14. Closing In
Alan Tracy had left the pit garage shortly after Lily Mulagen had hopped, skipped and danced her way out, a little less energetically than the sprightly child. He was exhausted after fighting his car around a waterlogged track, through puddles and giant rivers of water two to three-feet wide in places.
The giant plumes of spray coming up off of other's cars and his own front wheels had been so bad the young driver had barely been able to see the black tarmac dead in front of him, let alone judge when corners were approaching, and where apexes were.
Still, if racing were easy, everyone would be doing it, and winning.
Thus, weary-tired and thoroughly hungry, Alan had changed out of overalls, and trudged up to the Pro-Drive Racing reception booth, in the overlooking tower.
He'd met Virgil there, who was, of course, mid-morning fresh, and not starving ready to tear the place apart looking for food. Naturally.
The elder of the two brothers watched, fairly amused, as Alan dragged himself over to the expansive window to talk.
"Hey, Kid. Have fun splashing in the puddles?"
A set of raised eyebrows was the only response, and a pang of empathy hit Virgil as he saw underneath the outward appearance, how tired his little brother was. Late night conferences, hard work, and stress and worry were taking their toll on the teenager. All the more reason to press his point then.
"I've spoken to John."
Alan glanced around the pair, but everyone else was busy drinking expensive wines, talking business and waving bankcards about.
"Yeah? Lily said. So, good or bad?"
Nodding happily, Virgil replied,
"Good. But, um, not here."
Shrugging his shoulders, Alan allowed a mountain-shifting yawn to escape.
"Figures." He mumbled out whilst exhaling. Then, "If we're done, can I be excused? Could do with eating half a herd of cattle, and sleeping for a month. If that's alright?"
Virgil still had a matter to address though. Putting out a hand to still his brother's already retreating movements, he said,
"Yeah, but, what about Lanning, Alan? You've still got to sort that." After, he added, "Sooner, rather than later, too."
The racer ducked his head slightly, pausing for a moment to gather his straying, splitting thoughts, before raising it again.
"One. Not here, Virg." A muttered apology met this. "Okay, and two. I will sort it, just not yet. I need to make things straight in my head first, which means eating and resting. Then, I'll call him."
That settled (or at least agreed in Alan's opinion) the young driver finally left the reception building, heading out towards the team's motor home, out the back in the paddock. A swipe card granted him entry, and a handful of printouts.
As he entered the three storey, temporary building, the company's receptionist ambushed the race driver. She was some years Alan's senior, but all the same still quite young, and in the race driver's own still maturing eyes, quite plain.
The girl, or young woman as she were, however didn't think similarly of Alan. The moment the outside cameras had picked up his approach, she'd gathered the mail and notes that had been left for the racer, and stood to greet him.
"Mr. Tracy."
In clacking heels and smart, front desk wear, Leanne Shaw hurried round to face Alan. In her view, he looked as always handsome, with those bright, blue eyes barely dulled by the tiredness and fatigue that showed in his movements.
"These are for you."
She gave her best, charming smile, but the highly talented driver, didn't notice. Only half aware of the papers forced into his hand, his mind mainly on what food would be upstairs, and the phone call he still had to make, said Alan,
"Um, thanks…" Completely blanking on the girl's name, he shook his head. "… Thanks."
And then he left, pulling open the door to the stairs with his free hand, and nearly walking into someone coming down.
Disheartened, Leanne slunk back round to her side of the entrance post, to continue on with the duties she'd been given. After all, the race weekend wasn't over yet. There'd be plenty of time to catch the eye of the young billionaire's heir.
Upstairs, Alan unlocked the door to his own kind-of office with another use of his swipe card, and dropped the handful of paper he was holding onto the desk.
Took him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to close the door behind him, and sit down at the desk.
His primary feelings were with his rumbling stomach, so he called up the kitchens, hoping to snag some food before set meal times. Preparations for lunch were well under way, with platters of triangle-shaped sandwiches, and finger bites already being shipped out to the marquee at the front of the building.
However, the chefs were good people, and promised Alan a sub-roll and coffee, delivered to his room. Ten minutes, or it was free (if it hadn't of been already).
So, Alan had that long to make himself presentable, before he ate, and then dealt with the whole, sorry, 'Lanning'-business.
Tracy Island, early morning and a little before;
The sun was still creeping up, over the rocky backdrop of the island, when John Tracy was awake. Even as a child he'd never slept much; too much thought and wondering to waste time.
His mother used to sit up with him some nights, holding the boy close whilst he stared at blinking dots of stars, and imagined life up there with them. But, that was before…
Now, John just wandered about the vast island home, often finding himself in one of the many computer labs. This night was no different, so whilst the remaining occupants of the house rested, he walked.
Continually heading downwards, John left the splendour of the main house, with its reception rooms, and large glass windows, and passed through keypad doors, into the whispering, murmuring laboratories and workshops.
He moved without thought of where he would end up, a shadow hiding in the dark of the slumbering house. Eventually, he found himself outside the heavy metal door of the computer room that he'd commandeered earlier. Figured.
Whilst there, he guessed he might as well check the tracing programme. If it'd found something, a message would have been sent through to his watch comm, and there'd been nothing. Still, he could see how it was doing, how much progress had been made.
Pulling a plastic chair around in front of the computer station, he flicked the mouse with his right hand, bringing the system back from its peacefully, dozing appearance, to active status.
The screen-glow was odd in the reflecting walls of the computer lab, like the fascinating, eerie, alien environment of high mountain peaks, or dark ocean trenches. Just, without the cold, so deep it hurt.
John keyed up the progress tables, looking them over with practised ease, and much experience. The search was nearly over. The area of investigation was becoming narrower and narrower, the source coming ever closer to being found out.
Pro-Drive Racing Motorhome, Indianapolis Raceway;
Pre-lunch had appeared about the same time as Virgil, and more probing questions as to whether or not he really okay.
All right… so Alan Tracy was nearly as famous for throwing tantrums and angry fits where his family were concerned, as he was for racing, but still Virgil hadn't expected to be physically forced from the room, with a hand firmly between his shoulder blades. The young driver though didn't want his brother hovering when he made the call to Lanning.
This was something he had to do alone.
So, having satisfied his hunger and churning insides, Alan sat down at his desk, pulling out his own, personal comm device.
Couldn't risk making the call directly via P-D Racing's own communications set-up, but he'd rather have used the larger screen they provided. So he plugged his phone into the system, and routed the call through the expensive media equipment. This way, he got to use the big display, but there would be no copy of his call anywhere.
Dialling up Lanning's number, butterflies did handsprings and cartwheels in his stomach, whilst his breathing became deeper, charged with expectations.
It was, once again, the assistant who answered the phone. Christine Harris.
She still played with the chestnut bangs that fell in her face, but the gum was gone.
"Hello. Richard Lanning's office. How c'n I help?"
No longer needing to hide his identity, Alan had allowed his visual image to be transmitted and the girl smiled warmly at him now.
"Hey. Um, can I speak with Mr. Lanning, please? My name is Alan Tracy."
She bit the lower of her cherry-red lips before replying. But, was that a good or bad sign? Was she expecting contact from him, or maybe, was he reading too much into actions? If only he hadn't of felt so damn nervous and those leaping bugs inside him would stay still.
"I'm afraid Mr. Lanning's not able to take calls righ' now. C'n I take a message, instead?"
To Alan's mind, the girl had chosen her words carefully there. It was more in what she hadn't said, that hope sparked and fluttered.
"But, um, he is in the office?" She nodded slowly. "So, then, please, tell him it's urgent that we speak."
Christine shook her head dismissively then, causing hair to slip back in front of her eyes.
"I don' think that'll help much, sir. Mr. Lanning won't be interrupted when he's working."
He couldn't just give up now though. The final race of the season was too near, his mind too heavy with worry, to not sort things today. So,
"Please. Could you just give it a try?"
Alan tried on his best optimistic smile, one that could almost draw sympathy and compliance from crumbling rocks, and black sand. Worked, too.
"Alrigh' then. If you'd just hold for a moment, sir."
The display was filled instantly with a moving, graphic fascia. The image didn't give away any more clues, being a standard pre-set, made of twisting lines and circles depicting nothing in particular.
Then, suddenly as the hold system had appeared, the screen cleared to a new view. As pixels came into focus, Alan saw a clean, beech-panelled office. He saw the background first, before he registered what was at the front.
Aside from the obvious method of presentation of the walls, he saw photographs hanging at head-height. They were too small, and too far away to see clearly the content, but clear, bright colours filled the space inside the frames.
And that was about it for what was in the back of the transmitted image, leaving just that which lay in the foreground. A suited man, and a desk.
Richard Lanning looked to be, maybe, a few years Jeff Tracy's junior. His hair was a rich brown, slightly receding at the front. Age had a way of taking away your best features though.
For the warm of his hair colour however, Lanning's eyes were a cold, hard grey. No empathy there, nor forgiveness. Turned out his voice was as harsh, and deep as a rocky pit, too.
"Mr. Tracy, I believe." He didn't bother to wait for confirmation, setting the hairs on the back of Alan's neck that weren't already, bristling. "Well, this had better be good. I've a lot of important business to be seeing to."
He couldn't afford to look weak in the presence of this man, just like he didn't want to appear inept before his father. So, without pausing to give Lanning time to do more than take a breath, Alan answered him.
Tracy Island Computer Laboratories, continuing on from before;
His watch comm buzzed and vibrated at the same moment the computer screen lit up with messages, and command prompts.
The source of the message had been located, and all that was left was for the programmer to be dealt with.
He followed pathways and back passages with stealth, like a quietly, burrowing rabbit. Ever determined, he delved deeper and deeper, always in the right direction, and always closing in.
Ducking and weaving about waiting traps of viruses and other malicious code, his journey was relatively unhampered, and whisper-fast as a speeding lightening bolt.
And so it was that time was running short for the target caught in the cross hairs.