He was fishing for his shoes under the bed when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it off the bed with one hand while the other snagged one wayward shoe.
“Hey, Russell.”
“Dell. Can you come down to the garage?”
Dell fished the other shoe out and sat on the end of the bed to put them on. “I've got plans, Russell. Can we save the celebration until we get home?”
“Trust me, Dell. You wanna be here for this. Now get your ass down here. Now.”
Russell's clipped tone sent a cold spear of dread through Dell's body. “Okay. I'm putting my shoes on. I'll be there in a few minutes.”
He tried calling Caro, but the call went immediately to voicemail. This couldn't be good. It wasn't unusual for little things to come up in a post-race inspection, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. The car met all the specifications to the letter. Caro was too meticulous for it to be anything but perfect. And she was too smart to think she would get away with cheating.
His feet felt like he'd put on concrete shoes instead of his favorite running shoes. He kept his head bent, avoiding eye contact with the people he met on the way. It surprised him how many people were still hanging around. Most of them were fans who were probably planning an early start with their motor homes in the morning instead of fighting the crowds clogging the roads tonight.
The lights blazed in the garage. All work had stopped and about a dozen people stood around talking in small clusters. Dell recognized the Hawkins crewmembers and a few people from NASCAR. The men in the white fire suits were the observers, there to keep an eye on everyone and everything. His gaze stopped on Caro. She stood off to one side, dwarfed by the cluster of men around her. None of them looked happy, especially Caro.
“Hey,” Dell said, approaching the group. “What's going on?”
A flash of relief crossed her face as she looked up at him, but she masked it so fast Dell wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. He shook hands with a few of the men who offered. He recognized most of them. These were the men who enforced the rules, the ones who seemed to delight in suspending him at every turn. The cold spear of dread he felt earlier turned to a block of ice in his gut.
“I'm glad you're here,” Caro said. “It seems we have a problem.”
Dell ignored the officials, locking his gaze on Caro. She was trying to be strong, but the stress was taking a toll on her. Her shoulders slumped and dark circles rimmed her beautiful eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her until he could make all the bad things in her life go away. “What kind of problem? It can't be with the engine. She's special, but well within the specifications,” he said.
“Not the engine – the fuel.”
Dell glanced around the group of somber faces. “What about the fuel?”
“The post-race tests show an illegal performance-enhancing additive,” this from the guy with Stan stitched over the pocket of his white NASCAR shirt.
“How did it get there?” Dell asked.
Silence. Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him. Dell held up his hands.
“Whoa. You don't think I had anything to do with it.” This was unreal. From the looks on their faces, it was exactly what they were thinking. He ignored them and looked at Caro.
“Not you too. Caro. Seriously?”
More silence.
“Fuck!” Dell turned and walked away, stopping when he got to the car. He tried to process the information. Of course the officials would think he'd done it, but Caro? Her lack of faith cut him to the core. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to think. How could this happen? Who could have done it, and why?
Well, the why was easy enough. He could think of only two reasons to use an additive. Either someone wanted to give the car an edge, or someone thought he had a chance of winning and wanted to make sure the car got disqualified if it did.
Everyone in their garage believed the car was good enough to win. None of them would use an additive to give them an edge. That left the other reason, and Dell didn't have to look far to find a host of people who would want his car disqualified.
Someone touched his arm. He recognized her touch. Caro.
“Dell,” she said.
“I didn't do it, Caro. I can't believe you would think I would do something so stupid.”
“They searched the hauler. The empty can was in your locker.”
“You're shittin' me, right? Do I look stupid, Caro? And when was I supposed to have done this? While I was circling the track at one hundred and ninety miles per hour? Or maybe I hopped out during one of the thirteen-second pit stops, ran to the hauler, grabbed some fuckin' additive, ran back to the pit, somehow managed to get it into the tank without anyone seeing and ran back to the hauler to stash the empty can in my locker where anyone could find it, and still get back in the car and out on the track. Yeah, I'm guilty.”