Braking Points (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

“Girls kick ass, Kate!” screamed a female voice at the back of the crowd.

“Damn right.” I looked up with a smile, my response eliciting chuckles from those in earshot.

We were halfway through the driver autograph session mandated by the American Le Mans Series as a way of giving fans access to its cars and stars. Mike, Leon, and I sat together at an eight-foot folding table—Seth, Lars, and Paolo to our right at another—in front of our garage setup, facing the paddock lane and a line of people I couldn't see the end of. The racetrack air tasted unusually earthy and wet with Georgia humidity, and we were grateful for the pop-up tents shading us.

The thirty-something male fan in front of me chuckled as I flapped the collar of my shirt to cool off. “It's a balmy Georgia day! Y'all take care in that car tomorrow.”

“Thanks very much. Enjoy the race from somewhere cool.” I handed him one of Sandham Swift's hero cards, with six driver signatures across a photo of both Corvettes.

I turned to the next person in line and had to drop my gaze to the edge of the table to find brown pigtails above an adorable, round face and serious blue eyes. “Hi, what's your name?”

“Mandy,” said the adult man holding her hand, as Mandy dimpled up.

“What do you have for her, Mandy?” He reached under the table to help her reveal a worn photo: a years-old shot of me from my rookie year in Star Mazda.

“Where did you get that?”

“I'm John Wheelen, her father.” He released Mandy to shake my hand. Mandy gripped the edge of the table and pulled herself up, revealing a toothy smile and a smudge of dirt on her chin.

Her dad spoke again. “We've been fans of yours for years, Kate. My wife and I love going to races—and Mandy does, too. We got your photo a couple years ago, and she hasn't let it go since. She says she's going to be a racecar driver like you.”

I choked up. The world wasn't all bad—and the Ringer wasn't always right—if I could inspire little girls to dream about racing. I leaned forward, as close to Mandy as possible. “You must be my biggest fan, Mandy. What do you think about that?”

I saw the dimples again before she dipped her head under the table.

I reached over and tapped the back of her right hand. “Mandy?” Her head popped up. “Would you take a picture with me?” She nodded, and as she walked around to the side of the table, I looked behind me. “Tom, would you get a shot also?”

Photos taken, I turned to Mandy. “I won't forget you. Will you and your dad promise to tell me when you start racing?”

She nodded soberly at me. “Promise.”

I signed Mandy's photo—“To Mandy, my biggest little fan, Love, Kate Reilly”—and wrote my e-mail address on another piece of paper for her father. “Please write. I'd love to hear what she's doing.”

He beamed and waved goodbye. I was high for the next fifteen minutes, until, over the chatter of the people in front of us, I heard a disdainful voice. “Bobby, girls can't drive. Why y'all gon bother with her?”

The crowd quieted, and many of us looked to my left where Bobby's father, I assumed, stood with his son, an enthusiastic twelve-year-old whose race poster Mike and I had just signed.

“Dad!” Bobby looked anxiously from his father, to me, to others staring at them.

Dad took a big swig of his extra-large beer, glanced at Bobby, and turned to me. “I don't care who hears me. It's a free country, innit? I got a right to my own opinion.”

He raised his voice. “And I say girls cain't drive. 'Specially that one. Hear she only wrecks 'em.” He kept staring at me, his eyes narrowed.

Rise above.
I
shrugged and turned away.

Triumph rang through his voice. “That's what I thought. Let's go, Bobby.”

I smiled at the boy in front of me, a tall, skinny teenager with bad acne. “Here's a tip for you: don't waste time on people who want to tear you down.”

He gulped, leaned forward. “Don't listen to him. You'll show them tomorrow.”

“That I will.” I kept signing, smiling, and thanking our supporters.

Thirty minutes later, as I changed into my firesuit in the motorhome's back room, I realized Bobby's father had been the only negative voice in the autograph session—undoubtedly because Felix Simon hadn't wandered by.
Thank heaven for minor miracles.
I grabbed my phone and checked the Ringer's site, finding nothing but the story about my outburst at Felix last night and a short item scoffing at my angry tweet this morning. Maybe Kate-hating really was on the wane.

I followed our cars out of the paddock, everyone heading for qualifying, and saw Zeke standing near the entry to pit lane, writing something in a small notebook. He looked up at my approach and smiled wide.

“Katie-Q, how are you?”

“Doing fine, qualifying in a few minutes.”

“Give 'em what-for. Show everyone these bloggers are full of shite.”

“Will do.” I paused. “How's Rosalie doing? She didn't seem well.”

“She's OK. She's been stressed lately. But she was glad to see you.”

“I hope I can see her again before the weekend's out. What happened with Felix?”

“Never saw him.”

“What's he like when he's not after me?”

“Before this, I'd have said nice guy, salt of the earth, knows bucketloads about racing. Now, I'm torn.” Zeke nodded a hello to someone behind me.

I turned to see Duncan Forsyth, one of the factory Corvette drivers, entering pit lane. I looked back at Zeke. “You were ready to rearrange his face.”

Zeke shrugged. “I calmed down, got some facts. Felix had a crappy home life growing up—pots of money, but his father was abusive and his mother a drunk. These days, he doesn't deal with women much—not hard in the racing world. Three marriages to trophy-girl types, all fell apart fast.”

I added this information to the story Jack told us, and marveled Felix had ever been sane. “We've all got problems, Zeke. That doesn't excuse his behavior.”

“I've always thought if the only normal you know is twisted, you end up twisted.”

“That's nice and philosophical. But how twisted are we talking about? Enough to kill?” Zeke looked alarmed, but I pressed on. “If we can't escape our upbringing, and you said his father was violent, maybe Felix is, too. I know he set me up at the hospital.”

“My friend who knows him well said Felix has seemed off this week. Less friendly, more abrupt. Secretive.”

A hand fell on my shoulder, making me jump. Mike motioned with his other hand toward our racecar. “Saddle up, cowboy.”

“With you.” I made a zipping motion across my lips to Zeke.

Zeke nodded. “Make me proud.”

I'd do my best. For myself, my team, Zeke, and other supporters—and for women everywhere who didn't get enough respect. Time to channel my mad into some driving.

 

Chapter Thirty-four

“Clear of traffic from Turn 1,” Bruce said, as I exited pit lane, only moments after the qualifying session began.

I accelerated through the gentle curve of Turn 2 and into the right-hand Turn 3. Pushing where I could, careful with my cold tires. Desperate to know if the car was as good as it had been before my excursion over the curbs and grass that morning.

I touched the brakes slightly on my mark at the top of the hill, to balance the Corvette for Turn 3. Wheel to the right for 3, carry speed through the corner. Right wheels onto the curbing, accelerating. Sweep through Turn 4, feeding throttle on through the turn. The track falling away, turning to the right. Lift slightly. No brake. Accelerate down the hill into the Esses. Right-left-right. Try to make it a straight line. Accelerating.

Hard on the brakes, pressing myself forward against my belts. Downshift to fourth, still braking. Release and turn left. On the throttle from the apex of 5
.
Run out over the curbing to settle the car. Wheel straight, upshift to fourth. Fifth. Full throttle. Sixth. Foot to the wood.

Rushing down the incline to Turn 6, still accelerating. Watching for my braking point out of the corner of my eye. There, braking hard. Downshift. Still braking. Downshift. Release brakes. Turn the wheel to clip the apex of 6, the banking helping me carry speed. Accelerate hard. Stand on the brakes again—maximum braking for the slowest corner. Downshift. Release brakes. Turn in for 7, another late apex. Feed the throttle on while unwinding the steering wheel coming out of the turn.

By the time my hands are straight again, I've got my foot to the floor. Yellow car entering Turn 7 behind me. Upshift to fourth. Fifth. Foot planted. Sixth. Check mirrors. Clear. Drift to the right side of the track. Flying. On a long straight with nothing but throttle, the growling V-8 is my whole world. I take a deep breath, focus on relaxing. Focus on speed. Remember I love my job. Remind myself to be precise.

Over the crest of the back straight, barreling down the hill to the Turn 10 left-right complex. A Porsche ahead of me in 10b, must have been the first one out for quali.

Throttle planted, still at top speed. Accelerating. Picking up speed down the hill, looking at the ninety-degree 10a in front of me. Slamming on the brakes at the last possible moment, nose of the car dipping down. Downshift to fifth. Fourth. Third. Release brakes most of the way to roll through the turn. Off brakes at the apex. Square off the corner. Foot hovering over the throttle, wait until halfway between 10a and 10b. Now, foot to the floor.

Throttle on. Hands turning right. Slow in, fast out. Make this good, Kate. Pointed up the hill to the bridge. Yellow car closer behind me. Seeing nothing but bridge and sky. Standing on the throttle. Flying over the crest of the hill. World falling away. Upshift when the car settles again after going over the top. Diving down the hill. Upshift again. Stay straight as the track moves to the right. Still dropping in altitude into the right-hander. Grab sixth gear.

Touch the left side of the track partway down the hill. The car bobbles, unsettled over the bump. Glance at the dash: 129 mph. Turning right. Holding my breath. Clenching my jaw. Clenching my stomach and bladder muscles. Hold the line.

Trusting the grip of the tires, my mind questioning that wisdom. Hold it. Start/finish line coming. No flags showing. Making the turn. Barely breathing. Flat out now. Sure the car's about to slip. Through. Left wheels touch the paint at the outside of the track under the starter's stand. Pointing down the front straight. Foot still planted on the floor. Breathe again. Check mirrors. Move left on the track. Pits on the right flashing by. Yellow car still behind me.

About a second to collect myself, then watching for my Turn 1 braking marker. Attack the brake pedal, downshift. Release brakes, turn. Accelerate up the hill. Aim for the power pole to position myself on another blind hill. Turn 2. Then 3. Settle into a routine, talking myself around the track. Finding my rhythm.

After two laps, I radioed the team. “Car's good. Going for it after three, then doing two,” I confirmed. Jack's plan, if the car didn't need adjusting, was for me to warm the car up with three laps, then do two as my qualifying effort. If those times were good, I'd pull in and let them stand, to save wear on the tires we'd start the race with. If times weren't what we hoped for, I'd try more laps.

I took deep breaths going down the back straight on my third lap. Focused on hitting 10a and 10b perfectly, and pouring as much speed on as possible up the hill under the bridge. Willed the car to hold down the hill through 12. Poured every bit of anger, frustration, and grief into concentration, precision, and speed.

The Corvette flew. I was lucky with traffic also, only having one close moment with the Saleen going through the Esses—but he went offline to let me by, obviously on his out lap and still getting up to speed.

I was in Turn 3 after my two flying laps, my speed notched down, when Bruce broke radio silence. “Second lap was 1:18:900.” I nodded to myself, recognizing it as good enough for third on the grid the previous year.

Bruce spoke again. “First lap was 1:18:650. Currently P1. Bring it in this lap. And good job.”

Currently pole position?

My voice contained none of the elation I felt, as I radioed back. “Copy.”

I concentrated on hitting my marks the rest of the lap and came out of Turn 10b with about eighty percent of normal speed, pulling to the right and steering into pit lane.

Past the pit lane entry line, the car in first gear and the speed limiter on, I keyed the radio button again. “Am I staying in?” One strategy was to go out early and lay down a time, but be ready to go out again near the end of the session to try to improve it, if other cars surpassed us.

“Negative, shut it down and get out.”

Mike didn't let me finish climbing over the wall into our pit box before grabbing me for a bear hug. He whooped and swung me around. “That's better than last year's pole time! A GT record!”

I pulled my helmet, HANS, and balaclava off. “It's not over yet, Mike.” But I couldn't stop the smile.

The next fourteen minutes were some of the most fraught of my life. I squeezed onto the pit box with Jack, Mike, and Bruce, all of us watching video of different corners on the track with one eye and monitoring the timing and scoring screen with the other. Every car that flashed past us on the front straight was trying to beat my time. I'm not sure I breathed.

“Checkered flag,” Jack reported. I lifted my head from my hands. I hadn't been able to watch Andy Padden inch closer to my mark in the waning minutes of the session.

Only those who'd started a lap before the checkers flew could beat me now. I gripped Mike's hand, and he chuckled. A minute later, the entire Sandham Swift crew cheered and pumped their fists. Andy pulled into the pits without any improvement. I'd done it: my first pole. I slumped back on the bench seat, elated and exhausted.

Jack turned to me and held out his hand. “Hell of a way to shut the doubters up. That's what I like to see. Now you've got a press conference to go to.”

I jumped down and accepted hugs and high-fives from the Sandham Swift team, as well as congratulations from passing drivers. I made a quick call to Gramps to tell him of my very first ALMS pole and had just hung up when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find a woman in a pantsuit standing next to Jack. Plus a uniformed police officer at the back of the walkway.

“Kate Reilly?”

I nodded, fear overriding my euphoria.

“I'm Detective Barbara Hauk. Can you tell me where you were between the hours of ten last night and ten this morning?”

I didn't like the sound of this at all. “In my hotel room and here at the track.”

“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

I pointed at Mike. “He rode in with me from the hotel this morning at seven-fifteen. Since then, I haven't been alone. Last night, I was in my hotel room.”

She made a note in her notebook.

Jack crossed his arms. “What's going on?”

The detective nodded at him, then looked me in the eye. “I understand you know Felix Simon?”

“Sort of.”

“Felix Simon was found dead in his hotel room at 10:30 this morning. I'd like to know what you meant when you told him not to bother you or he'd live to regret it?”