Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery (24 page)

She wasn’t enjoying it at all. Her face was paste, her teeth were clenched, her left hand was clinging to my shirtsleeve for dear life.

I felt like a jerk. “Sorry, honey,” I said, jumping off the throttle. “Sorry sorry sorry, that’s enough of that, huh?” I coasted off the dirt oval and bumped over flattened grass to where the Caprices were parked.

“It’s okay! I’m okay!” Sophie said, her voice too bright, her smile too big. I felt even worse.

“Jesus Christ,” Fred said. “Things were just getting good out there.”

“I had enough,” I said, looking him in the eye, then cutting my eyes to Sophie.

He didn’t get it. Folded his arms. “Pussy.”

“For crying out loud,” I said. “Pardon his filthy language, Sophie.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I meant to say ‘fraidy cat.’”

Funny thing, family. I felt my face go red, felt the red-mist pulse start in my head, knew I was being sucked in, but couldn’t help myself. “Choose your weapon, Fred,” I said, pointing at the Chevys. “Let’s see who’s a fraidy cat.”

“I’ll take that one over there,” he said.

“Good idea. That one’s got a little more juice, and you’ll need it.”

“This is going to be awesome,” Sophie said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My buddy leaves the keys in the Chevys and dumps five gallons of gas in their tanks when he remembers. Far as I know, the only maintenance they get is when somebody spits on their windshields to clean them off.

But they fired right up. Sounded pretty good, too: They had the 305 V8 that came with the police package, and we hacksawed their mufflers off two summers ago.

Fred and I agreed on three warm-up laps, then a ten-lap race. It would be easy to lose track of the lap count, so I aimed my truck at the oval, put Sophie in the driver’s seat, and told her to flash the lights when there were two laps left.

Following Fred in counterclockwise circles during the warm-up, I felt like a jackass: I’d been too nervous to let him drive on the roads but had let him goad me into an idiotic race.

Only family could do that.

The dust was going to be brutal. Usually, we put a couple of kids on hose duty to keep the track damp between races. But I hadn’t seen the hoses as we pulled up. Hell, just the slow laps in my truck had made it hard to see one end of the track from the other. It would get worse.

Jackass or no, I cared enough about the race to take a good look at Fred’s line through the corners. He spent the warm-up figuring out just how hard he could toss his Chevy into the turns. He was planning an old-school approach: He wouldn’t touch the brakes at all, would instead chuck the car into a big hairy skid to slow himself down. That was a classic old-timer’s line around a dirt oval.

I had a better plan. I hoped.

As we passed the pitchfork to start the last warm-up lap, I pulled even with Fred. I stayed to his right, giving him the inside line.

We eased around the oval, jockeying for a good start, and Fred tried every trick he knew to get an edge. First he put his fender on mine, just to show who was boss. When I cranked my wheel left to tell him “knock it off,” he pulled away sharply, hoping I would get crossed up. Then he played the start-stop-start-stop game.

I was ready for all of it. I dragged the brakes with my left foot, winding up the revs with my right. We were supposed to hit the gas as we cleared the pitchfork. I knew he would jump the start; the question was how early. The answer: way early, just as we entered turn three off what passed for the backstretch.

Fred beat me to the throttle by a tenth of a second and cranked his steering wheel hard right, trying to flat run me off the outside. It wasn’t a traditional NASCAR track ringed by a concrete wall, but there was a two-foot buildup of loose dirt that the Chevys had been known to get hung up on.

“Prick,” I said out loud, stabbing the brakes. I didn’t have much choice. Got right back into the throttle and took off after Fred, but he’d built an instant three-car-length lead.

Not for long. I’d guessed right about his approach. As he neared each 180, Fred would yank the wheel left, kicking the back end out to scrub speed. Then he’d get right back to the gas, elbow-flailing the car sideways through the corner. It was a fun way to drive, and it looked cool; that’s why stunt men do it in movies.

But it wasn’t the fast way around. Not on this track, not in these cars. The Chevys didn’t have limited-slip differentials, so Fred spent most of his lap spinning his inside rear tire, looking for traction that wasn’t there.

Where he was pitching his car sideways, I was tapping the brake and turning the steering wheel gently, giving all four tires a chance to grip. Where he was hammering the throttle, I was easing it down like there was a baby duck between it and my foot. To Sophie, I wouldn’t look nearly as dramatic as Fred.

But I was catching him.

In two laps I gained enough to watch the individual rocks his tires flung at my windshield. In two more laps I was on his bumper, and he knew it. When we came off the corner he goosed the gas too hard, put his car good and sideways, and could only watch me nip underneath him.

Now
I
was three car lengths in front. I knew I couldn’t pull away much, not in five laps—the Chevys were junk to begin with, and they got worse once you put a few hard laps on them. I was smelling brake pads and transmission fluid already.

So I drove my line and wondered what Fred would try. Because he sure as hell was going to try
something
.

I recognized a new smell, glanced at the dashboard. The temp needle was pegged; even with its heavy-duty radiator and transmission cooler, the Chevy was running red hot. Engines hate heat: I could feel the power loss every time I came off a corner.

Fred was closing hard. Wasn’t within ramming distance yet, but he was getting there.

I flashed past the pitchfork with maybe an eight-foot lead, saw my truck’s headlights flash. Two laps to go. I eased into the corner, staying low low low. If Fred was going to pass me he was going to do it the hard way, on the outside.

He was close enough to bump me now, spin me out. But he didn’t, which meant he was saving the move for the last lap. I ran my low line, then let the Chevy track wide on the tiny straights, blocking as hard as I could. A lot of drivers don’t like blocking, think it’s unsportsmanlike. But in the last few laps, anything goes.

Fred waited until we entered the final corner. I knew it was coming, so when he nosed inside me and put his right fender on my left rear quarter, I was prepared. I felt my back end wash out to the right, cranked the wheel the same way, and mashed the gas. I heard, watched,
felt
Fred’s car pull alongside and then ahead of me, our miserable small-block engines screaming for mercy. I manhandled the wheel, fighting for rear grip. Found some, built a little momentum.

Then I turned hard left and mirrored the move Fred had pulled on me, catching his right rear with my left front. It worked: I watched his back end sway left, knew he was keeping his foot deep in the throttle, shooting smoke and dirt and rocks everywhere.

He couldn’t save it: I’d spun him out. I took my foot off the gas and coasted to the pitchfork. Sophie was flashing my truck’s lights like crazy, honking the horn. I pumped a fist and eased my way into a victory lap.

Until Fred straightened out his car, hit the gas, and flew after me. Short-track instincts had risen to the top: He was going to ram me, let me know what he thought of that last move. I’d seen the old-school payback a hundred times. Hell, I’d
done
it.

While I coasted around the turn, he closed the gap fast, thirty-five hundred pounds of Chevy blasting my way. I waited until it was too late for him to change his line on the tractionless dirt, then goosed the throttle just a bit. It worked—he missed my rear bumper by maybe three inches. Frustrated, Fred cranked his wheel hard left, but it was too late. He was sliding broadside toward the buildup of dirt and stones that marked the track’s outer edge.

I knew what was going to happen before it happened. I sighed, mashed the brakes, threw my Chevy in park. I didn’t even need to watch to know that when the sides of Fred’s right tires hit the outer berm, his car was going to roll. I just hoped it didn’t go all the way onto its roof. I had half a second to wonder if he’d fastened his seatbelt. I was pretty sure he hadn’t.

By the time I closed my door and walked toward Fred’s Chevy, it was all over. Just your basic quarter-roll: The car had flopped onto its right side and was showing me its underside like a dog showing his privates. The rear tires spun, the motor screamed.

So did Sophie. I felt bad; it must have looked like a serious wreck to her. I hollered that Fred was okay, but she couldn’t hear over the engine. So I motioned for her to come over and see for herself.

I put my hands on my hips and stood in the car’s shade, staying far enough away so it wouldn’t crush me if it righted itself. “Fred!” I said, shouting over the small-block.

Nothing.

I cupped my hands to my mouth. “Fred! Kill the motor before something blows up.”

The motor died.

“You okay in there?” I said, hearing Sophie’s footsteps.

“No!”

“Are you truly hurt, or just embarrassed at the way I spun you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Got an arm pinned in there?” I said. “A leg?”

He said nothing.

Sophie took my hand. “Should I call nine-one-one?”

“Nah. I think he’s just pouting.”

“Something’s pinned,” Fred said. “Maybe crushed a little.”

Sophie began to cry.

I sighed. “Hang on, I’m coming.” I pointed at Sophie. “Stay away in case it tips back over.”

I walked around the other side of the car, squatted, looked in the windshield. Sure enough, Fred was folded up on the front passenger-side door, which was now acting as the floor. It looked like all his weight was on the point of his right shoulder. “That’s probably not good,” I said.

“Come get me.”

I straightened and pushed on the Chevy’s roof. Didn’t like the way the car rocked. Squatted again. “If I climb up to the driver’s door,” I said, “it might tip.”

“So kick out the windshield, dumbass.”

That was a good idea. The safety glass shouldn’t bother Fred if we were careful. I told him to close his eyes, stepped back, and stomped with my left boot. Took me half a dozen kicks to knock a third of the windshield from its frame. While I did, Sophie came around, sniffling. “Are you okay?” she said.

“Fine, sweetie,” Fred said. “Now watch out you don’t get glass in your eye.”

I took my T-shirt off and was surprised to see it sweat soaked, until I thought about what I’d spent the past twenty minutes doing. When I ran the Busch Series, back before they put suit coolers in the cars, we used to sweat off fifteen pounds a race.

I used the T-shirt to protect my hands, grabbed a handful of safety glass, and rolled it up toward the left side of the car like it was a sardine-tin lid. I flopped it over the left fender, made sure it wouldn’t slip and hit me, dropped to hands and knees.

Now I had my head inside the Chevy. I smelled gas. “It would be a damn good idea to get you out of here,” I said. “Where are you pinned?”

“It’s this side. Feels like maybe my right hand is between the seat and the door. Can you see it?”

“Well…” I wriggled in, extending my neck.

That’s when my father cold-cocked me. The right hand he’d been playing possum with came at me like a cast-iron skillet, caught me flush on the nose. I saw a white flash, then got a thump when my head dropped and hit the windshield pillar.

“Hey,” Sophie said.
“Hey!”

“Wreck
me
in the last corner, you dirty homo?” Fred said, trying to grab my hair. “I’ll show you dirty…”

But my hair was too short to get a grip on. I waggled my head to clear the pain, then popped him in the nose with a couple of rights. I was on two knees and my left hand, so I couldn’t get much on the jabs, but they slowed him down.

“Ha!” Fred said. “You still punch like a girl!” He pulled his left knee to his chest and let fly with a flat kick, going for my nose again. I shifted, but his boot caught my right ear and tore it some.

“Come on, Dad.” I put both hands up to surrender.

“Fuck
you
I’ll come on!” Fred pistoned the leg again, caught me in the chest, knocked the wind out of me.

That pissed me off. My nose, my ear, now my wind. I got the red-mist feeling around my eyes that meant deep trouble as often as not.

While I tried to catch my breath, Fred went for the kill shot, kicking with both legs this time, aiming at my face.

I caught an ankle with each hand, tightened my grip, felt the red mist taking over my head.

When Fred saw my face, he stopped cussing me out. “Hey now,” he said.

“Conway?” Sophie said.

They were too late. I got a foot under me and rose, still grasping Fred’s ankles. I pulled him straight through the empty windshield frame, not caring much if I cut him up on the way out.