Drag Strip Racer Read online

  The Chevy leaped forward without a hint of hesitation, each piston responding like a musician the instant the baton signaled the command.

  Ken then pressed the accelerator to the floor and felt the car take off under him. Cracks in the runway made the ride slightly rough.

  He let up on the gas pedal and decided to pay more attention to the surface of the road than to his driving. Hitting one bad pothole could blow a tire, buckle a suspension rod, or damage a frame; so he wanted to take a good look at the runway before committing Li’l Red to it.

  He drove the full length of the airstrip, figuring it was about three thousand feet long, and felt satisfied that it was safe to race the Chevy on it without fear of trouble.

  He slowed down, made a U-turn at the end of the runway, then raced it back.

  When he started off again he pretended that the Christmas tree was there in front of him, just slightly off to the right. He waited, mentally watching the lights flash on. Then—the green. And he stomped on the gas.

  The Chevy shot forward like a sprinting colt. Its front end rose as if it were going to take off like an airplane. Then it settled down, and the speedometer climbed…80 miles per hour…85…90…95…

  The car went over the 100-mile-per-hour mark and Ken’s face glowed with pride as he felt two tons of power answering to his command.

  One hundred…105…110…. The needle jumped forward as if it had gone crazy.

  Then he slowed down, turned around, and raced back, pleased with the Chevy’s performance.

  It wasn’t till he reached the other end again, and slowed down where his sisters and the pickup were, that he realized that they had visitors. Two men were standing on the other side of the fence in front of a battered old car. They looked to be in their sixties, wore nondescript pants and shirts, and were bearded.

  One of them began waving at him. Ken smiled and waved back, although he wasn’t sure it was that kind of a wave.

  He was right. The man began making other gestures, and shaking his head vigorously.

  “They don’t want you to run your car here, Ken,” Janet said to him.

  “What? Why not? It’s not their property. What are they beefing about?”

  Ignoring them, he got back into position for another run. He stepped on the gas and again sped down the runway.

  This time he saw the speedometer needle move up to the 115-mile-per-hour mark, and he was pleased. But he could only guess at the time that it had taken to reach that speed. It could’ve been ten, eleven, or twelve seconds.

  He made the U-turn, but this time drove back slowly to the starting point. It seemed more natural now, even after only a couple of passes, to think of that end of the runway as the place from which to start.

  He got into position again and paused to catch his breath. Then he heard a cry and glanced toward the girls. Both looked panic-stricken as they pointed behind them.

  Ken looked toward the two men and stared in disbelief as he saw one of them pointing a shotgun at him. The other was pointing a finger at him and shouting, “Get that doggone car off’n the track or we’ll puncture it with holes!”

  Ken’s jaw slackened. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. It was like a scene out of an old silent movie. One of those black-and-white Charlie Chaplin comedies he had seen on television that made him laugh so much.

  But this was no laughing matter, he told himself. These characters were real. That gun was real.

  “I got permission from the owner!” he shouted at them. “I’m not doing this illegally!”

  “That ain’t the point!” the skinny one on the left shouted back. “We’re not going to stand for any more noise! That Francione guy knows that and should’ve told you! If you start using that field to drive your crazy, noisy car on it, the next thing we know the whole county will be using it! Why do you think we made them other people close up their airport for?”

  Ken listened as if the words, too, were coming out of a TV set. He sat and stared at the man who had done the talking, then at the other, who had the gun trained on the car.

  “Come on! Get that car out of here! We mean business, young fella, and if you don’t believe it, just make another dash down that runway!”

  Ken looked at them grimly. “I’ll get the sheriff!” he yelled. “Then we’ll see if I can use this runway or not!”

  The men’s raw-boned faces creased into smiles. “Go ahead,” said the skinny one. “He’ll tell you what he told the others. We got our rights. We’re against noise pollution and we’re the only ones who live close to this here field. So our word goes, young fella. If you don’t believe it, go ahead. See the sheriff. But you’ll only be wasting more gas. And with the price of it—”

  Ken refused to hear any more, or become further involved with them. Their reasoning seemed crazy, but out here in the country, who knew what rules applied?

  He drove the car back on the trailer, got out, took off his gear, and told the girls to get into the truck. Then he got in himself and drove off the field.

  He gave the men a final cold glance as he got out to put the chain over the fence. They were still standing there, as if to make sure he was really going to leave.

  TEN

  THIS TIME Ken headed for home. Offhand II he didn’t know of another field he could run passes on, anyway.

  His whole body felt as if it had been inside a sweatbox, and just removing the firesuit, gloves, and helmet didn’t make him feel much cooler. The sun was still breathing hot air down on the land and there wasn’t enough breeze to stir a feather. What he wanted more than anything right now was a long, cool shower.

  Most of the conversation on the way home was between the girls, and all of it was about “those two old dumb guys” with the gun. Lori said she would’ve called the sheriff, no matter what they had said.

  “Isn’t it a crime to threaten someone with a gun?” she asked.

  “I guess it is,” Ken agreed. “But what if they had used it? The sheriff would surely be on their necks if that guy had shot and filled Li’l Red with holes, but they might have shot me, too, and I wasn’t about to test their patience. I’d just as soon stay clear of people like them. I’ll have to find another place to run Li’l Red, that’s all.”

  They entered the city limits of Wade and were passing by Wade Mall when Ken recognized a familiar car coming toward him. It was a blue Toyota with white trim.

  A second or two later it swung toward the curb and the driver began waving furiously at him. It was Dottie Hill.

  He glanced quickly at his sideview mirror, then at the rearview mirror, and saw no car within fifty yards of him; so he drove to the curb on his side and stepped on the brake pedal. Rolling down his window, he called back to her, “Hi!”

  “Hi!” she answered. “I’d like to see you! Can you stop at the coffee shop?”

  “Sure!”

  She smiled, ducked her head back into the car, and drove off. There was a driveway into the mall’s parking lot a few yards farther down the street that she could turn into.

  He checked the traffic again, found it clear, and drove ahead till he reached the next area, where he made a left turn into the mall’s parking lot.

  What does she want? he wondered. The last time he remembered seeing her was at her father’s auto parts store, when she had walked out in a huff after learning that her father had changed his mind about sponsoring Scott Taggart.

  He parked the pickup in a vacant spot large enough to accommodate it and the trailer, then got out, lifted out his crutches, and headed toward the coffee shop. His mind was so preoccupied with Dottie Hill that he’d gone twenty feet before he remembered his sisters.

  He turned, his face brick red, and motioned for them to come with him.

  “You sure you want us to?” Janet called back to him, giving him a grin that embarrassed him even more.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” he said, smiling. “Come on.”

  Dottie was already in the coffee shop, sitting at
a booth near the door. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of him and she moved farther in to make room for one of the girls.

  Greetings were exchanged as Janet slid into the seat beside her. Lori got in on the opposite side, and Ken beside her.

  The air-conditioned room felt cool and com fortable. Almost instantly, Ken began to feel the sweat drying on his body. But his leg—the one inside the plaster cast—began to itch like crazy, and the only thing he could do was to move the muscles in the leg to help relieve it.

  A waitress came and began to hand them menus.

  “Just coffee for me, Jean,” Dottie told her.

  “And a Coke for me,” said Ken.

  His sisters ordered Cokes, too.

  The waitress scribbled down their orders, took the menus, and left.

  Dottie wanted to know if they were returning from Candlewyck Speedway.

  “In a way, yes,” Ken replied, then explained what had happened there, and subsequently what had happened at the abandoned airport. She laughed over the episode about the two old men, then apologized, saying that it did sound funny to her.

  Ken and the girls laughed, too. But he laughed less as he thought back to that scene—one old man shaking a finger at him while the other aimed his shotgun on the little red racer, threatening to “puncture it with holes.” He could have been shot by one of those crazies.

  The coffee and Cokes came, and the atmos phere calmed a little as Dottie looked seriously across the table at Ken and apologized for her bad behavior at her father’s store the other day.

  “Apologize? For what?” he said.

  “Don’t be naive,” she told him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He did, but he thought he’d like to be subtle about it.

  “I couldn’t believe what Daddy had said about Scott,” Dottie explained. “Later on, when he told me all about it, I was so angry I couldn’t speak to anyone. I thought about calling you on the phone and apologizing to you, but I couldn’t get myself to do it. I did plan on doing it sometime. I’m glad I saw you on the street,” she added, smiling.

  He grinned. “Me, too.”

  “You know, it was just two days before he stole that engine that he had asked Daddy to sponsor him? Doesn’t that amaze you?”

  “Sure it does. Scott must have had that robbery all planned, figuring he would never be suspected if he had your father sponsoring him.”

  “Right. And if your brother hadn’t been near there at the right time he might still be driving with Daddy as his sponsor.”

  “My brother?” Ken frowned. “What’s he got to do with it?”

  Her eyes focused on him. “Dana’s the one who saw Scott’s pickup truck driving toward Daddy’s automobile parts store that morning. Then he sneaked over to Scott’s place and saw the engine in their garage. Didn’t Dana, or Daddy, tell you that?”

  He hesitated. “No,” he answered finally, dumbfounded at the news. His hands trembled. He set the glass of Coke down and clenched his fists.

  Dottie looked at him gravely. “Ken, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He relaxed his fists. “Sorry.” He forced a grin. “I guess I’ve been a little touchy since I broke my foot.”

  He put the glass to his lips and took a couple of swallows.

  Ask Dusty Hill for it, Dana had said. I’m sure he’ll give it to you. No wonder he was sure that Dusty would put up the bail money for him. He felt that Dusty owed him for having told him who had swiped his engine.

  “How was Dana sure it was Scott who had stolen the engine?” Ken asked.

  “He was coming home late from Nick’s place that night and saw Scott’s truck drive into the lane heading toward the rear of Wade Mall,” Dottie explained. “Only he didn’t realize it was Scott’s truck at the time. Scott had a sign on the side of it advertising Daddy’s store. But he saw the first three letters on Scott’s license plate.”

  “R stands for Rat,” Ken said.

  “Right. Rat, his nickname.” She shook her head and looked away for a minute. “What an actor. He could be so charming! Ugh!” She turned back to him. “Anyway, when Dana found out that an engine was stolen from Daddy’s store—”

  “I told him,” Ken cut in.

  Her eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well, he sort of added two and two, drove up to Scott’s place, and saw the engine in Scott’s father’s garage.”

  “And got away without being seen?” Ken shook his head, incredulous. “You know, that brother of mine has a lot of guts, too.”

  “But he was seen,” said Dottie. “By Scott’s father.”

  Ken and his sisters listened avidly to her as she went on to explain about the threat Mr. Taggart had made against Dana, and Dana’s promise not to inform the police on them if Scott returned the engine to the store.

  “Wonder why he promised that?” Ken muttered.

  Dottie laughed. “Maybe to save his life,” she said. “Scott’s father had a shotgun on him.”

  “A shotgun?” Ken gulped. Then he winced as he visualized the scene in his mind and compared it with the experience he had had not too long ago with the two old men. Both he and Dana could look back sometime and thank their stars they hadn’t been shot.

  But, suddenly, Ken’s mood changed. Dana had seemed so distant since Ken inherited the car; why the change now? Did Dana want to become better friends, or did he want something else? Ken couldn’t help being suspicious.

  He tried to hide his emotions as they talked a bit more. Then he glanced at his watch and saw that it was close to one o’clock.

  “No wonder my stomach’s been talking back to me,” he said. “It’s past lunchtime. I’ve got to get home.”

  “I’m glad we could get together for a minute, Ken,” Dottie said, scooping up the check. She smiled. “This is on me.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He thought about asking her to go to a movie with him sometime, but decided he could call her on the telephone later in the week.

  He slid out of the booth, picked up his crutches, and hobbled out of the place, his sisters flanking him like bodyguards.

  In the truck the girls started to bring up the subject of Dana’s connection with Scott Taggart’s theft of the engine, but Ken cut them short. He said he didn’t want to hear another word about it.

  He didn’t, but their mention of it aroused his suspicions again. Did Dana use his information about the engine to get Dusty to sponsor his brother? Ken tried to think of a way to tell Dana that it was fine for him to tell Dusty who had stolen the engine, but he didn’t like the idea of Dana using it to bribe Dusty into sponsoring him.

  Dana wasn’t home when Ken and the girls got back. Their father, sitting on a high-backed rocking chair on the rear porch, said he had gone to work. “Well, did you have fun?” he wanted to know, turning his head slightly to gaze at the little red car on the trailer.

  “No, Dad, I didn’t,” Ken said, and explained briefly the trouble he had had at Candlewyck, and with the two men at the abandoned airfield.

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” his father murmured. He leaned forward and spat over the edge of the porch. “One of these days an ambulance will be driving you to a hospital again, and maybe the next time it’ll be for something worse than your leg.”

  Ken smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Dad. Don’t worry.”

  He hobbled into the house, had a drink of ice-cold tea from the refrigerator, then sat down and tried to think of where else he could take the Chevy to run passes. He knew of several macadam roads some fifty or sixty miles south of Wade, where a contractor had started a development and had his plans go awry. But Ken discarded the idea, figuring it was too far to drive.

  Dana pulled in on his Kawasaki at twenty after three. Ken heard the motorcycle as he stood in the living room, doing stretching exercises. He continued to do them for a few more minutes, quitting when he heard the kitchen door open and Dana come in.<
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  He stood there in the room without his crutches, his stomach tightening as he waited for Dana. Soon Dana came into the room, holding his helmet under his arm. He smiled as he greeted Ken, then the smile faded as he saw the strange look on Ken’s face.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he said. “You look upset.”

  “I am upset,” Ken snapped. “I just found out why Dusty decided to sponsor me instead of Taggart.”

  Dana frowned. “Did he tell you?”

  “No. Dottie told me about your part in recovering the engine, and I put two and two together. She thought I knew. Look, I agree it was real good of you to do what you did in finding out who had stolen Dusty’s engine, but I want to know why you’re so anxious all of a sudden for me to drive for Dusty. You haven’t seemed to want to be friendly lately; so if this is some way to get your hands on Li’l Red, you—”

  “Wait a minute, Ken. You—”

  “—can just forget it!” Ken cut in sharply.

  Dana stared at his brother. “Why, you little twerp! You think I’m so anxious to get my hands on that car? I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction now of telling you why I asked Dusty to let you drive! But why don’t you try to figure out the right answer, brother?” And Dana whirled and marched out of the room.

  ELEVEN

  DANA STORMED OUT of the house, leaving by the front door to avoid being seen by his father.

  He put on his helmet, buckled it, and got on his motorcycle. He kicked the starter and took off, dirt bursting from the spinning rear tire and clattering up against the fender.

  He tore down the street, breaking the speed limit by ten miles an hour for almost two blocks before he throttled back. But he still kept it a couple of miles over the legal speed limit.

  Who in heck did Ken think he was by talking to him like that, anyway?

  Then he thought, darn it, what’s gone wrong with us? How can my own brother be so suspicious of me? Maybe I was jealous about the car, but I’d never do anything that would harm Ken!

  He might as well have said he’s disowned me. What’s the sense of being a brother if you can’t help out one another sometimes?