THURSDAY — PRACTICE

It could have been a perfect New England autumn day. A childhood memory of Indian summer painted in primary colors. Blazing red sugar maples. Titian blue skies. Puffy white clouds pushed along by a breeze tinged with the hint of frost. The day her mother—Pauline—had taken the three kids for an outing to the Brookfield Orchards. Rebecca closed her eyes, raised her face to the warmth of the sun. She imagined she could smell the tang of fallen apples, hear the hum of yellow jackets lured by putrefying pulp. Imagined that if she stretched out her arms, her fingertips would brush the branches of gnarled trees laid out in rows by eighteenth-century settlers.

Ridiculous. The flashbacks were becoming a nuisance.

It was the twenty-first century. She was standing on fresh blacktop opposite turn twelve of the road course at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Gasoline fumes and the stench of burning brakes hung in the air. The pervasive whine came not from insects, but from 3-Litre engines accelerating hard onto the front straight at the most famous racetrack in the world. She was playing mechanic, twisting wrenches to improve the performance of a rich man’s toy.

Admittedly, it was a teenage fantasy come to life. The chance to be a part of Indy, to brush shoulders with the most famous names in open-wheel racing, had enticed her away from home and business. Her crush on racing was sophomoric and not easily explained to her pragmatic friends, so she hadn’t tried. When she’d been offered the three-week stint, she’d waved off their objections, packed her tools and flown west.

Behind her someone called out, “Rebecca. Moore.” She sighed, opened her eyes and turned. The car’s owner, Peyton Madison III, wagged his fingers for her to come closer.

Ian Browning, their driver, was straightening the shoulder harness before sliding into the cockpit of the Lotus 49C, touted by race pundits as the most exquisitely designed race car ever. Peyton murmured last minute encouragements. Ian avoided eye contact. He was focused on the race course, as if he were already strapped in, moving the car through the gears, gliding around the turns. They barely had time for two more practice laps before the track was turned over to the Formula One cars.

The kid on the crew picked up a canister of gas to top off the tank. When he grinned, acne scars formed a half moon on his cheek. Rebecca watched him uncap the gas, then turned and braced Ian’s arm as he raised his leg over the flexible housing and settled in. She lifted the Plexiglas windshield into place and began tightening the bolts on her side.

Uncomfortably close, Peyton pressed his thigh against hers, picked at the corner of a Shell decal with his thumbnail. He offered her a Southern smile, charming and as short-lived as a firefly passing through. Then reminded her that he was counting on a lap under a minute, twenty. Fast enough to put the Lotus on the front row during tomorrow’s qualifying session. If it happened, she would be a hero. If not—

Peyton touched her arm. “Clouds are building.”

Her mouth twitched into a demi-smile as she explained that clouds were good. They ensured cooler track temperatures. Peyton nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. He knew less about racing than she did. At least she’d arrived with a firm grasp of auto mechanics as they applied to vintage cars. The variables of racing—track conditions, down force, tire adhesion, driver fatigue—were challenges she enjoyed mastering.

Reaching into the cockpit she forced Peyton to step back, out of her way. She tugged on the catch of the six-point safety harness. It kept the driver securely in place; released with one flick in case of fire. She waited bent over for the engine to light off. It rumbled. Seconds later it smoothed. She gave Ian a thumbs-up and patted the cowling.

Halfway to standing, she heard the gunshot.

Heard the high pitched whine. The crack as Plexiglas shattered. A thunk as the bullet impacted the asphalt.

The crew kid shrieked as the gas can flew from his grip, landing upright a few feet away. Her head jerked in response. She saw the small round hole where the bullet entered the gas can; scattered flecks of macadam where it bit into the tar after exiting. Twin streams of gasoline spurted like cheap wine from a fountain on an Italian buffet.

She felt her own scream—a low animal howl—begin deep inside her belly, swell and explode.