Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery Part 23

"So everything's okay?" I said, looking at Fred and Sophie. "No ... accidents?"

"Nothing like that," she said, setting paper plates on a table. "Open the umbrella, will you? This heat."

"What's he like? He talk much?"

"Ask him what he's like, for crying out loud," she said, popping open a bag of chips. "He's your father."

I said nothing.

Charlene looked at me, stepped to me, rubbed my arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's not that simple, is it?" Then she put thumb and pinkie in her mouth and whistled loud enough to make my ears hurt.

Fred said, "Soup's on!" He began to slow Sophie on the swing.

"He's so good, so normal, that you forget sometimes," Charlene said, leaning into me. "But then he just goes away. The thousand-yard stare comes into his eyes, and his mouth shakes, and he forgets where he is."

We ate-sandwiches for me, Sophie, and Charlene, just a stack of cold cuts for Fred. When she finished Charlene stood, said she had to get to the office before they forgot what she looked like, kissed the top of Fred's head, and left.

"You look good," I said.

"I feel good," he said.

"You want to hit a meeting?" I said, checking my watch. "Salvation Army has a one o'clock we can make."

"f.u.c.k that," Fred said. "Got no time for AA sob sisters. You said you were gonna show me your place in Framingham. Pardon my French, missy."

Sophie giggled.

"I look like a sob sister to you?" I said.

"Why, yes," he said, winking at Sophie. "Yes you do, matter of fact. What color are your panties, sister?"

Sophie giggled some more, then looked at me and stopped. I felt bad for her. Her specialty was getting along with whoever was in the room. Right now she was whipsawed.

"It's okay," I said to her. "The man wants to pa.s.s on a meeting, that's fine by me." I turned to Fred. "So what do you want to do after we see the house?"

"Same thing every man wants to do, 'specially when it's been a while," he said. "I want to drive."

An hour later, after I showed off the Framingham house to Fred, we sat three wide in the F-150. I drove, Fred hung an elbow out the pa.s.senger window, Sophie took the middle. "Where are we going?" she said.

"You'll see," I said, swinging onto Route 146 South. No way in h.e.l.l was I going to let Fred drive on a public road. But a Barnburner owned a dairy farm in Sutton, fifteen miles southwest of Shrewsbury. He was a race fan, and for kicks he'd dug and graded a quarter-mile dirt oval in a far corner of his property. He had a couple of beat-to-s.h.i.+t former cop cars, and once in a while some of us headed out there for half-a.s.sed races, laughing like idiots the whole time.

I explained this to Sophie and Fred as we drove. Thinking about Myna Roper, her daughter, and Trey, I let my head go where it wanted to go.

Until Sophie pointed at a sign and said, "Ooooh, sounds ominous."

The sign said: PURGATORY CHASM STATE RESERVATION 1 MILE.

Fred and I stared at each other. I hadn't thought about the place in thirty years. Hadn't let myself think about it. From Fred's face, I guessed he felt the same.

Sophie picked up on the vibe, swiveled. "What?" she said. "What about it?"

"Nothing!" I said.

"Shut up!" Fred said at the same time.

We each patted her knee. I felt bad about yelling at her. I guessed Fred did, too.

The rest of the ride was quiet.

My Barnburner friend wasn't around, but his foreman was. When I leaned in and told him I was going out back to drive around like a jacka.s.s for an hour, he gestured be my guest.

I killed the AC and switched to the recirc setting to keep dust out of the F-150's interior, then b.u.mped over dirt roads that were rutted enough to force a walking pace. I'd always liked the property. It had been an apple orchard until forty years ago, and even though most of the untended trees were dead or dying fast, the straight rows and regular s.p.a.cing made me peaceful every time I drove through.

We were just starting to wish for the AC when we cleared a long rise and saw the dirt oval below us.

"Well I'll be dipped in s.h.i.+t," Fred said.

Sophie laughed and clapped her hands twice.

At only a quarter mile around, the homebuilt track had no straights to speak of-just a couple of arcs where the 180-degree turns opened up. The start/finish line was marked only by a pitchfork rammed into the dirt, and four or five feet behind that were a half dozen scrounged lawn chairs and tree stumps for spectating.

A few feet back of the chairs sat an old orange road grader-my buddy won it in a poker game-and a pair of ugly Chevy Caprices, the ones from the mid-nineties that looked like beached whales. They were old cop cars picked up on eBay. I never was a Chevy man, but I had to give those cars credit: We'd been doing our level best to kill them for three or four years now, and they just kept going.

I rolled the F-150 down the hill, took a hard right onto the track in the middle of turn one, and racked up easy laps while I explained the place to Sophie and Fred. At first I drove gently, but soon instinct took over. With its empty pickup bed, the truck had almost no weight over the rear wheels. No weight meant no traction, which meant it was easy to kick the back end out and drift through the turns.

After a few laps like this, Fred said, "Now you're talkin'."

I upped the pace, notched a few more laps, and treated myself to a rebel yell. I looked down at Sophie to see if she was enjoying it, too.

She wasn't enjoying it at all. Her face was paste, her teeth were clenched, her left hand was clinging to my s.h.i.+rtsleeve 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 b.u.mped over flattened gra.s.s 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. "p.u.s.s.y."

"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 winds.h.i.+elds 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 m.u.f.flers 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 jacka.s.s: 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. h.e.l.l, 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.

Jacka.s.s 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 cla.s.sic old-timer's line around a dirt oval.

I had a better plan. I hoped.

As we pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"p.r.i.c.k," 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 winds.h.i.+eld. In two more laps I was on his b.u.mper, 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.s me he was going to do it the hard way, on the outside.

He was close enough to b.u.mp 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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. h.e.l.l, 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 b.u.mper 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. .h.i.t 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 embarra.s.sed at the way I spun you?"

"f.u.c.k you."

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