Dead and Gone Read online

  He whipped through turn two. The 39 car was running the best it had ever run.

  Burns words crackled over the radio. “You got this. Bring it home.”

  As Tanner approached turn three, he took his foot off the gas, but nothing happened. He stomped on the gas, hoping to free up the stuck throttle.

  “The throttle’s stuck!” Tanner said.

  Burns watched in horror.

  Tanner jammed his foot on the brake. Everything but the car slowed down. Impact with the wall remained imminent in less than a second, but it felt like a minute to Tanner with frightful anticipation.

  Wham!

  Traveling at just over 195 miles per hour, the 39 car slammed into the wall. Debris flew everywhere as the crunch of metal and squeal of tires echoed throughout Texas Motor Speedway. That was followed by a collective gasp from the crowd—and then an explosion.

  Safety and rescue crews sped toward the accident as the trailing drivers navigated the pieces strewn across the track.

  Everyone watched and waited for Tanner to emerge from the car.

  They waited and waited and waited.

  Then another explosion.

  The rescue team hosed down the flaming car, extinguishing the flames, and began to cut open the crumpled driver’s side. An ambulance pulled in front, blocking the view of most spectators and crew members. Only grainy shots from a helicopter overhead kept fans and race teams apprised of what was happening.

  NASCAR officials declared the race over and Cashman the winner.

  With Tanner’s status unknown, Cashman refused to miss his chance to celebrate, burning out his tires near the finish line under a deafening chorus of boos.

  “Give me somethin’,” Burns said to NASCAR officials. “We gotta know what’s going on.”

  Several moments of silence followed. Then a NASCAR official answered him.

  “He’s gone.”

  CHAPTER 2

  CAL MURPHY RUSHED out of the pit area to view the action on Big Hoss, the enormous HD screen that sprawled along the infield of the track opposite the grandstands by the finish line. He tuned in on his headset to find out what was happening. With the flashing lights of emergency vehicles on one end of the track, Cashman burning out at the other, and a disapproving crowd in between, Cal tried to piece things together.

  He took his headphones off and asked one of the men standing next to him, “What happened?”

  “Tanner had it won but crashed on turn three,” the man replied. “And Cashman is just being a jerk—like always.”

  Cal slipped his headphones back on and tried to find out the status of Tanner. Nothing but concern and questions. No answers from any of the official channels.

  Once Cashman’s car wobbled off the track, silence fell on the crowd as they all stood up and stared at the activity near turn number three.

  Cal hustled inside the media center, the only semi-quiet place near the track where reporters could escape. He watched on the monitors as they ripped off the door to Tanner’s car and prepared to move his body.

  “That doesn’t look good,” one of the reporters quipped.

  Everyone froze and looked at the screens. Cal noticed several reporters wince at the sight of Tanner’s limp body as medical workers hoisted him onto a stretcher.

  Cal’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and saw it was Max Folsom, his editor from the Charlotte Observer.

  “Are you watching this?” Cal said as he answered.

  “I think he’s dead, Cal,” Folsom said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I haven’t seen anybody hit the wall that hard since Jimmy Gillespie smashed into Turn 3 at Talladega. And you know what happened to him.”

  “I’ve only seen the replays so far in slow motion, but it looked bad.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the pits, trying to interview Buzz Goff.”

  “Cal, that close to the end of the race? I know he’s Charlotte’s favorite son, but nothing trumps the finale. He wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Just trying to get you the story early.”

  “I appreciate the effort, but you shouldn’t have been stuck in the pits when the most important part of the race was occurring—I don’t care how many television angles you’ll be able to see the replays from. Got it?”

  Cal nodded. “Roger that. Still just getting used to this beat.”

  “It ain’t football, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m starting to get it. I know that rubbin’, son, is racin’.”

  “I hope you haven’t quoted Days of Thunder to anyone at the track. Real NASCAR people hate that movie.”

  “Are you droppin’ the hammer on me?”

  “Please stop with those quotes. Now, go get me a prize-winning story and don’t make me regret subbing you in for Thompson.”

  Cal hung up and stared at the images filling the screens around the room. He’d covered plenty of marquee sporting events, but NASCAR still felt foreign to him. The sport opened its doors wide for fans and media alike, and it took Cal some time to get used to it. Open pits during the race was a new concept to him as well. There wasn’t another sport where he could wander into a team’s locker room and interview a player before the game was over. But he could in NASCAR. The minute a driver spun out and ended his day, it wasn’t just the television reporters who could grab him for a few quotes—it was anyone with a proper pit pass.

  If Cal had his druthers, he would’ve been in Atlanta this weekend, helping the Observer’s coverage of the Carolina Panthers against the Falcons. But the paper’s NASCAR beat writer, Hal Thompson, suffered a massive heart attack the month before and Cal drew the assignment of freshly minted auto racing scribe. Making things even more challenging for him was the fact that he’d never once attended a race before he started, much less covered one.

  NFL scores crawled on the bottom of the screen. Falcons 45, Panthers 6.

  I definitely got the better assignment today.

  But it wasn’t an easy one, not with Goff wrecking and eliminating himself from the championship chase—and now Charlotte-native Carson Tanner smashing into the wall on Turn 3 on the final lap.

  At least I’ll have plenty to write about.

  Then the announcement came; Tanner was gone.

  Several people in the media room groaned while others shouted “No!” Cal walked outside and listened as the moans of the crowd spread like a wave through the stands.

  Tanner was easily one of the most popular drivers on the tour. Fans loved him, the media adored him, sponsors fought over him. And in an instant, Carson Tanner was dead.

  Cal walked along pit road toward Tanner’s crew and saw Tanner’s wife, Jessica, retch. She pulled at her hair and doubled over, screaming and yelling.

  Maybe I got the worst assignment today.

  Any attempts to capture the raw emotion of the scene would leave him open to criticism, the kind Cal didn’t like. Local sports talk radio in Charlotte would likely skewer him, creating an entire segment to analyze his sensitivity, or lack thereof. Yet he had no choice. This was the assignment. A cushy trip to Texas morphed into a nightmare for Cal. Carson Tanner was dead—and there was no way around it.

  Then Jessica stood up. Cal stared at her silhouetted frame, outlined by the pronounced pooch from her stomach area. He’d forgotten she was pregnant.

  Cal watched as one of the pit crew members helped Jessica down the ladder that accessed the perch overlooking pit road. She crumpled to the ground once she stepped off the ladder, pounding with her fist onto the asphalt. “Why? Why? Why?” she wailed.

  It was an answer everyone wanted, but likely it was a simple one: mechanical failure.

  It’s not like Tanner would suddenly forget how to drive, not after rounding Turn 3 without incident 333 previous times that afternoon. Something went wrong at the absolute worst time — and it would remain a mystery for the time being. All that was known was the horrible news: Carson Tanner, at age 25, was dead.
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  Cal scrambled around pit road, gathering as much information as he could about the incident as well as comments from other drivers about the race itself. Despite the tragedy, there was still a story to write, albeit an overshadowed one.

  Cashman, who was seconds away from virtual elimination with a Tanner victory, reasserted himself into the championship chase—a fact that nearly every fan bemoaned. He had now qualified for the finale in Miami, benefitting the most from the spectacular crash behind him. Cal acknowledged that no one could fault him since it wasn’t something he did that caused Tanner to crash. But everyone could certainly resent Cashman for it, especially after Cal would report that Cashman burned off his tires near the finish line while the last breath escaped from Tanner. It provided the stark contrast about two of the most successful drivers during the tour. One beloved, the other reviled.

  With all his interviews completed, Cal settled into his seat and typed his stories. First the story about the race itself, then the heavy one: Carson Tanner’s crash and death.

  In a short conversation with a teary-eyed Sylvia Yates, Cal learned that the girl who was with Tanner during driver introductions was a cancer patient named Ella, a girl fighting for her life who’d been connected with Tanner through the Make-a-Wish foundation. It wasn’t anything Yates publicized, per Tanner’s request. He told her he wanted to do good for good’s sake, not to impress fans and the general public.

  “That’s just the kind of man that Tanner is,” Sylvia had told Cal as she paused. “I mean, was.”

  Cal brushed a tear back from his own eyes while he typed. It was one thing to speak with an athlete who’d just experienced a season-ending injury, but it was another to ask questions about a man who had died just moments ago.

  He finished the story and emailed it to his editor. He waited for confirmation that he’d received it. A text arrived fifteen minutes later:

  “Good work, Cal.”

  He packed up his laptop and notes before heading out the door. The usual jovial mood writers shared as they finished up a weekend of race coverage was gone, replaced by a somber tone. Cal slipped out the door, content to let everyone process the tragic events without interruption.

  He strolled through the pits, still bustling with activity. NASCAR checked racecars to make sure they were compliant. Those teams that had already finished were loading their cars onto their haulers and exiting as quickly as possible.

  Cal stared at the scene, one that still seemed surreal in light of the race’s tragic events. He remained oblivious to others around him as he took in the sights. Then someone bumped into him.

  “What the—”

  “Sorry,” the man said. He kept walking without as much as a glance over his shoulder.

  Cal jammed his hands in his pockets and felt a piece of paper he would’ve sworn wasn’t there moments ago. He fished it out and unfolded it. He read it and put his hand over his gaping mouth:

  “That crash was no accident.”

  CHAPTER 3

  NED DAVIS SCOOTED across the pit area and disappeared inside the No. 39 Davis Motorsports Team hauler, which stretched about 80 feet. The throng of reporters clambering after him to get a quote about Carson Tanner’s crash horrified him, almost as much as the accident itself. He knew eventually he’d have to say something and wanted to—but not now.

  He skipped up the steps to the meeting area at the front of the truck. Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it with a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them to see his girlfriend, Alexa Jennings.

  “Come to momma,” she said, shifting into an upright position on the couch. “I think you need some lovin’.”

  Davis plopped down next to her and slouched on the sofa. Without warning, she grabbed him and buried his head into her chest.

  Alexa stroked his head. “It’s okay, papa bear. Everything is gonna be all right.”

  He pulled back and eyed her carefully. “Do you know what happened out there today?”

  She nodded. “Just because I care more about you doesn’t mean I’m insensitive. I thought of Tanner as my own son, but you’re the one who needs comforting right now.”

  When Davis started dating Alexa a year and a half ago, comfort wasn’t one of the traits that drew him to her. Her freakishly large bosom and piercing green eyes caught his attention first—and in that order.

  Sufficiently drunk one evening at a strip club in Vegas, he tipped her more than she’d made in the previous two months. Before the end of the night, he propositioned her with something more intriguing than an invite to his hotel room.

  “Join me on the road,” Davis said.

  She looked him up and down. “Honey, haven’t you heard? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”

  “I want to take Vegas with me.”

  She climbed down off the stage and patted him on the head. “This is my home—and you’re just a wee bit drunk.”

  He sat down and pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for a hundred thousand dollars. He ripped it out and handed it to her. “Here. Is this enough to convince you to find a new home?”

  Alexa told her boss that she was quitting and left with Davis. And while he knew she came because of the money, he believed she stayed because she loved him.

  Here she was, consoling him and stroking his hair. This furthered Davis’ suspicions that love was greater than money in their case. He appreciated that about her along with the facts that she was hot and didn’t mind being seen with a man who was eight inches shorter than she was.

  “Are you gonna be all right?” she asked as she caressed his arm.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It was just so awful. I was near our pit when it happened and stayed there until we got that word that he was gone. When I saw Jessica thrashing around, I just couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know what to say to her. I’m just so numb.”

  “She’ll be fine. She’s a strong woman.”

  “But that kid? He’ll come into this world without a father.”

  “You didn’t have a father and you turned out just fine.”

  He sighed. “That’s a matter of opinion. I’m not sure that my mother is looking down from heaven on me and thinking that she raised an outstanding man. I’m quite certain I’m not fine.”

  Alexa stamped her foot. “Now, listen, papa bear. Don’t you believe that nonsense floating around in your head. You’re more than outstanding. You’re amazing and you need to know it.”

  He pulled back. “But you don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “What? Frequenting strip clubs? Playing hardball in business ventures? Spreading rumors about competitors? None of that makes you a bad person.”

  “Then what does it make me?”

  She stared at the ceiling for a moment and tapped her cheek with her finger. “It makes you an ambitious man who works hard and plays hard. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “I’m afraid it’s my zealous ambition that has me feeling down at the moment.”

  “Why? Are you blaming yourself for Tanner’s death? It’s not your fault, you know.”

  “If I didn’t own this race team—”

  “Tanner would’ve died driving for someone else. It’s a tough break, but it doesn’t mean that you’re responsible.”

  “Not directly, anyway.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Never mind. I just need to think about what I’m going to tell the press.” He stood up and cracked the window. Craning his neck through the small opening, Davis noticed the gaggle of reporters outside his hauler had nearly doubled from the group that was following him earlier.

  Sylvia Yates burst into the room. “Don’t worry, Mr. Davis. You won’t have to say anything to the press. I just wrote up this press release and want you to sign off on it so I can disseminate these reporters. Once we give them what they want, they’ll leave you alone.”

  He stood up and hugged Sylvia. “Thank you. You have no idea the anxiety I was sta
rting to feel.”

  Sylvia nodded and handed the media release to him. “It’s a sad day for all of us, but I knew you especially wouldn’t want to speak to the press in a time like this.”

  Davis scanned the paper and handed it back. “Go for it. This has my approval.”

  “Good. I’m hoping that once I give this to them, they’ll leave us alone so we can all deal with this tragedy.”

  She opened the door and skipped down the steps and out of sight.

  “See, it’s getting better already,” Alexa said.

  Davis slumped back onto the couch. “I don’t know if avoiding the press is making things better—it’s just not making them any worse at the moment.”

  “Take the time you need to grieve. It’ll be good for your soul.” She shot him a wink and started to climb into his lap. “And I know just the thing that’ll help—”

  Davis’ phone buzzed and he struggled to get away from Alexa so he could answer it.

  “Papa bear? Come on.”

  He held up his index finger as he looked at the name that flashed onto the screen. “I need to take this. Just excuse me for a minute.”

  Alexa understood what he meant and scurried out of the room.

  “Elliot, thanks for calling,” Davis began. “I was wondering when I might be hearing from you.”

  “How are you doing, man?”

  “Not great at the moment. It’s kind of surreal right now. You know how much I liked Tanner.”

  “I do, which makes me wonder why you’re having such a difficult time right now.”

  Davis sighed. “Just because I didn’t want him driving for my team any more doesn’t mean I didn’t like him as a person. I have been known to be able to separate personal and business on occasion.”

  “Since you normally mix the two, I assume it’s okay to do it now.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good. So, the real question is, who is on your radar right now? There are a ton of good drivers out there who won’t have contracts at the end of the season.”