then sadness. I wondered how Ethan was coping.

The Porsche next to us came in, and I turned my attention to it with relief. I evaluated how they pulled in, how their team maneuvered around the car, and how I'd avoid them if I had to enter my pit stall with their car in place—all topics we discussed at a meeting with our car chiefs after practice.

We'd just finished that debrief when Stuart arrived in the paddock with eight VIP guests from Kreisel Timepieces, the biggest Series sponsor, hoping Mike and I were available. We stood with them near the cars and talked for ten minutes about what it was like inside the Corvette and how to drive the Road Atlanta track—attracting a small crowd at the barrier to the garage area who were also able to hear us. Then we took questions from the VIPs.

The fourth man to speak was in his sixties with a full head of white hair and a Tommy Bahama shirt. “How do you deal with two sponsors that conflict so much as BW Goods and the makeup company? I heard the combination is the joke of the paddock.”

“I didn't hear that,” I said. “But I did hear something about pink cammo.”

Mike raised a finger. “I know women who hunt and wear lipstick.”

“And men get breast cancer or are affected by it,” I said. “I'm proud to partner with an organization that helps people fight a terrible disease. Sure the two sponsors are pretty different, but we treat all companies generous enough to support our racing with respect and gratitude, whether we're talking motor oil, snack cakes, or deodorant. We take all the support we can get.”

“Amen to that,” Mike said.

We posed for photos with the Kreisel guests, and then walked to the rope line to sign autographs for the fans there.

We'd signed the last hero card when a passing golf cart swerved to a stop in front of us. Dave Hacker, who was driving a Porsche for Holly's team this year, was at the wheel, Holly beside him.

“You can't drive that any better than you drive your racecar,” Mike shouted.

Dave grinned at us. “Bring it on, big man.”

“Glad we saw you,” Holly said to me. “Dave, tell her.”

“Felix Simon is suggesting the biggest risk to safety in the race is you and implying we'd all be safer if someone took you out.”

I stared at him, my stomach churning.

Mike recovered first. “He's officially gone round the bend.”

Dave assured me no one listening—and no one he knew—would take Felix seriously or act on the suggestion. I hoped not. I was grateful Felix wouldn't be behind the wheel of a racecar. Felix in the pits was bad enough.