Dead and Gone Jack Patterson (ebook reader play store .txt) 📖

“Is This the Saboteur?” one blog post link asked.

Given the circumstances, Burns thought it was a fair question—but one he already knew the answer to.

CHAPTER 17

CAL GLANCED AT THE final results from that afternoon’s pole as he strolled along pit road. After the fracas, he couldn’t help but smile at the two drivers occupying the top slots: Todd Cashman and J.T. Beaumont. Can the drama get any better than this? He knew it couldn’t, and it added another scintillating storyline to Sunday’s upcoming race.

Not that he needed more storylines to cover. NASCAR got what it hoped for when it changed the way it determined its champion. Culling pretenders from contenders each week during the final ten races led to more competitive driving and created tension the sport had never before experienced. The previous format of adding up points based on where a driver finished over the long grind of a season fell short in creating the kind of winner-take-all atmosphere that resonated with American sports fans.

And Cal enjoyed the changes—except when it meant more work.

His phone buzzed. It was Folsom.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon,” Cal said as he answered.

“We’ve got some early deadlines tonight and I need your stories within the hour.”

“What? No lecture about how my article created a firestorm of work for you and an impromptu chewing out from your boss?”

Folsom chuckled. “It’s still early.”

“Well, let the record show that I was right. I’m sure you have plenty of web traffic statistics to soften the blow.”

“That story set a record for our NASCAR coverage,” Folsom mumbled.

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“All right, enough gloating. You know I was more concerned with how it would affect your relationships with the people you’re covering.”

Cal shook his head. “That’s what you said, anyway.”

“Well, did it?”

“So far, so good,” Cal said. “But I’ve got to get a few comments from some drivers for my pole story, so I guess I’ll find out shortly.”

“And comments about the clash on pit road as well, I hope. I’m counting on a sidebar from you on that.”

“Has anyone ever called you a slave driver?”

“Every single day. Now get to work.”

“Later.” Cal hung up and climbed the steps leading to the second floor of the media center. He scratched down a few notes and questions on his pad before heading downstairs and toward the garage.

As he attempted to enter the garage area, a security official stopped him.

“Excuse me, sir, but you’re not allowed into the garage area at this time,” the official said.

Cal furrowed his brow and watched as another journalist slipped past him into the garage. He gestured toward the person who walked past him. “But he gets to go in?”

“Sorry, man. I’m just doing my job. You need a hot pit pass to get into the garage right now.”

“The garage isn’t hot,” Cal protested. When cars were still on the track, the garage area was considered “hot” and access was restricted. Cal understood the distinction but didn’t hear any cars roaring around the track.

The man pointed toward the yellow flashing light affixed to the top of the fence above his head. “If that’s blinking, it’s hot. Just doin’ my job.”

Cal held up his press credential and shook it. “I haven’t had a problem with this all week.”

“Look, mister, if you don’t like it, go get the appropriate pass,” the man said as he fished a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. He unfolded it and pointed to a row of passes that granted access to the garage area when it was hot. “This is yours,” he said, pointing to a row of passes that were not allowed to access the garage area when it was considered hot.

As the security official began to fold up the paper, another sheet of paper fell out of his pocket. Before he could bend down to pick it up, another voice squawked on his walkie-talkie with a question for him.

Cal knelt down and picked up the piece of paper. But when he did, he noticed something.

This handwriting looks familiar.

With his phone in his hand, Cal snapped a quick photo before returning it to the security official.

The man nodded and mouthed a “thank you” to Cal as he continued to listen to the official on the other end.

Once the man finished his conversation, Cal put his arm on his shoulder. “I’ll be back with the proper pass.”

Cal headed for the media center to request a hot pit pass. While he was waiting to get clearance, he pulled out the note someone slipped into his pocket after the race and compared the handwriting to the picture he’d taken of the piece of paper that fell onto the ground.

A perfect match.

Pulled back to the present when a media relations assistant handed him a pass, Cal thanked the man and returned to the gate.

Cal held up his new pass for the security official to see.

The man pointed to the yellow light above the gate that was no longer on. “It doesn’t matter now.” He smiled and waived Cal through.

But Cal stopped. He whispered in the man’s ear. “I know who you are. You mind telling me why you slipped that note into my pocket last week in Texas?”

The man froze as Cal stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know it was you.” Cal grabbed the man’s identification badge. “Mr. Parker. Mr. Ron Parker.”

Parker snatched the badge out of Cal’s hand and covered it with his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. It’s written all over your face. You thought Carson Tanner’s crash wasn’t an accident. And you left me a note that told me so.” Cal held up the note between his fingers. “But you wanted to do so anonymously. It’s too late for that now. So, tell me, Mr. Parker, what did you see?”

Parker glanced around as if he was looking for someone. “Look,