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the roses.

CHAPTER THREE

    O KAY , K ANE THOUGHT , his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The Halesboro Speedway was haunted.
    It was haunted by its own former eminence. Down the hall that housed the offices—most now seemingly deserted—were photos and framed newspaper and magazine stories of the track in its heyday. It had been one of the toughest tracks in the nation, both a driver’s dream and nightmare. A dream to win, a nightmare fighting for that win.
    A high-banked oval, the track was one of the most abrasive on the circuit. The asphalt with its high sand content chewed up tires like a monster gnawing jerky. It was as demanding as tracks came, and its nickname, fully earned, was Hellsboro.
    But a hard track had made for challenging races; drivers had fought out thrilling contests here, set unforgettable records. Halesboro saw one of the closest finishes in NASCAR history, a 1999 win by 0.0033 seconds—people still talked about it, a decade later.
    The photos and the yellowing clippings brought back vivid images and high emotions. Memories hung in the air like ghostly smoke. Outside, Kane had seen the old statue of black granite, an imposing carving of a flame symbolizing “Hellsboro,” and on the flame’s granite and bronze pedestal were engraved the names of the track’s greatest winners.
    But if the nostalgia of greatness haunted the halls, so did the sense of glory so long past it was turning into the depressing sense of present weakness and future failure. What the hell was he getting himself into?
    Kane found Clyde by the scoreboard next to the infield care center, and the two men shook hands with self-conscious awkwardness. The last time Kane had seen the older man, Clyde had been his mentor, teaching him and encouraging him to learn more. Clyde didn’t give a damn that Kane didn’t come from “respectable” people. Clyde had grown up poor himself, nothing handed to him; he was a self-made man who’d earned the respect he got.
    Maybe Clyde had seen something of himself in the teenage Kane, who’d volunteered as a crewman for local, more recreational races. Andrew J. Simmons gave small importance to those races. He provided what the community thought he should provide—a training ground for kids with racing talent.
    Clyde saw the local races as something far more important, a low rung that a determined young man could use to climb higher. He might rise into the racing stratosphere if he had the guts, the brains and reflexes. Now Clyde looked at his protégé with something akin to shyness.
    “You don’t look like the kid that blew this place and didn’t leave a forwarding address,” Clyde told him, taking in the dark silk shirt, the tailored slacks, the expensive shoes. “But I’ve heard about you and what you been doin’. Good on you, boy.”
    Kane felt a pang of emotion looking at the aging man. Clyde’s brown eyes still shone with alertness; his weathered face was kind. “I had good teachers,” Kane said gruffly.
    “Best teacher’s the school of hard knocks,” Clyde said, with a measuring sideways glance. “Want to see the track, the pits?”
    “And the stands,” Kane answered. “Yeah. All of it.”
    “It isn’t what it was,” Clyde warned him. “Life’s like a big ol’seesaw. Some things go up—” he looked Kane over “—and some go down. You feelin’ sentimental, or you got another reason to come back and look this over?”
    I’ve got more than one reason, Kane thought, keeping all expression from his face. And he thought of an old proverb. “The heart has reasons that reason does not know.” He keptthose words from crossing his lips and ejected the idea from his mind. He was excellent at hiding what he thought and what he felt.
    But Clyde, somehow, had always known him a little too well for Kane’s own comfort. Clyde said. “She called me about you. Lori. You seen her, huh?”
    “Yeah,” Kane said tonelessly. “Sure.”
    “She’s been through a