“Did Cindi seem committed to Lovette?” I asked.
“I’d say so.”
“Where did they meet?”
“Concord Speedway, out in Midland. That’s where she and Lovette spent most of their time.”
“How did Lovette treat her?”
“Fair enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“They came from different worlds. Cindi was a high school kid from the burbs. Lovette’s mother was a dead junkie, and his father was a truck farmer. Cale wanted to race as much as Cindi did, but his folks weren’t footing the bill.”
“Did Lovette resent Gamble because her parents were supporting her financially?”
I got another shrug.
“Did Cindi have potential?”
“Oh, yeah. She was good. Won her share of races.” Danner wagged his head. “Gal probably could have made it.”
“How did you come to know Craig Bogan and Kitty Lovette?” I asked.
“In those days I went to the track now and then.”
Danner glanced at his watch. Which resembled a ship’s barometer.
“I hope this has been helpful. But the purpose of my visit was to reiterate what I said back in ’ninety-eight. The Patriot Posse had nothing to do with whatever became of those kids.”
Danner pulled a brochure from the pocket of his Tommy Bahamas and held it out. I repositioned the bag and took it.
The thing had been printed on a home computer. A cheerful logo topped the front page, an eagle holding the American flag in its beak. Above the eagle were the words LOYALIST MOVEMENT.
Below the eagle was the phrase: DO THE RIGHT THING. Below that was a photograph showing young men standing in very straight lines. Each wore camouflage fatigues and held a rifle on his shoulder.
“I head an organization that represents almost four thousand citizens in twelve states,” Danner said. “Every one is a patriot.”
“We have nothing to hide, Dr. Brennan. Didn’t then. Don’t now. We’re proud of what we do.”
“Which is?”
“We protect this country from those who would destroy it.”
With that, Danner turned and walked to his car.
THAT NIGHT BROUGHT ANOTHER STORM. AS USUAL, BIRDIE RODE it out in the crook of my knee.
Tuesday morning dawned gray and soggy. Outside the kitchen window, the brick in my garden looked dark with moisture. Mist coated the spiderwebs draping the ivy and ferns.
Slidell phoned at eight. The Coca-Cola 600 was fast approaching, and issues with Stupak’s car required Gamble’s presence in the pit. We’d meet him at the Speedway.
By nine we were in the Taurus, rolling toward Concord. Before picking me up, Slidell had hit a Bojangles’. The air was thick with the smell of biscuits and sausage.
As he drove one-handed, I described my encounter with J. D. Danner. Slidell said he’d check out the Loyalist Movement. He’d already located Lovette’s father. CB Botanicals sold flora from a Weddington property once deeded to Katherine Lovette.
Since it was Tuesday and between races, the scene at the Speedway was much calmer than on the previous Thursday. Though tents and trailers still packed the campgrounds, few fans were in evidence. I guessed a lot of moms were hitting the outlet malls, and a lot of dads were sleeping off hangovers.
Wayne Gamble met us outside the Smith Tower and drove us by car to the Sprint Cup garage area. His face looked sallow. The console sole between us held Pepto-Bismol and a mound of wadded tissues. Empty water bottles lay on the floor at my feet.
Great. Microbes coming my way. Without being obvious, I kept my head turned toward the window.
Gamble’s fellow crew members were busy with the #59 Chevy, so we settled in the empty lounge in Stupak’s hauler. Gamble slumped on the built-in sofa as if his muscles were linguine.
After introducing himself, Slidell recounted our conversation with Lynn Nolan. Then he got straight to the point. “Nolan thinks Lovette was knocking your sister around.”
A flush blossomed in the hollow at the base of Gamble’s throat.
“She thinks Lovette killed her.”
The flush spread up Gamble’s jaw and across his face. Still he said nothing.
“Nolan saw bruising on Cindi’s arms. You ever notice anything along those lines?”
