Dead and Gone by Jack Patterson (universal ebook reader .TXT) 📕

The two men grappled for a few moments before Ross threw Dirt to the ground and delivered a few punches. Dirt scrambled to his feet and lunged at Ross. Once Dirt grabbed him, their clash spilled in Holmes’ direction. They tumbled toward Holmes, who tried to get out of the way but couldn’t. Dirt jabbed at both men, landing punches to the face on both of them.

Burns sat back in his chair, arms folded.

Just get it out of your system, boys.

The trio tussled for another minute until they all stood up and resigned themselves to the fact that fighting wasn’t going to change anything or get any answers.

“Are you three done?” Burns asked.

Dirt felt his bloodied lip with his index finger and stared at the blood. “Why I ought to—”

“You ought to what?” Ross asked. He checked his lip for blood, but there was nothing to be found. “Apologize?”

Dirt’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mock me. I’ll take you out right now.”

“Enough!” Burns shouted. “I thought I worked for Davis Motorsports with a bunch of adults, not a bunch of middle schoolers. Now, let’s turn our attention to the task at hand—which is getting a car ready for Phoenix, no matter who’s driving it.”

The men settled into their chairs and stared at Burns.

“Well, does anyone have anything to say?” Burns asked. He scanned the room for any inkling that one of the men might want to speak, conciliatory or not.

“Maybe we can find someone who can drive worth a damn now,” Dirt said.

CHAPTER 5

CAL’S PLANE BOUNCED and bumped on landing before rolling to its gate at the Charlotte airport. He glanced down at his hands, knuckles white after gripping the armrest for a nervous thirty seconds. It had been a while since terror like that had stricken him, though a bumpy landing seemed rather benign compared to having a gun pointed at his head. But at the moment, Cal considered the mundane direction in his life better suited for him now that he and his wife Kelly had a young daughter and a different lifestyle.

He spotted Kelly and Maddie as soon as he emerged from the secured terminal area. Maddie, who was just learning to talk, held up a sign: “Welcome home, Daddy!” Cal smiled and went for a group hug before he pried Maddie out of Kelly’s arms and twirled her around.

Once they arrived at their car, Cal fastened Maddie into her car seat and got into the passenger’s side. He leaned over and kissed Kelly as she cranked the engine.

Kelly cut her eyes toward him. “How many more weeks of this do we have with you being gone?”

He patted her on the leg. “The season’s almost over, honey. Two more races and then life gets back to normal.”

She let out a sigh. “I hope so. You being gone every weekend is getting old.”

***

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Cal drove downtown for a meeting with his editor at the Observer office. He shook his head as he passed the Bank of America Stadium, home to the NFL’s Carolina Panthers. Covering an NFL team meant eight short road trips per season. He’d already taken half that many trips in the past month and two more loomed on his schedule. Cal needed some assurances that this wasn’t going to be a permanent move, as rumors on the staff began to circulate that Hal Thompson needed to retire for his health. Everyone knew it would kill Thompson to quit, but it would kill him if he didn’t, according to his doctor.

But that wasn’t the only thing Cal wanted to discuss. There was the more pressing matter of the note slipped into his pocket and Ned Davis’ phone conversation that he overheard.

While Cal was new to the racing scene, he wasn’t new to the idea that conspiracies are real. Over the years, he’d earned quite a reputation for being a conspiracy theorist. From the stock market to international politics to the NBA playoffs, he ascribed to more theories than most. Though he didn’t mind the incessant teasing from his colleagues whenever a new theory emerged, Cal feared it hurt his chances of getting the green light to pursue sketchy happenings in the sports world. He’d have to handle his pitch to his editor with just the right aplomb or risk getting reduced to writing bland game stories and notebooks for the rest of the season. Like any other multi-million dollar enterprise, people who ran teams and had controlling interests didn’t always play nice or fair.

Cal entered the building and walked by a somber Lisa Samuels, one of the advertising reps. A No. 39 flag adorned the side of her cubicle and she always wore a Carson Tanner t-shirt on casual Fridays during race season.

“You all right?” Cal asked.

She shrugged. “The good always die young, right?”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not fair. Tanner was a great driver and an even better human being with his whole life in front of him. He could’ve broken every record given time. It’s just so sad.”

Cal nodded. “Hang in there, okay?”

Lisa put her head down and continued working.

While there were plenty of race fans around the office, no one seemed as shaken up about Tanner’s death as Lisa—at least not as Cal walked through the building. However, the more die-hard race fans worked on the press, though most of them considered Carson Tanner too much of a pretty boy for their taste. They liked the rugged old timers, the drivers who didn’t mind bumping another racer into the wall. Tanner wasn’t one of those drivers, even though he’d banged a car or two out of the way when necessary. But it just wasn’t enough to impress the long-time fans. Ever since Thompson’s illness, the pressroom guys summoned Cal to break down all the weekend’s action that he couldn’t print or was cut from his story due to space limitations. Cal always wondered why they never seemed to read a word