There's one chapter left after this one, for a total of eight!

Strip: And then you'll post the first chapter of the sequel.

Me: Exactly! *climbs off of Wingo's spoiler*

Wingo: Finally! *looks annoyed*


"Strip, if she's hurt…" This was the voice that woke Oli up. Well, the real-world voice. The voice of Russell was still floating around in her mind, and the last words she could recall were "it's your funeral." "I'm serious, Strip, if she's hurt…" But Oli didn't catch the last part of the sentence, because she was still a little dazed and confused. She felt like she was trapped in a nightmarish world, with just the blackness and the white, chalky words floating through her mind, where she couldn't scream and she couldn't wake up.

Meanwhile, Stacy was driving around in circles impatiently. She was also watching Strip Weathers get chewed out by his wife for not taking better care of their daughter. "She could've gotten hurt – what if she is hurt?" Lynda asked, more worried than anything else. "First you, and now her; what is it with this family and injuries? I'm barely able to keep you out of trouble." But she nuzzled him lovingly, to try and calm her nerves.

The yellow Sting Ray drove up the ramp and knocked her tire against Cone number 4's door. Something thumped behind it and someone yelped, but the edged open ever so slightly. A frazzled looking Superbird was parked on the other side. "Stacy…? Wha-what happened? I thought I was dead." The Corvette looked at her "niece" incredulously. Dead? What?

"Dead? Why would you be dead?" Stacy asked, moving aside so Oli could leave the cone. The younger car didn't dare make a move, still confused and out of her wits.

"But…Russell…the black Cadillac…! He said it was my funeral, and-and… Wha-?"

"Who's Russell?" Stacy asked, but before she could get an answer out of the detached Oli, Lynda moved her aside and rushed over to her daughter. The younger Superbird was surprised as her mother practically pushed her out of the cone and onto the asphalt.

"Oliver we were so worried," Lynda said, taking in her daughter's paintjob and shocked expression. "Where've you been?" But Oli was too confused to say anything. She wanted to say something, but nothing was coming out. Stacy approached and parked in front of Oli, nudging her with her tire.

"Kiddo, what's wrong?" she asked, finally getting the Superbird's attention. "You seem spaced out."

"Russell was the black Cadillac," she replied, blinking. Stacy and Lynda were confused, but Strip wasn't. He prompted her to go on, so she continued by saying, "He's like a phantom or something…er, I dunno. He said he was "more concerned with the green stock car" rather than the rest of us…I think…I don't remember what happened after that, 'cept he said it was my funeral…"

"Sheriff should probably know about that," Strip pointed out, and he was just about to go get the sheriff, but Stacy stopped him.

"I'll go, you stay here with Lynda," she said, turning and driving off. The three cars cringed as Stacy just about ran someone down.

"She has the driving skills of a potato," Lynda sighed, shaking her hood. She turned her blue eyes back to Oli, who was calming down. "Are you hurt?" Oli wasn't quite sure yet, so she stayed silent. Lynda, mostly in fear, smacked Strip's chassis with her tire. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Oli finally managed, but her eyes betrayed her. "Just a little spooked…"

"That's a relief," Lynda replied, smiling gently. "I was worried that something had happened to you." There was an awkward pause, before Lynda realized that Oli was now averting her gray blue eyes away in shame, and Strip was just glancing around like nothing was out of the ordinary. "What's going on? What are you two hiding?"

"Nothin'," the two Superbirds replied in unison, glancing at her. Lynda gave them both stern looks and they, in turn, both looked down with sheepish grins on their faces. She had never realized it, but Oli and Strip had the same grin, too.

"Oli got into some trouble," King told his wife. Before he continued, she interrupted him.

"When did we start calling her "Oli" instead of "Oliver," Strip?"

"Oh, right. The nickname's cute, dear, and it won't confuse people about her gender," he pointed out in return, grinning.

"I guess… But I've always liked Oliver…"

"Nobody really knows me as Oliver, so Oli works better," the red and black Superbird spoke up, a tepid smile making itself known. Lynda looked from her husband to her daughter and rolled her eyes, but she smiled anyway.

"Well, anyway," Strip continued, "she's in trouble for reckless driving and speeding."

"Oliver!" Lynda exclaimed, staring at her daughter in shock and upset. "We raised you better than that."

"I know," she said, looking back down at the pavement. "But it was for good reason…I guess…"

"But it doesn't matter," Strip said. "Jus' take things in stride and you'll be fine."

"I ain't worried," she said whilst smirking. Sheriff and Stacy drove over to the Cozy Cone parking lot and surveyed the scene for a moment. It was pretty amusing to the Corvette, at least. Oli turned and looked at them, settling on her tires. "You hear to ask about Russell?"

"Yep," Stacy said, motioning for Sheriff to get to work.

"What'd this Russell guy tell you, first off," Sheriff asked, parking in front of Oli. She recounted the story of what Russell had said to her, how he was the Phantom Miner and how he had said it was her funeral, and had in truth not even touched her. When she finished telling the story, the police car said, "You were asleep when I finally got to the mine. The Cadillac, er, Mr. Garmen…was gone." Oli's eyes darkened for a second. She had never believed in ghosts (well, that's what she told herself) but this was something different. It was obvious that something weird was going on. "Now, the green stock car sounds like Chick. I'll talk to him."

)))

"Russell Garmen?" Chick asked, half-choking on his oil. "I have never heard of him." Sheriff eyed the younger car with narrowed eyes. He didn't believe a word this stock car said. "I'm telling you, you've got the wrong car. I'm not the only good looking green stock car around here, am I?" Sheriff just rolled his eyes and continued on with his questions.

"There was a Russell Garmen who died here about eight years back, and everyone thought it was a suicide, however, Doc and I decided that it was a homicide," Sheriff said, glaring at Chick. "Or carslaughter, whatever you wanna call it. You know anything?"

"No, why would I? I was busy burning up the racetracks," Chick replied, taking another sip of oil. His tire was tapping against the pavement, which Sheriff committed to memory. He'd use that in his investigative report for Doc later on. "I dunno know anything about Russ."

"I didn't say his name was Russ, Hicks! Now spill it," Sheriff said. "Before I get Doc to order a subpoena and then you'll be forced to produce evidence!" Chick realized his slip up and did a spit take, spraying oil all over the sheriff. "Now, Hicks!"

"OK, sheesh… Russ Garmen was workin' in the mines," Chick started in, his voice low. "He was a friend of mine – and Fletcher Bleu's friend, too – so we went to visit him before headin' out to our races. We talked like any normal group of cars would, but he wanted to race. Fletch and I agreed to it." The Buick stopped to take a sip of his oil to ease his nerves. "But along the way he knocked over one of the barrels of oil and it spilled all over the place. The dynamite the other workers had been using was still lying there, waiting to be packed up, and the oil spilled across the fuse. Fletch's brakes failed and he slammed into the box, knocking it over. It set it off and the fuse lit up. We barely had time to get out of the mine before it exploded. That was the last time I ever saw Russ."

"You don't seem too distraught about it," Sheriff replied. "If he was a friend of yours, you'd probably feel remorse."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault," Chick replied, a little too defensively. "Fletch's brakes failed and Russ knocked over the barrel. I didn't have anything to do with it. I was just there."

"You should've reported it, at least," the police cruiser scolded the younger car. "Now, I assume you're a friend of Fletch's?"

"I was. Until he stole the Dinoco sponsorship right out from under my tires," Chick snorted. "If you want to talk to him, just look for a bunch of party girls. He'll be with them."

)))

"Be careful," Lynda said, her voice stern. "I don't want you two crashing."

"I've had my fair share of scares," Oli replied, shrugging lightly. "It ain't like crashing is rare."

"We'll be fine," Strip reassured his wife. "It's jus' a drive."

With that, Oli peeled out of the parking lot and took off. Lynda winced at the sound of squealing tires and watched her husband follow. When they were out of sight, she drove back over to Flo's. Dinoco's new, (self-proclaimed, that is) "golden boy" was surrounded by a group of swooning females. They were mostly just petite little Porsches, painted pink. Lynda saw the police cruiser driving up the road with a shaken Chick following him. The casual look Chick had on was all fake, of that she was pretty sure.

"Alright girls, outta the way. Fletch is being accused of a crime," Sheriff barked. Half of the Porsches swooned at the perceived "bad-boy" Fletcher, but the other half shrank back and looked for someone else popular. One of the Porsches Lynda recognized, so she snagged the younger car's tire and pulled her towards her. Terrified gray eyes looked back at her, the girl's pink paint glistening in the sunlight.

"Marissa?" Lynda asked in disbelief. "What're you doin' with a player like Fletcher?"

"I dunno, just don' tell Dad!" Marissa whimpered in reply. "Nobody else talks to me!" Marissa was the daughter of Darrell Cartrip and his wife, Sandy. She was younger than Oli, around the age of Sally. "Everyone calls me Eggs. That's really embarrassing!"

"Dear, just stay with me for now, alright? Fletcher is bad news," Lynda replied, and Eggs settled in next to Mrs. Weathers.

They watched as Fletcher glared at Sheriff. "What was that for?" the arrogant young car asked. He had a slight accent, but nobody could really tell what kind of accent it was.

"Turn the music down, son," Sheriff ordered. "We need to talk about a certain Russell Garmen." The music came to an abrupt halt, and Fletch looked at Chick, anger sparking in his eyes.

"You told the sheriff? What'd you say, Hicks?" the sports car demanded. Chick backed up and drove off while he still had the chance, followed by a terrified Eggs. Lynda kept her eyes on Fletch and the sheriff. What was this Russell business about? "Sheriff, I don't know a thing about Russ Garmen."

"Since when did I tell you his name was Russ? I said Russell," Sheriff replied shortly. "I'll tell you what I told Mr. Hicks: If you don't give it up willingly, I'll just have to get a subpoena from Doc. That'll force you to produce evidence, city-boy. Now what do you know? Let's see if your story collaborates with Chick's."

"…Fine!" Fletcher shouted angrily. "We went to see Russ. We raced. He knocked over the barrel, and Chick's brakes failed and he slammed into the box. It was set off and we escaped. Russell died in the explosion. It's as simple as that."

"You don't sound remorseful, either."

"It wasn't my fault. It was Chick's fault for slamming into the box, and it was Russ' fault for knocking over the barrel," Fletch replied.

"Chick told me that your brakes failed and that you slammed into the box. Who's telling the truth?" Sheriff asked, but he figured Fletch'd lie just to save his own frame.

"Bloody – me of course! Who're you gonna believe? That loser of a racecar or me? I'm Fletcher Bleu! This is insane. Are you pressing charges? Is that why you're suddenly interested in his death? Well it was an accident. We didn't intend for Russ to die that day; do you think we went there knowing we'd never see him again after that? He was like my brother. You think I killed him? Well, you're insane if you think we killed him! Chick is trying to save himself! If you're pressing charges, you'll be hearing from my lawyer!" Fletch ranted, before he peeled out of Flo's V8 café.

"I have to talk to Doc, n' see whether or not charges should be pressed," Sheriff replied. "But right now, I think Chick is the most believable. Fletcher seems mentally unstable about the whole situation."

)))

Oli cut off the regular road and made her way along the dirt path that led to the mine. She was nervous, but she was determined to figure out what exactly had happened last night. Strip cut in front of her so that she couldn't get into the mine. "What're you even lookin' for?" he asked.

"I just need to know what happened."

"How do you expect to figure that out by going into the mine? If I'm guessing right, "Russell" will only appear at night."

"Well how're we gonna know if we don't try?" Oli replied, driving around him. Strip couldn't argue with that logic, so he followed her into the mine. "What I don't get is why Russell said "it's your funeral" and didn't even do anything."

"Why're you complanin'?"

"I'm not, but it doesn't make sense. I have to know," she responded as they drove further in. "I bet Sheriff was right when he said the green stock car was probably Chick. He's the only stock car I know, actually. Well, the only green one, anyway. So, what does Chick have to do with all of this? And I mean, if Russell is a "phantom" per say, how's he gonna get his revenge? S'not like phantoms can touch people…right? Right!"

"I've never dealt with phantoms, so I wouldn't know."

"Still, so many questions unanswered! And did he have kids? A wife? And he blends in like a regular car, not like a phantom, so why's he running? Maybe Chick would recognize him!" Oli thought aloud.

"Whoa, slow down," Strip said. "You're goin' a mile a minute." But Oli ignored him.

"Wait, what if Chick made Russell crash in the mine? Or what if Russell had actually been trying to kill Chick? Or what if – hey, why'd you stop?" She drove back and realized that there were blackened tire tracks in the dirt. Three sets. Oli tried to smudge one out, and it worked – until the tracks reappeared. There was also a blackened, charred spot a few feet away, and a sticky black puddle was frozen in place on the ground. "Those…uh, aren't ours…are they…?"

"Nope."

"Well then…whose are they?" the red and black Superbird asked, looking around. And all of a sudden, the tire tracks and the charred mark on the ground disappeared, along with the sticky black puddle.

)))

"Well, what'd you find out, Sheriff?" Doc asked as they drove into his office. Sheriff recounted the events and facts of the day, including the events of the previous night. The subject of pressing charges came up, and Doc put some of his tools away with a thoughtful expression. "There's not enough evidence to charge Fletcher or Chick. I think right now it would all be assumption, because there were no witnesses and no weapon, in all actuality of things. Let them both off the hook. Besides, there's no such thing as phantoms. It's probably just a car impersonating Russell."

Sheriff left Doc's office and went to find Chick. The stock car was in his cone but he answered when the sheriff knocked. "What do you want now?" he demanded curtly. "I'm in hot oil as it is, so just get it over with."

"You're free to go. There'll be no more questions about Russell Garmen."

"Terrific," Chick said in annoyance. "Now leave." The door closed and Sheriff just rolled his eyes, pulling out of the parking lot and driving back to Flo's. Fletcher had returned and was parked there with an annoyed expression.

"Marvelous, do you want the name of my lawyer?" Fletch asked sarcastically.

"No, boy! Have some respect! I'm here to tell you that we're not chargin' you. We're not chargin' Chick, either. You're free to go!" Sheriff replied.

"Finally. Fletcher Bleu's amazing name is cleared of all wrong-doing," he announced. "Girls, you may swoon." And all of the little Porsches (except for Eggs) drove up to him. Sheriff snorted and turned around, driving back to his post at the Radiator Spring's sign. Lynda sighed and tapped her tire against the pavement, wondering when her daughter and husband would be back. And right on cue, they were driving up to her.

"Good, you're both in once piece," she commented. She noted their quietness and said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Oli said, grinning slightly. "What's with Fletcher? He looks a little annoyed." Lynda explained everything that had gone on at the station while the two had been gone. "So we missed all the fun? Huh, too bad. I guess we don't have to worry about it again. I ain't goin' back to that mine, though."

"That's alright with me," Lynda said with a sigh. The sun was setting on the horizon, and the sky was dusted with pink, purple, and orange streaks. This hot and dusty day was coming to an end. Oli could see the sad expression in her mother's eyes, and she realized what the station wagon was thinking.

"I think I'll stick around," Oli said, "for just a little while." Lynda looked up with tear filled eyes. "Don't go all sappy on me. I don't wanna cry, too…" The younger Superbird looked down before looking back up, gray blue eyes soft. But in an instant, she revved her engine. "Now, let's race."

"Hey, hey I wanna race!" Ian declared, coming out from behind cone number four. Lightning and Sally drove over to the group.

"If you don't mind, Mr. The King, Sally and I would like to join you two – er, three, counting Ian, of course," Lightning said. Sheriff heard this and drove over, giving each car a stern look.

"To be safe, I'll join this race, too."

"It's up to Oli," Strip said, looking proud. The red and black Plymouth Superbird lowered onto her tires for a moment before grinning.

"That's cool with me. The more the merrier."

"Sweet!" Ian exclaimed.

The group of cars lined up in front of the firehouse. Lynda and Flo were on the sidelines, watching as Ramone joined the lineup, as well. Oli looked around and she finally felt at ease. No more running, no more hiding, and no more pretending she was someone that she wasn't. For once in seven years, she was at peace.


Review! Only one chapter left!

Chick: Fantastic. This will finally be over.

Me: *slaps Chick's hood* Shush! You know you're enjoying this fic.

Chick: *snorts* Yeah right.

Strip: How'd he even get in here?

Me: I dunno. Ask Wingo.

Wingo: *glares*