But the Grumleys had gotten the best spot of all, and it took some doing, as the permit for this space had been held for a number of years by another Baptist church, which used to sell souvenirs as well but had been persuaded to turn over its permit in receipt of a large donation. So the Grumleys had set up almost at ground zero of the NASCAR explosion: directly across from NASCAR Village, on the other side of parkway, just a bit down from the driveway that led to the parkway from the speedway headquarters, an admin building in art moderne aluminum. As they labored and the sun rose, they could see across the way the hugeness of the speedway itself, dwarfed only by the mountain beyond NASCAR Village that topped the wall of the racing structure.
They were all done by eight: bottles, hats, T’s, and so forth, all displayed under a large banner that read, PINEY RIDGE BAPTIST PRAYER CAMP WATER $1 HATS $10 T’S $15 and in smaller letters, SEND A STUDENT TO PRAYER CAMP TO LEARN THE WAY OF THE GOSPEL AND THE TRUE MEANING OF WORSHIP.
It was, at long last, Race Day.
PART II
RACE DAY
TWENTY-SIX
Vern knocked on the door. He heard awkward, reluctant shuffling, sensed doubt, perhaps even fear, but finally the door popped open about two inches, held secure by a chain lock, and he and his partner faced a pair of ancient Asian eyes in an ancient Asian face. Mama-san looked to be in her seventies, without much English, and quite insecure.
Vern, with his gift of gab, his easy ways of persuasion, his cheap good looks, was on the case from the start.
“Ma’am,” he said with a smile and warmth radiating from his eyes, “sorry to bother you, but we are official inspectors. We have to inspect, you know? Only take a moment.”
The woman’s face collapsed into confusion. Suddenly a much younger Asian face, possibly no more than fourteen years old and belonging to a very pretty child, leaned beyond the door. Well, hello, hello, Vern thought.
Her skin was fair, her eyes almond, her hair drawn back. She was smooth as a peach and tiny as a fairy princess.
“My grandmother doesn’t understand. What is it?”
“Sweetie,” said Vern, kneeling to the girl, “we are official inspectors. From the Department of Official Inspection. Here, lookie this.”
He showed her an Alabama driver’s license in the name of Horton Van Leer.
“See that star. Means it’s official. Just need to come in a second and we’ll be gone. Have to make a report. You wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the department now, would you?”
The child said, “There’s no such thing as a department of inspections. That’s an Alabama driver’s license, not a badge or an ID. Go away.” Then she shut the door.
Alas, working quickly, Ernie had already knocked the hinge bolts out, and when she slammed it, the door almost toppled in. Catching it, Vern scooted forward, while Ernie held the door, secured at that moment only by the still-attached chain lock. To give his pal some leverage, Vern smilingly unhooked the chain, as if to say to the two terrified women, “See, that’s all there is to it.” He actually managed an expression that suggested he expected some kind of congratulations. Having entered the apartment, Ernie swiftly and expertly remounted the door on its hinges, replaced the bolts, then closed and locked it. The two women stared at the intruders, horrified. Whatever visions of American evil they secretly held, these two men now liberated.
Meanwhile, Vern slipped across the room, peered through the sliding doors that opened, as if onto a balcony, but where there was no balcony since this was the first floor. Instead, they opened onto the parking lot. Across the lot stood another building like this one, an undistinguished, three-story brick structure with four outdoor stairwells, and six units per stairwell. The unit directly across from them was Nikki Swagger’s, which they’d discovered by checking the mailboxes.
“Is it okay, Vern?” called Ernie, who was more or less just intimidating the prisoners with his presence and his baleful, charmless stare.
Vern said, “Yeah, it’s fine. We can see him good, no problem.”
He turned to the two Asian women.
“Sorry, gals,” said Vern, “but what’s got to be’s got to be. Now, no need for nobody to git excited. We are very easygoing, long as you cooperate.”
Without violence but with a force that suggested the possibility of violence, Vern herded the women into the living room.
“Now, little lady, since you’re so damned spunky, and Granny here don’t talk the lingo, looks like you’ll have to answer the questions. No holding back now, little dolly.” He put his hand, friendly-like, on her frail shoulder, feeling it stiffen.
“Are you thieves? We have so little but take it and go away. My grandmother has been ill. A shock could kill her. Look at her, she’s scared to death.”
Vern hugged Grannie.
“There, there, Mama-san, it ain’t nothing. You just relax now, okay. Just sit down on the sofa and relax. Watch a show, do some knitting.”
“She likes Sudoku.”
“Yeah, then do that. Meanwhile—”
He took the smaller girl back into the bedroom. She was one of those scrawny-beautiful scrappers, with eyes that glittered fiercely. Twelve, maybe. No breasts. Short, a T-shirt, some running shoes. The T-shirt said HANNAH MONTANA ’08 TOUR and had a picture of another kid. The child had no sexuality but she was hotter than hell nevertheless, as the smart, feisty ones always are. She’d never back down from nobody.
“Sweetie, please work with me on this. It’s better for everone. How many people live here? Where are they? When they gonna be home? I don’t want no surprises, and if I’m surprised, you ain’t gonna be a happy camper.”
He showed her the grip of his shoulder-holstered Glock.
“In case you don’t get it, that’s a real gun. I am a real bad man and I have to be here for a time. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You ain’t a witness, because my name’s already on a hundred circulars. But I am the real thing, and there ain’t no heroes no more, nobody’s coming to save you, so you do what I say, exactly, or there will be some problems. And I’m the easy one. That guy, Ernie, with me? He is a true bastard. I’m the only thing between your family and him.”
He loved the perfect tenderness of her beautiful little ear: so tiny, so precise, like some kind of exquisite jewelry.
“You’re an ape. Why are you doing this? We have nothing.”
“I am not an ape. Well, maybe a little. Sweetie, we’re here because we’re here and we’ll be gone when we’re gone. What are you, Chinese?”
“Vietnamese. My grandfather’s with the hospital, a researcher. My father’s dead, my mother works. My brother and sister will be home by four, Mom at five. Please don’t hurt us. We don’t have a thing, we haven’t done a thing.”
“There you go, sweetie, talking about hurting. I told you, nobody gets hurt long as I get smooth cooperation. Here’s how it’s gonna be. Grandma’s in here with you. You can watch TV, go to the bathroom, whatever. You can fix food. But that’s it. We’re going to be outside in the living room, looking out the sliding doors at the building across the parking lot. Don’t know for how long. If we’re still here when the other folks start arriving, it’s your job to keep them from going nuts. You tell them what’s what. You cool them down. You have to be a grown-up today. How old are you?”
“None of your business, you ape.”
“Wow, you do have snazzle. I like that. Think somewhere I got a gal your age. Hope she’s got the same snazzle. Anyhows, go ahead, hate me, I’m used to it. I kind of like it, truth is. Maybe that’s why I turned out so rotten. Anyhow, you got responsibilities. You have to please God. I am God. Please me and you’ll come out happy.”
“You’re not God. You’re an ape bastard bully with a gun.”
He saw he was never going to make any headway with this one, which of course made him really like her a lot. Maybe too much. An idea was starting to form. He could get her in the bathroom and she had to do what he said or he’d hurt her family so she’d h
ave to do it. He saw her fear, her little body, the trembling. It excited him.
“I’ll go get Grandma. Oh, and one other thing. What do you want on your pizza?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
For some reason, like an old bear, he needed sleep. So he violated his promise to the sheriff by sleeping through the clock radio, awaking at ten-thirty and thinking first of all, Oh hell, where am I?
That moment of confusion, familiar to men beyond sixty. His eyes flashed around the banal motel room and he had no idea what he was doing there, what time it was, why he was so late, why in his dreams people seemed so disappointed in him. It came back, of course, but not quickly enough, and he needed a good ten minutes for the blood to somehow reach his brain and revive his short-term memories. Quickly he took up the Kimber .38 Super, made a quick recon of the parking lot of the Mountain Empire Motel and was satisfied to see it largely empty, no sheriff’s cars in sight. He started the coffee, took a shower, pulled on his last clean Polo—there had to be a washer and dryer at Nikki’s—and began his calls.
The first, of course, was to his wife.
The news was great.
“Bob, she’s awake. She’s back, our baby is back.”
Bob felt the elation blossom bright, like a flare in the night, signaling that reinforcements were coming in.
“Oh, thank God. Oh, Christ, that is so great. When did it happen, how, what’s her condition?”
Julie tumbled through the story. At about eight-fifteen, Nikki opened her eyes, sat up, shook her head groggily, and said, “Hi, Mom. Where am I?”
Doctors came and went, tests were made, Nikki gradually seemed to focus, and particularly benefited from her little sister’s incredible joy. The two girls sat on the bed and talked for what seemed hours, while all the fuss went on about them. Now she was getting further tests.
“She doesn’t remember anything about the incident, but everything else seemed all right. How’s Dad—oh my God, how much work have I missed—oh, I have to call my editor—when can we leave—I’m hungry.”
“Oh, that’s so great,” said Bob. It doesn’t get much better than the moment you hear your kid has pulled through a tough one. His first impulse was to race to the car and beeline to Knoxville to be with his family at this precious moment.
“The doctor says the signs are good. She’ll get more memory back over the next few days. Our little girl is going to make it.”
Miko came on, delirious, and he talked to the second daughter for a while, in the language of fathers and daughters, both intimate and silly. But at a certain point it came back to him. Yeah, she’s fine, she’s okay, it’s all right, there’s a happy ending…if.
He realized that she’d make it if the boys didn’t come back to take her out again. She was much more dangerous now that she was conscious. Unconscious, there was always the thought that she could pass; now, revived, she was a threat.
“I’d like to come back,” he said. “I wish I could come back.”
“But you can’t,” Julie said. “You have work to do.”
“Yes, I do. I want the security tightened.”
“Bob, I’ve already called Pinkerton. They’re upping the manpower. It’ll cost us a fortune, but I don’t care. What’s happening there, where are you?”
He told her, summing things up, wishing he had a definite next step in mind, or that a solution would somehow soon be at hand. But it remained amorphous. Strange men tried to kill Nikki, tried to kill him for looking into it. The sheriff’s office didn’t have a clue. Nick Memphis hadn’t returned his phone calls.
“I’m going to go to Bristol now, to her apartment. That’s where they’ll know to find me.”
“Bob, be careful.”
“Maybe I can turn a thing on them. If not, I’ll wait a few days until after the race, then I’ll sneak back here and sniff out Eddie Ferrol. If anyone knows anything for sure, it’s him. He and I’ll have a little conversation, and then I’ll be up to speed.”
“Can you find him?”
“I think I can.”
He saw his cell light blinking, informing him another call was coming in.
“You know, I have to go. I’ll get back to you when I’m in Bristol.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
He called up Received Calls and recovered Charlie Wingate’s number. He punched Call and the phone was answered in two seconds.
“Charlie?”
“Mr. Swagger, did you hear?”
“No.”
“They found the owner of that gun store dead. Eddie Ferrol, the guy who owned Iron Mountain Armory. Someone shot him. They found the body off the interstate.”
Bob blinked, took a swallow of the coffee.
“Yeah,” he said. “And before he and I could chat.”
“Remember, I gave you the number from your daughter’s laptop hard drive. Did you see him? I don’t—”
Bob suddenly saw how it might have looked to the kid.
“You think I tracked him down? You think I’m some kind of hit man? No, Charlie, it’s not that way. I saw him and asked him some questions about my daughter. He denied ever having seen her, but I learned that was a lie. I was going to see him again, but the next thing I know, I’m the one who’s targeted. Long story. Been more or less laying low ever since. But anyone concerned about me would know that Eddie’s the man I’d have to get back to. If they couldn’t get me, they could get him. Especially since they can’t have had any confidence in his ability to stand up to tough questions. The fastest way out of that jam is a bullet in his head.”
“Yes sir. Um—am I in any danger?”
“Don’t think so. Only way would be if whoever I’m looking for has very sophisticated phone intercept capability. Government quality. No, not these boys. Smokeless powder is about as sophisticated as they get. It ain’t the CIA or even the mafia. It’s some boys who aren’t sure the wheel is going to last. Charlie, I’m about to leave town. You keep working on what I told you, and I’ll check back from Bristol, okay?”
“Yes sir. This is kind of cool.”
After disconnecting, Bob tried Nick again. Agh! Where was he?
He called Terry Hepplewhite, the clerk at Lester’s, about whom he still worried. But he found Terry in fine spirits with nothing to report. He had half a mind to pay for a vacation or something, but saw in an instant that wouldn’t work. Thelma’d be all over it if Terry suddenly vanished. No, Terry had to sit it out, at least until whatever happened happened, his case was processed, and police interest had moved elsewhere. Bob thought, That was another mistake. I shouldn’t have involved that kid, I should have stuck around and taken the heat. Man, am I losing it? I have made a batch of bad decisions on this one, and maybe I am just making things more difficult than they are. But there was nothing left to do but get out of town, so that sheriff didn’t drop down in his Blackhawk again.
He threw his laundry into his duffel, and went to the car. He drove aimlessly, hoping to smoke out anybody following, but his sudden turns and reverses uncovered nobody. For all of it, he was in the free and clear.
The route took him up and down Iron Mountain on 421, across Shady Valley, where he stopped and refueled and got a bite to eat. He then crossed Holston Mountain and, twenty miles out of Bristol, almost immediately hit the Race Day traffic he’d sworn to avoid by leaving early. That plan lost, he settled in for the long haul: the drive across the valley, a backup at the approach to the bridge over Holston Lake, and then into really heavy stuff as he got close to the speedway itself, which was twelve miles outside of Bristol. He hated traffic. He was too old for traffic. Traffic was no fun. The only good thing about traffic was that nothing bad could happen in it, because nobody who did anything bad could get away. There was too much traffic.
He looked at the map, thought maybe he could figure out a way around the mess. It might be longer in miles but it would keep him driving and engaged instead of crawling. That was always his theory in other situations: it
’s better to drive at speed even if it takes longer than to endure the frustrations of the slow stop-and-go.
But none of the other routes really offered much in the way of possibility. He had to remember that hundreds of thousands of people were on the march, and that every single route would be slowed down. It was just physics: That many cars on those few roads computed to simple congestion no matter what. You had to accept it, not let it screw you up.
So he just tried to stay relaxed, giving himself up to the radio, running from country western station to country western station, occasionally nesting on the Knoxville 24/7 news station, hoping there might be new information on the two Grumley boys who’d tried to kill him. But there wasn’t. That story was dead, as was the killing of the meth addict Cubby Bartlett. Nothing lasted more than a day in today’s news cycle.
Why didn’t Nick call? With Nick’s help, he could find out in minutes who these Grumleys were, what their involvement foretold, and who, possibly, they were connected to or working for.
But Nick didn’t call.
Finally, around four, he hit the city limits, and forty minutes later crawled past the speedway itself. It was the same, only worse. The huge structure dominated the valley, but it was aswarm with crowds. Traffic just crawled, and people wandered through it en masse. Most of the husky fellows who herded families through the merriment seemed to carry coolers full of beer on their shoulders, and NASCAR ball caps were perched on every head from the youngest to the oldest. The pilgrims were dressed any old way, mainly in cut-off jeans and tank tops, and everybody smoked or had a beer in a caddy. The women wore flip-flops, and a few even seemed to have bras underneath their shirts, but mainly it was down-home as it could be. Not a tie or a jacket anywhere in sight, just thin clothes, heaving flesh, a sense of complete ease. This was the night of nights, the Night of Thunder.