Braking Points (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-nine

I fastened my chinstrap, shaking my head over Sherain's animosity, and considered what he'd said. “Everywhere you go, I'm watching.” Was he following me? Having me followed? Trying to kill me?

I banged my palm twice against the side of my helmet.
Enough, Kate. Save your energy for the race
. I climbed back into the Corvette.

At Bruce's signal, I pushed the ignition button.

“Pit exit open, Kate,” he radioed.

When the crew member at the front of the car waved me on, I pulled out, slotting into an opening in the line of exiting cars. We had two minutes to get all cars out of pit lane and onto the track, per the minute-by-minute schedule race organizers followed pre- and post-race. I'd caught a glimpse of the three-page agenda once and was astonished to see tasks and activities in increments as small as thirty seconds. I was even more amazed everything happened on-schedule—or close enough to it for the race to start on time.

I followed a prototype around the track at a reduced pace—something a bit faster than the sixty miles per hour we'd do under caution—feeling excitement and anticipation well up inside. We had a great car. Anything could happen.

Five minutes later I was waved into the first position in class on the grid. I shut the car down, hauled myself out, and set my helmet, gloves, balaclava, and earplugs on the seat. Ahead of me were the prototype classes, all cars backed against the right side of the track, parked at a forty-five degree angle. Behind me were the rest of the GTs, the sportscars. Within a minute, our whole team was lined up next to the car across the grid, as a local minister gave the invocation. The national anthem followed as paratroopers descended, one trailing a large American flag.

“@katereilly28: Gorgeous weather for race day, with no rain in sight. Ready for good, hard racing here at Petit Le Mans.”

The next activity, an hour and fifteen minutes before race start, was opening the grid to the public. Thousands of race attendees poured onto the track to get close to racecars, drivers, and teams. Hundreds of photos were taken from every direction. I stood against the track wall at the rear of the 28 car with Leon and the crew. Jack stood at the front, accepting congratulations and good wishes. Mike was off on a parade lap around the track.

I looked around at the mass of humanity, blue skies, and flags lifting in a light breeze. I smelled race day: fuel mixed with hot metal, rubber, and concrete, plus a dash of sweat, sunscreen, and cigarette smoke. There was nothing like it.

Steve and Vicki from Active-Fit appeared, Steve stopping to talk to Jack and Vicki making her way to me for a good-luck hug. We stood together, watching the crowd and commenting on the more outrageous outfits—baseball hats covered with pins, neon-patterned leggings, a bikini—and saw Juliana go by.

Vicki snapped her fingers. “I remember where I met her. I was judging a regional pageant, and she'd won the year before, then gone on to win Miss Alabama. She was quite the celebrity for that, if not—”

Tom interrupted us, waving at me from the front of the car to take a photo. I went forward to pose with George Ryan and the car, while George told me how excited he was for the race and the banquet. He wished me luck twice, shook my hand, then left.

I returned to Vicki. “If not what?”

She grimaced. “She had a cloud around her at the time—all rumor, but you know how that can stick to someone.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I suppose so. At the time, she was suspected of doing damage to her pageant competition.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lipstick smeared on a dress, shoes missing, laxative in orange juice, pepper spray in makeup. That kind of thing.”

“People do that?”

“Weird things happen in pageants—they're competitions, and some people are obsessed with winning. Same as in racing.”

“Wild. I don't believe it of Jules—but her mother could have been responsible. She was twisted, that's for sure.” I started to wonder exactly how much Juliana's mother might have influenced her, but my mind went blank when I saw a disturbance in the paddock crowd. A swelling of energy and excitement heading my way. I felt jittery. I knew what was coming. Who.

Sure enough, the focal point was Miles Hanson walking down the grid, his left arm in a narrow sling. Like a boat, he left a wake of people tumbling over each other to keep up with him, take his photo, be near him. At least a dozen official photographers—and several score unofficial ones—clicked away on their cameras. Somewhere in the scrum was a guy Jack hired to get official shots of this meeting.

Miles Hanson was your typical tall, dark, and handsome. Tall enough, anyway, at five-ten, with a streamlined build that suggested many hours spent in the gym. Dark in coloring and hair—the kind of perfect, wavy hair that made most women jealous. And light blue eyes.

Even more compelling than Miles' looks, however, was his story. He'd grown up in a racing family, the star of which had been his father, Hank “Handy” Hanson. Handy spent most of his career as a crew chief in NASCAR, taking three different teams to championships before taking a pay cut to manage his son's team for Miles' first full year in the Cup series. Together, Handy and Miles steamrolled the competition with the combination of Handy's almost mystical understanding of the mechanics of racecars and Miles' stunning driving talent. Miles had sewn up the rookie of the year title and was looking for his second race win when tragedy struck. NASCAR was at Martinsville, in Virginia, five races left in the season. Miles led the race, and eventually won it, unaware Handy had suffered a massive heart attack and died atop the pit box with three laps to go. NASCAR fans mourned with him, as he endured public heartbreak and kept racing.

Miles had a story, looks, and oodles of charm. The undeniable “it” factor. Plus talent to spare, as his two NASCAR Cup championships attested. All by the age of 28. I didn't disagree when Holly called Miles Hanson potent.

I held my breath as he approached Jack, shook hands, and turned to the cameras with a smile on his face. Their hands still joined, Miles nodded at Jack and said something I couldn't hear, but that made the audience laugh.

Then Jack stepped aside and Miles headed for me—though the cameras and fans had to stay where they were at the front of the car. Vicki faded away to stand with our crew, and I reminded myself to breathe.

I wasn't star-struck. I respected him as a driver, but I wasn't awed by him the way I would be if Phil Hill or Janet Guthrie appeared in front of me. What did nearly strike me dumb was Miles Hanson's charisma. His presence was magnetic. And by God, he was good looking. I swallowed, and ignored the voice in my head wondering if he was here to spit in my face and make people hate me more.

I held out a hand, which he ignored, folding me in for a hug.

“Helluva way to meet, isn't it?” He whispered in my ear. I felt a laugh rumble in his chest.

“Yeah. It's really great of you to be here. How're you feeling?”

We pulled apart, and he kept smiling. “I feel fine. Wishing I could be in a car.”

“About the race—”

“We both screwed up, didn't we?”

“Sorry.”

“Well, hell, me too.” He looked past me to the Corvette. “Though seems like you're doing better than I am with it. Nice job on pole.”

I started to cross my arms over my chest, then thought better of it, as we were the focus of many eyes and cameras. “Thanks. It hasn't been a smooth ride for me either.”

He ran his free hand through his hair. “I'm sorry about that. I've been trying to get the message out to not be mad at you, but it's hard to reach everyone. Or convince them. Picture's worth a thousand words, though, right?”

We were interrupted by two unexpected, unconnected arrivals: Holly and Nash Rawlings. Holly hung back while Miles waved Rawlings over and introduced us.

Rawlings looked calm and polite this time, and he reached for my hand. “I'm so sorry, Kate. My enthusiasm and emotion got the better of me. I was just so worried about Miles, I wasn't sure what I was saying.” He sounded like he'd memorized the words.

I shook Rawlings' hand as Miles spoke. “We sat down and watched the video, and I explained how we were both at fault. Why no one should be upset with you.”

Rawlings bobbed his head in agreement. I didn't buy the act. Wasn't sure the guy in front of me hadn't been responsible for death threats or worse. I made myself smile at both of them. I believed Miles, but not necessarily Rawlings.

I glanced to where Holly stood talking to Vicki and some of the team. I made a “come over” gesture with my chin, and Holly approached, tossing her head and making her red curls bounce. I introduced her to Miles and left them to charm each other.

I turned to Rawlings. “So I'm not a—what was it?—decoration in the way of real racers on the track?”

He flushed, turning red the way I'd seen him at the last race. “No. But I'm no redneck either.”

Touché.
“Sorry, what came out wasn't what I meant.”

“Same here.”

“You really rallied the troops to hate me though.”

“Miles has millions of fans. They get angry if he's hurt.” The traces of warmth and contrition I'd seen in his face were gone now, though he wasn't angry.

I understood Rawlings only apologized to me because Miles wanted him to. Maybe he really got that it was a racing incident with both of us at fault. But I also knew if he had it to do again, even knowing Miles didn't blame me, Rawlings would react the same way. Would draw the wrath of NASCAR legions down on my head with no hesitation.

Fine. I didn't like him either.

I nodded. “I'm leaving it to the police to track down who sent me death threats in e-mail. But I appreciate you being here to help stop those kind of attacks.”

He swallowed at the mention of the cops, but showed no other sign of distress. “Sure, glad I can help.” I pegged him for an instigator, but not a sender of threats himself.

“Maybe we can get a photo, the three of us?” I gestured to Miles.

When Rawlings agreed, I handed my phone to Holly and stood between the two men for shots from a dozen cameras and phones around us.

“Can we get just Kate and Miles again?” called an official media photographer, identifiable by his blue vest with “Press” on the back. Rawlings moved out of the shot, and Miles squeezed the arm around my shoulder, muttering, “This should shut everyone up.” I glanced up at him, and he grinned at me.

He looked at his watch two minutes later, stopping the photo barrage. “I've got to get down to say hey to the LinkTime guys. Kate?” He turned to me and held out his hand. “I'd race against you any time,” he said as we shook. “Maybe on my turf.”

“I'm game.”

“In fact, come out to a race sometime. Be my guest—guests,” he amended, winking at Holly. “We'll see if we can get you a seat in a stock car.”

“Any time. And Miles, thank you, sincerely.”

He shrugged. “Racing's a family. We look out for each other.” He laughed suddenly. “I call it the brotherhood. Guess I'll have to change that.”

Holly smiled. “Sugar, call her Brother Kate.”

Chapter Forty

“@katereilly28: Thanks to Miles Hanson for stopping by pre-race grid today. Will race each other again some day. [pic]”

As Miles left the Sandham Swift area, Scott Brooklyn approached and, to my surprise, gave him a back-slapping hug. Also strange, Scott wore an SGTV firesuit and was accompanied by a cameraman.

Mike returned from his parade lap around the track, followed closely by Zeke, who made his way to me and asked what I thought our chances were for the race. He told me to go kick butt, and hurried away to his next quote as Juliana appeared. She waved to Holly, who still stood nearby, and beckoned her cameraman forward, putting her right arm around my shoulders so both of us faced the camera.

“I'm here with Kate Reilly, who set an electrifying mark in qualifying for her first pole position in the American Le Mans Series.” She stepped away, the camera remaining focused on me. “Where did that come from, Kate? Did you feel like you had something to prove after the last race?”

I smiled for the camera. “I sure did. I focused all that frustration on laying down a good lap. But the biggest credit goes to the Sandham Swift team, because the BW Goods Corvette they gave me was fantastic.”

“Do you think you've got the car to win this race?”

“I'll leave predictions to you and the fans. I know we've got a fast car, and, especially with an endurance race like this one, it's all up for grabs. We need to stay out of trouble, run our own race—not get caught up in responding to what other teams are doing—and hope we get the lucky breaks, not the bad ones.”

“I heard you had a visitor a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, Miles Hanson was here, wishing us luck for this race, and making it clear we both messed up in the accident two weeks ago.”

“One last question before I leave you to get ready. Tell our viewers what'll be going through your head as you come down the hill and see the green flag for the start of the race?”

The hair on my arms stood up with excitement. “Only one thing: Go like hell!”

She laughed with me, stepping close and putting her arm around me again. “This is Juliana Parker with Kate Reilly, polesitter in the GT class. Back to you in the booth.”

Once the camera was off, she gave me a full hug and wished me good luck.

“Jules, what's Scott doing in SGTV gear?”

“Replacing Felix with me in pit lane. I'll take the bulk of it, and he'll fill in.”

As Juliana headed down the grid, Holly stepped to my side again. “She'll be running her own race in the pits. He'll be there to help, but he won't have done the background research.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“She'll pull it off. Do her own job and help the rookie—”

“Who she's dating.”

Holly raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Why was Scott with Miles?”

“They're cousins. Best friends since grade school, I heard.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the track announcer, “please clear the grid. All non-essential personnel, please make your way off the grid.”

“Gotta go,” said Holly. “See you.” She took off down the grid to her team.

“Wait!” The cry came from the crowd in front of our car. I looked over to see Jeff Morgan bouncing on his toes in front of Tom, darting anxious glances my way.

Tom turned, looking a question at me, and I nodded. I couldn't shut down the guy who'd taken a punch for me this morning. Tom captured the two of us standing in front of the Corvette with Morgan's camera.

Jeff was estatic. “Thanks, Kate. I'm so sorry I was late. I was talking with some other people who are fans of yours—we've got an unofficial fan club going. Next thing I knew, I was running down here to make it. I knew you'd make sure I got a photo. You're so good to your loyal supporters—not like some who don't realize drivers wouldn't be anything without fans behind you. I'm glad we'll be able to talk more at the banquet tomorrow.”

I tuned him out.
Time to get ready. Time to get in the car. Racing!
I shook Jeff's hand, and Tom ushered him away, as we heard the second call to clear the grid. Up and down the line, drivers donned helmets, opened car doors. The crowd moved along, stragglers pausing to take last-minute photos. Series staff shooed everyone around or over the walls separating the pits from the track.

I taped my earplugs into my ears, and pulled on my balaclava. Tucked that into my firesuit, and patted down the Velcro tab holding the suit closed across my neck. Bubs, our driver-change helper, handed me my helmet and HANS, already attached. I slipped the HANS over my shoulders and pulled my helmet on. Fastened the chinstrap. Handed my phone to Bubs to take back to the pits for me.

Third call to clear the grid. The only stragglers I could see were at either end, waiting to file out through a small opening or to climb over the wall on a ladder. The announcer kept talking, introducing different officials and VIPs. Bubs handed me my gloves, then opened the car door.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, turned, and saw Jack, Mike, and Leon. Jack leaned close, patted the top of my helmet. “Be smart into Turn 1. Go get 'em.” Mike and Leon gave me thumbs-up and smiles, then followed Jack and the rest of the Sandham Swift guys over the wall into pit lane.

I climbed into the car, settled myself, fed the belts into Bubs' hands. He strapped me in while I connected the drink tube. He plugged in my air hose and radio cable, gave me a thumbs-up, and withdrew his head and shoulders from the car, fastening the window net on the way out. I took the steering wheel off the ceiling hook, centered it, and snapped it into place on the column. Radio check with Bruce in the pits.

The final call to clear the grid. We waited, Bubs in the open doorway.

I heard more announcements, but couldn't distinguish words. Didn't want to. I focused on the small track map taped in the center of the wheel—there not because I didn't know the track, but in case any of us got turned around or disoriented and needed a reference. I thought through a lap. Thought through the first corner. My heart rate increased. Excitement, nerves, joy, anticipation coursed through my veins. I took measured breaths to stay calm.

It was time. Faint words from the track speakers. Bubs circled his finger in the open doorway at the same time as Bruce called over the radio, “Start your engines.”

I pushed the button, and my C6.R roared to life. Bubs gave me a thumbs-up, then shut the door with a thump. I knew he and the crew up and down the grid would hop over the wall back into pit lane, leaving the front straight to the parade cars, pace car, and racecars. It felt like I sat there forever, car rumbling and shaking under me, before the last prototype in line pulled away on my right. Then it was my turn.

I accelerated away from the wall and followed the line of cars into Turn 1, all of us weaving back and forth, scrubbing our tires to keep them clean of debris. Scrubbing was more important during cautions, when tires were hot and more likely to pick up the dirt, rocks, and “marbles” of tire rubber that accumulated off the racing line and prevented maximum grip. Fresh, cold slicks were less likely to pick up debris, but we didn't leave anything to chance—and if swerving around put some heat into the tires sooner, so much the better. We'd take every speck of racing advantage.

Going out of Turn 10b, up the hill to the bridge, Bruce on the radio: “Parade cars off, one more lap behind the pace car, Kate. You'll bunch up going into 10, and pair up going up the hill. You stay to the right.”

I pushed the radio button. “Copy.” As I rolled down the hill to Turn 12, I could see the pace car leading the line of racecars in the middle of the front straight. I also caught a glimpse of the parade cars—track or Series cars sent out ahead of the field for the first lap to give VIP passengers a thrill—in pit lane.

One last lap around the track, scrubbing tires, focusing on the pavement—looking for debris to avoid, verifying the consistent surface—and warming up my brakes with quick bursts of speed then hard braking. Down the back straight, we got closer together, Andy Padden's blue LinkTime Corvette nosing up on my left, forming the other half of the GT class front row. I stayed ahead through the narrow Turns 10a and 10b, then lifted fractionally off the throttle as I turned up the hill, my nod to lining up together.

The fastest prototypes had already disappeared under the bridge, over the hill. I pulled up as close to the prototype in front of me as possible—still staying right, giving Andy the chance to get beside me.

“Leader coming down the hill,” Bruce notified me.

I pressed on the throttle, accelerating behind the prototype.

“Number 64 outside.” Bruce saying Andy was next to me.

I didn't look for him. Didn't think about him. Thought about getting over that damn hill and down the other side to take the green as fast as possible.

“Green, green, green,” I heard from Bruce.

I swept down the hill, leading the class. Stayed right, as close to full speed as possible. Green flag waving. My heart pounded in my ears. Through the corner. Foot to the floor down the front straight. Willing my Corvette to out-drag Andy into Turn 1.

Racing.