The Driver Read Free

and college.
    â€œBut,” he said, “there’s something else you need to know.”
    I shook my head in amazement.
    â€œListen!” he said sternly, his tone hardening. “Do you know why Brock Yates canceled the Cannonball? It grew too big. Parties and bullshit. There were leaks. The police knew the drivers’ names before the start. Tagalongs. Copycats. Everyone thought someone would be killed. But there were serious drivers who wanted to continue. Secret races.”
    â€œC’mon.”
    â€œIt’s true. People talked about how to keep going after Yates shut it down. How to keep it secret. Safe. No press. You have to vet drivers. The organizers must be anonymous. The cars have to leave at different times, from different places.”
    His eyes lost focus. “No one has ever beaten thirty-two hours.”
    This was the first thing he said that wasn’t a surprise.
    â€œRumors,” he said, “more races…thought they could beat 32:51. Even thirty-two. Some said even thirty. Sascha said thirty-two was the wall. He told everyone we could beat it.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œNo.”
    I was strangely relieved. If he had—and never told me—I would have felt terribly betrayed, unaware of what had driven him, ignorant of what I might have inherited—
    â€œBut,” he said, “I heard someone came close.”
    â€œImpossible. That’s 3,000 miles.”
    â€œIt’s less.” He smiled faintly. “Thirty-two fifty-one. In a Jaguar. A terrible car.”
    â€œTerrible.” I smirked. “But still, they had to have averaged at least—” I was as terrible at math as Jaguar was at building cars, at least in 1979. I tried to guess the size of a Jaguar’s fuel tank. “If it’s just under 3,000 miles, with fuel stops and tickets, they had to have averaged at least 100 mph, right?”
    â€œThat’s the secret. What Sascha knew.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œStealth. Math. If you don’t get a ticket, 32:51…is only in the mid-eighties.”
    â€œAre you sure? Eight-five doesn’t seem that fast.”
    â€œEveryone says that. Everyone who’s never done it. Or tried.”
    This I would have to check when I got home.
    â€œI don’t feel well,” he said. He was lying. There was too much strength in his voice. It was completely unlike him to reveal so much at any one time without a motive. Like a good teacher, he wanted me to infer the meaning of his stories, but clearly I’d yet to make the great leap. He reached for the pain-killer button. I scrambled back through our conversation, looking for what I’d failed to grasp.
    â€œOne more question,” I lied.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œWhat,” I said, “does all this have to do with the box?”
    â€œJust pictures. Sascha. Me. My pictures.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “He…called me.”
    Sascha was dead, or at least I thought he was. “Who called?”
    â€œHe called…” his voice trailed off. “He called.”
    I was losing him. Maybe he was lying and unwell. There was a fair chance—given his medication and treatments—he wouldn’t resume this conversation tomorrow. I had to push.
    â€œ Who called?”
    â€œThe Driver.”
    â€œThe driver? What driver?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Maybe I’d already lost him.
    â€œAfter Cannonball,” he whispered.
    â€œBrock Yates…called you ?”
    My father slowly turned his head toward me. “No. The… Driver .”
    The painkillers had to be kicking in. “Wait,” I said, “who’s this…driver?”
    â€œSascha…I thought it was Sascha. Calling me.”
    â€œSo who called you?”
    â€œI’m tired. I don’t know. He won’t stop calling me. Strange. Did you know I have the best memory? I never forget.” I nodded in