Hero Stalker

Part Twenty-Four

The Speedway sat on the last bend of I. 13 before it headed into the heartland, its cement walls blending seamlessly into the rest of Slatefort. The plants poking up through the cracks in the asphalt of the massive parking lot were shriveled and brown from the heat of the asphalt. Dad had taken me to a few races here when I was in grade school. The stadium had taken up my entire view of the sky back then. Today, I almost wanted to look around for the rest of it.

"Why did you join the PCD?" I asked Dan as we walked towards the stadium. The growl of engines filled the air.

He shrugged. "My stepsister, Hailey. She'd joined. Sounded like a good fit."

I reached out and took his hand. His skin felt warm and slightly rough. Dan started, but then a smile spread across his face and he squeezed mine. "My parents are divorced, too."

"Actually, my dad passed away before I was born."

I flinched. "I'm so sorry." God, that must have been awful. I couldn't imagine my life without both my parents, even if I barely saw Dad these days.

"Don't worry. My stepfather's a great guy. And you can't miss what you never had." His smile hadn't budged, although I caught a flicker of sadness in it. "It's okay. Really."

Dan flashed the tickets at the stadium entrance. Most of the other women coming to the expo wore tee-shirts or tight crop tops. Had I messed up the dress code? Probably. Usually, I was the one who dressed too casually.

"What's the most interesting superpower you've ever encountered in your job?" I asked.

He sighed. "I don't know. It's a nice day. Let's not talk about work."

Okay, so he's not a psi-nerd. I'd assumed you'd need some interest in superheroes to work on the PCD, but maybe you grew out of it by the time you had a real career and your own house. At least I'd moved up from Jake Mulberg, who'd only worked part time at Baskin-Robbins.

We sat in the lowest section of the bleachers, right where we could watch old-school sports cars fly around the inside of the loop. I liked the shape of the older cars: the low hoods, the athletically tapered fins, the shining chrome, and the bright colors. The only real car I'd ever driven had been Mom's battered old Impala. She'd ended my driving lessons after I'd backed into a lamppost and dented her bumper, so I didn't know much about cars. Thankfully, Dan bought a big colored program from the concession stand and took it upon himself to educate me.

"That's a 1982 Porsche 911SC." Dan pointed at a pretty red car that had its headlights mounted on the hood like bug eyes. "It's got a five speed 915 transmission and a three liter engine with a Bosch K-Jetronic fuel injection."

"Cool!" I tried to force enthusiasm into my voice. Everything he'd said had gone over my head.

"And that's a 1962 Studebaker GT Hawk." He pointed at another red car. The inclined headlights made it appear mildly depressed. "This one has a 225 horsepower engine and an automatic transmission."

"Wow!"

He glanced at me. "You're not really into cars, are you? Shit. I knew this was a bad idea for a first date."

"No!" I said, loudly. "I mean, it's better than a movie. You can't talk at movies. At least we're talking."

"At least there's that." He rubbed his forehead. "I've been on worse first dates."

As my fifth first date, this one was tracking pretty highly. "What's that?" I pointed at a big stage assembled on the infield of the track. A crowd had started to gather around it. Looked like a golden opportunity to avoid a conversation about our dating histories. "Let's go check it out!"

Dan took my hand as we walked down to the infield and dashed across the track.

All kinds of cars were on display on the turf—convertibles, big ones, small ones, cars with bright colors, cars with faux wood paneling on the sides—and the crowd was bigger than you'd expect for a weekday. I saw dads lifting up their young sons to peek in car windows and teenage boys with barbeque sauce stains on their shirt who reminded me of Will and Darryl. But the biggest crowd was the one surrounding a sleek red car on top of a stage. Unlike the others on display, this one looked totally modern.

"Randolph Industries is proud to present the Edison Deluxe!" said the man walking around the car. The screens behind him magnified a face I'd seen more than a few times on TV: David Randolph, the richest man in Bayton. "The first electric sports car that won't sacrifice performance for eco-friendliness!"

He'd inherited his warm brown skin, mussed black hair, and mischievous smile from his mother, a Salvadorian computer programmer. He'd inherited the majority of the shares in the world's eighth largest car and weapons manufacturers companies from his father, an American billionaire. Randolph Industries had named him their CEO in 2012, and their revenues had skyrocketed since. Five years my senior and still single, half of my female co-workers spent their breaks plotting to ensnare him. I suspected he was secretly gay.

"An electric sports car? That's bullshit," Dan muttered to me, just at the moment a camera crew turned their lens on us and our faces popped up on the big TV.

"Bullshit, you say?" Randolph said. "I spend twenty million dollars developing this car. That's not nice."

The cameraman shoved the camera into Dan's face. He stiffened, and for a second I thought he'd back down.

"Yeah," Dan repeated. "Bullshit."

"Let's put that to the test." Randolph pulled the watch off his wrist, and with the accuracy of a professional pitcher, flung it at my date. Dan tried to catch it, but it landed at his feet. The crowd laughed as he bent over and picked it up. "That's a Rolex. They're a type of expensive watch. If I don't make it around the track in thirty seconds, it's yours. I'll even let you time."

Randolph slid in behind the wheel of the car and gunned the engine. The spectators clustered around the ramp end of the stage backed up. The camera crew pressed in around us, and I had an uneasy feeling we'd been dragged into a publicity stunt. I'd hoped I'd have until Harbor Day before my face got plastered all over the internet.

"That son of a bitch has diamonds in his watch." Dan held it up to the light. "You could feed a family of four for a year off this."

The red car burst out onto the track as the professional drivers swerved out of the way. One nearly ran into the wall. David Randolph drove fearlessly towards a line of old cars. At the last second, he shot up the banked turn and passed them on the outside.

Apparently, Randolph's stunt wasn't interesting enough for the camera crew to stop filming Dan and me. The pimple under my right eye shone on the big screen. My heart raced.

"Dan, I'll be right back." I spotted a row of porta-potties and pointed at them. "Just meet me back here, okay?"

"Gloria—"

I ducked through the crowd, pushing my way through Randolph's spectators. The heat was ten times as bad with all of them pressed close around me. I needed some water and air conditioning, but I'd settle for some space.

Finally, I reached the edge of the crowd and walked out across the turf. A slight breeze stirred the air. The sun glared off the metal trailers.

Then, in a heartbeat, the glare burst outward.

The sound of an explosion reached me half a second later.