The Widowmaker Read online

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  Glenn watched her leave, torn between disappointment and relief. He'd let her vulnerability get to him at a time when distractions were something he couldn't afford.

  She'd been at the Melbourne function! He remembered her now, one of the hostesses circulating among the guests, working for the track people hosting the Grand Prix. He wasn't surprised he hadn't recognized her in the surf, but she looked so familiar when he met her for dinner he should've guessed. Her white lie didn't matter. He was just as guilty once he'd realized she was both local and less than fond of the motorcycle crowds. He'd even quizzed the hotel manager about her ... and that individual's tales bordered on the unbelievable.

  A terror as a teenager, protected both by her brothers and the family name, the reputation didn't fit the girl he'd met. The manager wasn't a real Islander and he enjoyed repeating second-hand tales a little too much. He knew she'd been away for eight years or so, not where or what she'd been doing. Glenn wondered if he was doing Lexie justice.

  Jack Welch's confirmation of her reputation answered part of the question, even if it didn't explain everything the drunk said.

  Glenn dismissed the girl from his mind, said goodnight to Jack Welch and began walking, head down, towards the Esplanade.

  Poor Raul. He was afraid to use the Widow-Maker, the experimental bike provisionally certified for International events. Yet Salvatore couldn't last. This was their last chance to satisfy the Old Man's hunger for a success. Glenn had ridden it after surfing and it wasn't ready for the team riders ... or them ready for it! They feared its unusual suspension and brutal acceleration. It turned a track rated as one of the best in the world into a series of death traps lying in wait for the unwary. They'd never ride boldly enough...

  A former rider, Glenn maintained his competition licenses and was registered as the team's reserve rider to allow him practice time on the circuits. It allowed him to call race tactics with certainty.

  He reached the hotel and went straight to his room, stripping to soak in the spa bath after lining up all the spirits from the mini bar and emptying them one after the other. It might make him sleep and the blood alcohol testing didn't start before Saturday.

  He rose from the bath an hour later, his mind still alert; he dried himself and cancelled his six a.m. call. Surfing no longer appealed. He wrapped a towel around his midriff and walked out onto the balcony, picking up the folder of publicity photos on the way.

  It didn't take him long to find one of Lexie. A good one, without the wig and dressed in a tailored skirt and jacket, facing the camera. He sat studying it in the light from his room.

  A disciplined abundance of auburn hair framed a face a fraction squarer than aesthetics dictated. Hazel eyes smiled in the photograph, hiding the vulnerability he'd sensed so clearly in the car park and at dinner. He was a fool to care, but Lexie Douglas slipped inside a person's mind too easily. The drunk and the sergeant had done him a favor. He'd avoid her at the track.

  He turned to the program, making notes in his diary as he studied the schedule provided by the promoter. His team had only one race, the Australian Motorcycle Grand Prix, the last event on Sunday. Tomorrow, Thursday, was open to all teams, a chance to set up the suspensions and rider familiarization. Tony and Carlo, his two riders, needed as much time on the track as he could manage. This circuit was fast, but there were teeth in Turns Four and Ten. These were the keys to the lap record, just over ninety-two seconds. He picked up the map and the notes he made about the surface when he walked around the circuit this morning.

  The long straight, named after local hero Wayne Gardiner, ran from north to south and led down into the first turn, Doohan Corner, a gentle right hander in the anti-clockwise circuit. The biggest danger here was coming over the rise after the long straight and braking too late, but the trackside markers were good, spaced fifty yards apart and numbered clearly. He'd advise his riders to use the first markers until they familiarized themselves. From Doohan Corner, labeled Turn One on the map, the track ran southwest into the southern loop and Turn Two, a medium radius left-hander through one hundred eighty degrees, led into Bass Strait heading northeast up the rise to Turn Three, another left-hander with a greater radius to encourage a high-speed entry into Turn Four, Honda Corner.

  The track ran north here and the braking markers were closer spaced because it was a sharp right-hander swinging close to one hundred eighty degrees, a real trap for the unwary. Turn Five hardly justified its name, more a gentle right-hand bend leading down into the second southern loop, called Siberia because of the cold wind that funneled up the small valley from the ocean. Turn Six, in Siberia, was another near one hundred eighty degree left-hander, its radius closer to Turn Two than Turn Four. The track came up the slope, running north to the slight bend to the left at Turn Seven before curving back at Turn Eight on the way up to the highest point of the circuit at Lukey Heights. There, the broad radius Turn Nine left-hander led blind down into the sharp dip and the murderous Turn Ten, the tightest of them all. A right-hander close to one hundred eighty degrees, it slowed the bikes to less than thirty miles an hour and the braking markers were so close they seemed continuous. Carlo's light bodyweight would put him at risk here until he came up the slope, heading northeast, into Turn Eleven, a left-hander of increasing radius into the upper, curved section leading west to the final left-hander swinging ninety degrees into Gardiner Straight and back down to the starting line. Glenn, who'd ridden the circuit many times, loved its hidden complexity, the subtle cambers and slopes that rewarded study by shaving seconds from each lap.

  He had Thursday, Friday and Saturday morning to fine-tune his two riders before the qualifying period between two and three in the afternoon. After that, there was only the twenty-minute warm-up Sunday morning, more for final adjustments on the bikes than for riders. He listed the available practice sessions, slotted between those of the other classes and the preliminary races, and started jotting notes for each one. His team was here for one race, possibly their last together.

  There was no time to waste on vulnerable women, no matter how beautiful.

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  Chapter 3

  Lexie woke still angry with Jack Welch and felt little better for seven hours sleep. She called him names in her mind, but it didn't help and she remained miserable. Phillip Island was ruining things, as it always did. She grumped her way through breakfast and went down to check her wet suit and board.

  "Hi, Kiddo.” It was Tommy, on his way to the timber yard.

  "When did Harry Doherty become a drunk?"

  "He always was. Just got better at it with practice.” Tommy studied her face. “Did he give you trouble?"

  "Not really. He got sacked from the Grand Prix circuit yesterday and was drinking outside the Supermarket when I was coming home. Sergeant Welch called his Dad to take him home."

  "Hardly surprising. He gets sacked pretty regularly and his Old Man has to do another deal to get him re-employed. He was one of your crowd, wasn't he?"

  Lexie flushed. She'd led a group of the wilder teenagers her father had bailed out of trouble more than once, both with Jack Welch and other Islanders, usually when things went much further than she'd intended. “Harry used to tag along sometimes."

  "I remember he got a little too close once,” Tommy was smiling at her. “Had a talk to him when I heard."

  Lexie remembered the incident and the state of Harry's face after Tommy's talk. “I told you I could look after myself."

  "I believed you, but there were others who couldn't and Harry had to be told. He sounds like he needs telling again."

  "Please don't.” Lexie put her hand on Tommy's arm. “Let Sergeant Welch deal with him."

  "Who's this bloke you went out with? Didn't even walk you home.” Tommy changed the subject.

  Lexie had forgotten how little happened without becoming common knowledge the next day. “He offered, but I said no."

  "Jack Welch knows his
Old Man. Spoke to him this morning. Says the son's a good bloke."

  "You've been checking up on me.” Lexie fought down anger.

  "Got to. You're my little sister and the Old Man will ask me later."

  "Tell him to mind his own business ... and you do the same.” She was losing the battle.

  "Sure,” Tommy said, then looked past her and smiled. “Tell him yourself."

  She turned and saw her father approaching. “Keep your nose out of my business,” she said. “I'll go out with whom I like."

  Kieran Douglas didn't reply. “We're late,” he told his son. “The others will be waiting.” He walked around to the passenger side of the company pickup and got in.

  Tommy stood for a moment, grinning at Lexie. “Satisfied?” he asked, and got into the vehicle and drove off.

  Lexie wasn't due at the promotions office till ten so she took time with her appearance, bringing forward the routines she developed in the past eight years to ensure she felt confident in the role of hostess when she donned the uniform blouse, skirt, and low heeled shoes provided. She arrived on time and joined the other nineteen girls in the conference room, chatting with the ones she'd met before.

  "Right, ladies.” Toby Gerrard mounted the small podium and switched on the overhead projector to display their roster. “These are your duties for the next four days. I'll give you a few minutes to study them before I take questions."

  Lexie found her name and followed the line across. She had Pit Six for the practice and race sessions and the third hospitality tent for the post race function. She noted the times on the back of her entry ticket.

  "Lexie.” The promotions manager was at her side. “I've given you Pit Six. The team boss is a hard nut. Made me sack a groundsman yesterday."

  A hollow formed in Lexie's stomach. “Glenn Smallwood?"

  Toby nodded automatically before his concern surfaced. “You have a problem with him?"

  She shook her head. “I heard about the sacking last night and his name came up."

  "If your references can be believed, you should be able to handle him.” Toby didn't care. He was willing to risk trouble with a small team if Lexie wore the blame. She read his thoughts as clearly as if he'd shouted them aloud.

  "I'll do my best.” She wasn't going to help him.

  "Good.” He wavered a moment, then shrugged and turned away to field the first question.

  Lexie waited until the briefing was done and made her way to Pit Six. Her first surprise was Glenn in racing leathers, sitting astride an ugly bike with minimal race fairings. The second was a woman pit boss. Glenn started the bike as Lexie arrived, the racket making speech impossible so she stood, waiting her chance. The pit boss, a tall blonde with a thick ponytail, was talking to Glenn through the boom mike of her headset to test the comms, her hand resting familiarly on his shoulder. He nodded and gave a thumbs-up to signal his satisfaction and pulled the helmet visor into place before riding the bike out into the pit lane. The practice marshal's permission came and he accelerated away.

  He hadn't so much as glanced at her!

  The pit boss came over to Lexie, covering the boom mike with her hand. “He knows you're here. Suggests you come back in half an hour."

  Lexie controlled her irritation and nodded. “I'll check the hospitality tent."

  "I'll send for you.” The woman turned back to the monitor with the readouts from Glenn's bike.

  Lexie left, her mind lingering on the intimacy of the pit boss’ hand on Glenn's shoulder. It hinted at something closer than a professional relationship.

  Raul Bagnelli was in the hospitality tent, binoculars to his eyes, scanning the rear curves of the track. She recognized him from the Melbourne function. “Scusi, Signor Bagnelli..."

  "I speak English.” He didn't turn. “Please wait."

  Lexie followed the direction of the binoculars and saw Glenn cresting Lukey Heights and turning down into the sharp right-hander of Turn Ten. A freak of acoustics carried the sound of his gear changes as he came down to first, and then he was into the turn, the bike leaning close to horizontal. Halfway through, the bike convulsed sharply, coming almost upright and the rear wheel waggled violently. Then it straightened as if to run off the track and shot across the tangent to the other side of the track before Glenn regained control and took it out of the turn with a final contemptuous flick of the rear wheel. The distant snarls of gear changes accompanied his acceleration up the slope to Turn Eleven, the rear wheel shimmying at the edge of adhesion as Glenn applied the power and passed beyond their line of sight.

  "Yes.” Raul Bagnelli had turned to her, recognition brightening his smile, but Lexie was still trapped in a rictus of horror, unable to speak. “A spectacular recovery, was it not?” His eyes betrayed his sympathy.

  "Y-yes...” Lexie wrenched herself out of the sick terror of the past repeating itself, shutting out the memory of Stewart tumbling through the air and the sickening thump of his landing. The guilt of his death was vivid. Ten years wiped away in an instant...

  Raul Bagnelli made an understandable mistake. “Another one. If he could win races as easily, my father would be a happy man.” He smiled. “Come. You can pour me a drink and tell me how you met my brave-hearted friend. It will be easier where you can't see him courting the Widow-Maker."

  Lexie did not attempt to correct him, allowing herself to be led to the bar. Her past was none of his business and she cleared her mind to concentrate on her duties as a representative of the promoters.

  "The Widow-Maker?"

  "My father's dream is to see a winning bike that bears his name. The Widow-Maker is his last throw. He has mortgaged the family business to pay for its design and is dying as we speak. The bike killed Angela's husband and our riders fear it. Only Glenn is its master and he's too sensible to win, yet I fear my father's condition might overcome that good sense.” Raul took a champagne flute from the bar and handed it to Lexie. “Drink with me that it doesn't.” He filled her glass and then his own. “You have questions?” His smile invited her confidence—lop-sided, self-depreciating, and charming.

  "Angela?"

  "A blonde woman you probably met in the pits, another of Glenn's foundlings. She wasn't handling her grief so he gave her a job and made her do it well. Our competitors have approached her."

  "They are ... friends?” Lexie couldn't imagine asking these questions of any other man.

  "Friends they are, but no more. She remains faithful to a ghost.” His smile turned wistful, reminding Lexie of her duty.

  "What do you want? Will you have control when your father dies?"

  It was the right question. His smile brightened in appreciation. “If anything remains, I will be happy at the factory, building faithful little workhorse quad bikes and scooters to carry families. I enjoy customers who become friends.” The smile became a grin. “Each night I will go home to my wife, play with my children, and look forward to becoming a grandfather."

  "And Glenn?"

  "I would keep him as a friend and give him whatever was in my power to give.” He led the way to a table in the sun. “In the meantime, I obey my father's wishes and worry what they will force Glenn to do."

  They sat down with Lexie's back to the track, but she could count Glenn's laps from Raul's moments of abstraction when the “Widow-Maker” passed behind her. It was better not turning to look; Raul Bagnelli was the team owner and his wishes were her law. He wanted to talk about Phillip Island's attractions and she satisfied him.

  "You're very good at this.” She wasn't sure what he was complimenting, so she remained silent. “I mean it,” he said. “You speak like a local, not like someone who's been briefed on what to say."

  "I am a local. I was born on Phillip Island and my family has lived here since the 1800's."

  "Very impressive, particularly in so young a country.” Raul confirmed his praise with a nod. “We Europeans are snobbish about our history, claiming something to make us feel superior without ever earning it p
ersonally."

  "Raul!” It was Angela at the entrance. “Glenn's on his way in. He wants to talk."

  "His best lap time?” Raul took a notebook from his pocket. “My father will want to know."

  "One minute thirty four."

  Raul looked down at the notebook. “Outside the record, but very credible. Will it convince the others?"

  Angela shook her head. “They saw how close he came to spills on Turns Four and Ten."

  "My father will be disappointed.” He sat looking at his notebook, pen poised to make an entry, and then remembered his manners. “Angela, this is...” He turned to look at Lexie.

  "Lexie Douglas,” Angela interrupted. “She's with the promoter. Glenn wants to speak to her too."

  They made their way down into Pit Six and found Glenn, his racing leathers folded down to his waist to reveal a sodden team tee shirt. He was toweling the sweat from his face.

  "Lexie.” There were no polite preliminaries. “Are you comfortable working with us?"

  She nodded.

  "I could arrange for you to go elsewhere..."

  "Like Harry?” She was getting angry.

  "Not like Harry. I'm pleased to see you here, but I want to be sure you're comfortable.” His tone added nothing to the words.

  Lexie was angry. “I was sent to look after your interests and I intend to do so ... unless you object?"

  Glenn studied her face before nodding. “Angela's the pit boss. She'll tell you what's wanted.” He turned to Raul and touched him on the shoulder. “We'll go for a walk. We need to talk."

  "The wind has a chill in it,” Raul said. “We'll go up and sit in the sun. Lexie can come with us."

  Glenn glanced at her and shrugged. She wasn't important. “I'll change and meet you up there."

  "I can bring some lunch packs down.” Lexie might be of little importance to Glenn Smallwood, but she would see that the others left with a favorable impression of the Phillip Island circuit.

  "We need four,” Angela said. “The team riders are eating before they come."