Bang the Blower (Country Roads 3)

“I’m asking you, and I’d like the truth. He really believes someone is trying to kill me, doesn’t he?”

Duke took a gulp of orange juice. “Who’d you piss off in drag racing, Julie?”

She stared at him for a minute, deciding how she should answer. Finally she said, “You mean besides everyone? I can’t think of anyone in particular.”

“Think harder,” Duke encouraged. “Hank was up and down all night trying to figure out who we’ve hired who might present a danger to you, and he came up empty-handed. No one stands out. Then again, we have ten new guys on the team. Someone could blend in without a problem.”

“What about that mechanic I met at University Hospital?”

“Why? Do you know him?”

She shook her head. “No, but do you know anyone in stock car racing who knows him? Frank seems to think he’s a genius, and if that’s so, why haven’t I heard the name Sam McMann before?”

“He was our first choice and our last,” Duke admitted. “Thing is, he’s got his whole family moved down here to Columbia now. He came highly recommended by his former employer, and the poor guy hated to lose him. Even though he knew he couldn’t afford him, he was the one mechanic in his shop that he didn’t want to let go.”

“Well, who else could it be?”

Duke stood and stretched. After he yawned a few times, he said, “I don’t know, Julie. But that’s not for you to worry about. Come on, I’ve got a way for you to pass the time.”

* * * *

The Ole Lamplighter Restaurant parking lot was empty at noon. At five minutes past twelve, Hank noticed a motorcycle enter the adjacent parking lot. A man swung his leg over the bike and hopped off, looking at his front tire like he detected a serio

us problem.

Hank kept a keen eye on him in his rearview mirror, watching as he removed his helmet and tossed it to the ground. Then, he stomped toward him, his arms swinging as fast as his legs moved.

Great, Hank thought, keeping his hand on a pistol lodged between the seats. Apparently, the guy liked theatrical performances, or perhaps he was going out of his way to pretend he had a problem in the event someone was around watching them.

The young fellow pecked on his window. “You Hinman?”

“Yep. You must be my caller.”

“Yeah,” he replied, pointing at his bike. “I was behind an eighteen wheeler coming in from the interstate and didn’t see the glass. Rode across a puddle of green slivers splattered all over the highway and sure enough, I’ve got a flat. Can you give me a lift down the road? I’ve got a friend with a garage downtown.”

“Sure,” Hank said, opening the door so he could get out and offer his assistance in loading the bike in the back of his truck.

As soon as Hank stepped away from the vehicle, he realized he made a grave mistake. The prissy little biker became as quick and as deadly as a rattlesnake, flashing pure evil eyes as he approached him like a predator, stalked him like a killer. Quicker than Hank could say his prayers, the guy propelled his arm behind his back and hit him upside the head with something dangerous enough to turn out his lights.

Even in broad daylight, the darkness swallowed him whole.

* * * *

Frank’s smile lit up the barn better than the afternoon sunshine as soon as Duke and Julie walked down the breezeway. “There’s my little girl. Did you decide to give ’er a spin today?”

Julie swung her gaze toward the intimidating doors. Behind that layer of metal was a machine, a car built just for her, specialized and made-to-order. A car said to be better than any other on the track.

Sam McMann exited the tack room about the time Julie started to raise a few questions. He waved in passing. “Nice to see you today, Miss Jenkins.”

“Thank you,” she said politely, her gaze immediately returning to the general area where they’d chosen to house the stock car. Before Sam left the stable, she honed in on his physical characteristics, hoping something about him would jog her memory. He was tall and slender. Lanky best described him. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a cleft chin, and several scars on both arms. In fact, there were too many to count.

“Did Sam ever race?”

Frank’s forefinger went to his jaw and he thought about the question for a minute. “Far as I know, he hasn’t. How come?”

“Curious, that’s all,” she replied, thinking Sam’s arms looked like her back. He’d walked away from an accident somewhere. Was it a dragster or stock car? Was he one of the men who wanted to hurt her or, as he’d suggested, a member of the Hinman team because he wanted to be part of a winning conglomerate destined for championships?

Duke shot her a peculiar glance and then draped his arm around her shoulders protectively as much as possessively, the latter a gesture she defied by shrugging him away. Frank pretended not to notice them. He went about mucking a nearby stall, tossing manure in a wheelbarrow.