Scarlet Thunder (10 page)

“He focuses totally, with that camera glued to his body. He has no life but filming. I've listened to him talk about what he wants to do. I haven't heard him once say anything about his family. Neither of you has time for anything or anyone beyond your ambitions. Don't call me selfish when the only difference between you and me is that I don't try to fool myself about my ambition.”

He jerked me toward the door.

“Sandy, Mike, get down on your stomachs behind the desk.”

They did. I was glad. I didn't want the pen stuck any deeper than it was.

Tim opened the door with his free hand. He made some movements with his fingers that I could not see, only hear.

He laughed in my ear. “Hey, I work for my uncle. You work for yours. And we're both using family connections to get ahead.”

Without warning, he kicked my feet out from under me. I hit the floor.

He grabbed the camera as I was falling. He ran out, slamming the door behind him.

I began to get up as Uncle Mike and Sandy ran toward me, and we bumped into one another.

“He's getting away!” Uncle Mike shouted. He pushed me out of the way and grabbed for the door.

It wouldn't open.

That's what Tim had been doing. Locking the door.

It took another few seconds of rattling the handle for Uncle Mike to unlock the door.

By the time we got outside, there was no sign of Tim Becker. Or of my handheld camera. Or of the cassette with the film that could prove what he had been doing.

“There's only one way he can get out of here,” Sandy said. “And that's by car. Let's head to the parking lot.”

All of us began to run. We ignored the strange looks from people walking the paths between the motor homes.

“What if he dumps the video and camera somewhere?” Uncle Mike asked, half yelling.

“He'll be too afraid someone might find it,” she said. “He'll keep it with him until he's far from here.”

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. To the right, I saw someone sprawled on the ground. I also heard angry shouts.

“That way!” I pointed. I saw Tim's back as he ducked behind another motor home. “He's over there.”

Uncle Mike and Sandy stopped.

“But the parking lot is to our left,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “But that's not the only place to get a car.”

“Pit road!” Uncle Mike and Sandy said at the same time.

We ran toward the track.

“I don't get it,” Uncle Mike said. “He's going to run in circles?”

“If he can get to the far end,” Sandy said, “he can cut down through the infield and out that way.”

She wasn't even breathing hard. It showed me how drivers had to be in good shape to compete.

“And if he can get away from the track,” she said over her shoulder as we worked hard to keep up, “and dump the video some place we can't find, it will be worth whatever
he gets fined for taking a stock car on the streets. We've got to stop him!”

We got there just as Tim reached an empty idling car pitted in the middle row. Because all the crew recognized him, they weren't concerned when he wandered up to the car. Without warning, he dove into the front seat and scrambled to get behind the steering wheel. The crew was too far away to do anything as Tim roared away with squealing tires.

“What now?” I shouted.

Sandy didn't answer. She was already halfway to another crew.

“Give me your car,” she yelled to them as she approached. “I've got to stop him!”

People jumped out of her way.

Seconds later, she was in hot pursuit.

I saw it later on a television news show. A fan in the stands had been filming the cars as drivers did some test runs. There had been only one car on the track.

When the second car—with Tim Becker driving—burst onto the track, it became interesting. And the fan filmed both cars.

Sandy Peterson's car really made it confusing.

The first driver, thinking he had the whole track to himself, almost hit Tim as he roared out of pit road.

Sandy, a better driver and able to get through her gears faster, almost hit them both as she came out on Tim's tail.

The first driver spun out and trailed smoke and dust all the way to the bottom of the track.

Sandy stayed on Tim's bumper.

They screamed through the first turn.

Through the second turn. Tim still had the lead.

One more turn and Tim would be able to hit the track low and escape through the infield.

Unless Sandy found a way to stop him.

She started the third turn high, with Tim taking the middle.

She swept down and cut beneath him.

Instead of passing, she stayed right at his side, taking away the bottom of the track.

Then she pressed her car against his.

Metal shrieked against metal.

He swung his wheel. But she was expecting it and turned her car harder into his. Sparks flew like fireworks from the bodies of both cars.

The screaming of metal against metal grew louder and louder as the cars slowed.

She pushed him higher up on the track. Higher. Higher. Until the other side of his car began to grind against the concrete wall.

By this time, they had slowed to under thirty miles an hour.

She ground him into the wall until both cars had stopped. She wedged her car against his and jumped out.

Angrily, she walked up to his window.

And she punched him in the nose.

The crowd went crazy.

But even with Tim Becker trapped, Uncle Mike still faced the worst part of all.

Without any footage and with the deadline coming up, he was still about to lose his company. And a script that might be worth an Oscar.

That afternoon, when everything had settled down, I found a pay phone near a concession stand. I dialed a number. I didn't use Uncle Mike's calling card. This wasn't business. I called collect.

“Mom?” I said after she agreed to pay for the call and the operator had hung up. “It's Trent.”

Not Trenton. Suddenly that seemed too much, like I was trying to make myself sound too important.

“Trent!” Her voice was as surprised as it was happy.

I could picture her wide smile and short ash-blond hair. It broke my heart that she sounded so happy and surprised. I should have been calling a lot, so that this call wasn't a surprise.

“Trent!” she said again. But now her voice sounded worried. “Are you all right?”

That broke my heart too, that she thought the only reason I would call was if something was wrong.

“I'm all right,” I said. “I just miss you guys.”

That was true. I'd had some time to think about what Tim Becker had said. I'd been wrong to think only about my dreams. There was much more to life than work.

“We miss you,” she said. “Your dad and I pray for you every day when you're so far away.”

“He's doing good?” I asked.

“Yes, he's doing well.”

We both laughed. Mom's an English teacher.

“How's the weather?” she asked.

“Good,” I said. Maybe some people would have found it boring to listen to us. Right at that moment, though, I realized it wasn't what we were saying that was important. It was how we were saying it, and why. We were family, and the words were just an excuse for us to let the other know it was important to be connected.

“Is Jody's beach volleyball team winning?” I asked. My sister was a great player. I decided I would take time to go to her games when I got back.

“They have a shot at the championship,” Mom said. “How's the shoot going with Uncle Mike?”

“I'll tell you all about it when we get back,” I said. I didn't want to worry her. “I think we'll be home soon.”

“Great,” she said.

We talked a while longer. She didn't ask why I had called out of the blue. She didn't make me feel bad for taking so long to call.

And at the end of the call, she said something that I'd heard a lot of other times.
But today it meant more to me than it had in the past.

“Take care,” she said. “We love you.”

I smiled at the blank wall of the phone booth.

“I love you guys too.”

An hour later, I met Sandy and Uncle Mike in his motor home.

“We've talked to some lawyers,” Uncle Mike said. “Things don't look good.”

Sandy shook her head, her lips tight and grim. “Not good at all. They're saying it will be next to impossible to prove anything, not if Brian Nelson and Tim Becker both decide to keep lying about things. We might not even be able to prove Tim put the elderberries in the fruit salad; the video shot isn't clear enough. As it is now, all they can do is charge Tim with reckless driving or auto theft. Which is nothing compared to proving the rest of it.”

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry to hear that. I guess we won't be able to get an extension
on the documentary. I know you were hoping it would help you w ith you r sponsor.”

“Hang on,” Uncle Mike said quickly. “Don't think we're giving up. Both Sandy and I would really like to find a way to punish the studios for what they've done.”

They exchanged smiles. Obviously they had talked about this already.

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “It will probably hurt Lone Coyote if they have to pay your Uncle Mike the million-dollar bonus they agreed to in the contract.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” I said.

“Well,” Uncle Mike answered, “I doubt they ever planned on having to pay that much money. All along, they thought Tim Becker would find a way to stop us. If they suddenly have to cough up a million dollars...”

“Tim Becker did stop us,” I said. “He slowed production to a standstill. He made Sandy and her crew look bad. And he ruined all the film we shot. You don't have anything to make the documentary with—and there's
not time to get more film pulled together before the deadline.”

Uncle Mike grinned. “He didn't ruin all the film.”

“I was there,” I said. “I saw it. Brian Nelson wrecked it all.”

“I repeat,” Uncle Mike said, “not all of it.”

Sandy broke in. “Your Uncle Mike says if I can finish well tomorrow, that's all the footage he'll need to make the documentary one of the most exciting one-hour spots anyone has seen for our sport. He says he can go into post-production next week with everything he has and be finished by the deadline. All he needs is my approval, and Lone Coyote will have to pay one million dollars. And trust me, the documentary will get my approval.”

“I still don't get it,” I said. I really didn't. And I couldn't figure out why Uncle Mike stood there grinning at me like I had just won a cutest baby contest.

“Trent,” he said, “Brian Nelson didn't break into our motor home.”

“Huh? I mean, pardon me?”

“Let me tell you,” Uncle Mike said. “You have a great eye and a lot of natural talent. I've been going over your footage a lot more slowly. You've captured some great stuff, and from some great angles.”

“Are you saying...?” I could hardly believe him.

“Yes,” he said. “We can easily pull an hour's worth of stuff from the footage you've shot. It will have a music video feel to it that is really hip. I'm telling you, you are good. And if we can cap it with a strong finish, we'll have an award-winning documentary. With your name all over it.”

“Wow,” I said, hardly able to breathe. “Wow.”

I looked over at Sandy.

“Please,” I said. “Please run hard tomorrow.”

Before the race began, I wanted to ask George Lot about the strategy he intended to use.

“Would you mind if I asked you a question and filmed your answer?” I asked him. Before I would have just done it, thinking that the most important thing in the world was me and my job. Now I knew better.

“Fire away,” he said. He was a lot friendlier now, knowing that Tim Becker had been behind all the trouble.

“How's she going to win this one?” I asked. “What's the plan?”

It seemed that the pit road beyond us was getting more and more crowded as cars zoomed in and out during their final adjustments. I leaned in closer to hear him above the noise.

“This is a four-hundred-lap race, and we're going to try to make it with as few pit stops as possible. This track is tricky. It's short and there's little room for mistakes. And that shows up in the number of yellow flags this track averages. Over the last five years, each race has seen at least five yellow flags. We're going to stretch our stops as far apart as possible.”

“That sounds like regular public relations stuff to me,” I said. I adjusted my focus to catch every twitch on his face. “We need the inside scoop.”

His smile looked good on a face that was usually set in stone.

“Here's what we'd never let any of the other teams know before a race,” he said. “Her slow qualifying run hurt. She's starting
so far back that we're going to have to keep her out there until she's running on vapors. If she can get in even two more laps on everyone else before she comes in to the pits, yellow flags will really help us.”

“That sounds risky,” I said. “What if she runs out of fuel?”

“Don't ask,” George Lot said. “Don't even ask.”

I stayed in the pit area behind the wall as all the cars went through their pace lap. As always, I filmed everything I could.

It felt great, knowing that Uncle Mike believed in me. I could hardly wait to tell Mom and Dad about this weekend.

There was a radio scanner nearby, and it let me hear the pre-race instructions to the pace car driver: “Give us sixty-five all around the track.”

Sixty-five miles per hour. The pace car would keep everybody at that speed as all the cars settled into their positions. Sandy would be starting at thirty-first.