A sudden tapping on the glass pane in the door made him look up, and the bundle of maps slid to the floor as Ratty found himself looking into the face of Dale Earnhardt.
Dr. Toby Jankin’s initial delight at seeing an old girlfriend had given way to the Justine-shaped headache that he now remembered as an integral part of the relationship. He tried again. “Justine, you are not this boy’s guardian. I cannot run medical tests on a minor without permission from his parents. Well, not his parents,” he hastened to add, forestalling her objections. “You said he’s a ward of the state. His social worker, then. Somebody has been appointed his legal custodian, and I can’t treat him without their permission.”
Justine’s mulish expression did not change. “I’m not asking you to do brain surgery, Toby. I just want you to take a look at him. You can do that, can’t you? I can pay you whatever it costs.”
He sighed. Trust her to act as if money were the problem and blithely ignore national laws about the treatment of minors. Justine never asked for much. Just her own way 24/7. People usually found that it saved time just to give in at once. But there was a limit to the number of rules he could break without exchanging his medical practice for a ferret farm. He was on her side, really. She meant well, and for all he knew she might even be right, but there were laws that had to be observed-or at least nodded at.
He tried again. “Look, Justine. Let’s go talk to the boy. He probably has his social worker’s card with him in case of emergency. If you call her and get her to fax an authorization, I’ll run some tests. But it’s Sunday, so I doubt you’ll be able to locate her.”
It had been a silly thing to say, really, he thought as she swept from the room calling for Matthew. Of course Justine could locate a social worker on Sunday afternoon. It would only mean that she might have to inconvenience a few more people on the path to getting her own way; that would be only a minor obstacle, an hour’s delay at most. He might as well find a treatment room and get the instruments ready. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was back in his life.
Eight miles back to Darlington, racing the race itself, because if Harley didn’t get back to the parking lot before the checkered flag, he would find himself in a two-lane blacktop parking lot that stretched for miles. Why was he even doing it? Any sane person would drive around Florence for an hour, maybe get a burger, and then report back that he had been unable to locate the elusive Impersonator. Maybe it was because Bill Knight was a minister, and Harley’s Bible-belt upbringing had left a residual fear of lying to clergymen. He felt that such treachery might jinx his already tenuous chances of getting a miracle of his own-that is, a ride. Besides, he might as well tell Ratty where the medical center was, in case Ray Reeve had forgotten the name of the place.
Harley glanced at his watch. He had maybe half an hour before the Black Lady would declare a new champion in the Southern 500. At least he was heading in the opposite direction from the departing cars, so there wasn’t much traffic to hinder his reaching the track. Nobody in Darlington ventured out grocery shopping or Sunday sight-seeing on race day. Now if he could just get in and out before the stampede started.
The bus was parked across the road from the Speedway, directly opposite the Stock Car Museum with its portraits of Dale Earnhardt and Richard Petty painted near the entrance. Harley pulled in next to the bus, as close as he could get to the parking lot exit. He didn’t want to end up trapped here. He saw that the bus motor was idling. Ratty and his air conditioning. He’d better tell the driver what had happened before he began the exercise in futility.
Harley tapped on the window, waited while Ratty cranked open the door, and then bounded up the steps so as not to let out all the cool air. The radio was on, and Ratty was listening to the broadcast of the race, probably as a warning of departure rather than because he cared who would win.
“Hey, Ratty,” he said. “We got a situation.”
“You’re telling me,” grunted the driver.
“Oh, you know? Ray told you about Arlene? Where is Ray?”
Ratty shrugged. “Still watching the race. I haven’t seen him. What do you mean ‘where’s Ray?’ What about the rest of the flock?”
Harley explained about Arlene’s heart attack and how everyone but Ray had gone along to the medical center to be there with Jim. “McLeod Medical Center,” he said. “It’s in Florence. I wrote down the directions for you.”
Ratty glanced at the hastily scribbled notes on a paper bag. “You drove all the way back here to give me that?”
“No. The reverend sent me on a damn fool errand. Poor Arlene’s mind is AWOL again, and she’s asking to see Dale, so they got the bright idea to send me back here to try to find the Impersonator, and take him to the hospital to ease her mind. In this crowd. And him dodging security left and right. It would take a damn miracle to find him!”
Ratty nodded. “I guess it would at that,” he said. “A miracle. Fortunately, Dale seems to be ready to oblige you with one.” He nodded toward the back of the bus.
In the very back row, a scruffy little man with a ragged moustache and black sunglasses waggled his fingers at Harley.
Up close the spell was broken. The resemblance was good enough, thanks to the moustache and the shades, but the little man lacked the presence of the Intimidator. About forty million dollars short on confidence, Harley thought. That was how the fellow had ended up on the bus in the first place. In a voice that sounded more like Georgia than Kannapolis, the Impersonator told Harley how he had just managed to get out of the Speedway with the security people hustling through the crowd in hot pursuit. He’d hidden behind a car and seen the posse heading off toward the area where his own Chevy was parked. Not wanting to risk going that way and getting caught, he had set off in the opposite direction where he’d run straight into a bus with the words “#3 Pilgrimage” emblazoned on the side. He figured if anybody would help him, it would be these folks, so he’d knocked and, sure enough, the driver let him in.
He had been planning to hide out in the back of the bus until the coast was clear, but then Harley had showed up in need of a good deed for a gravely ill Earnhardt fan, and the Impersonator thought it was his duty to obey the summons.
He wouldn’t tell Harley his real name. You couldn’t be too careful, not with DEI after your hide and lawyered to the gills. He told Harley to call him R.D.-for Ralph Dale, Earnhardt’s given name.
All this was explained on the drive back to Florence. The race was in its last ten laps when Harley had discovered him, so they wasted no time getting back into Harley’s car and peeling out of the parking lot, with Ratty wishing them Godspeed and promising to follow as soon as Ray Reeve turned up. When they were well clear of the Speedway, Harley turned on the radio in time to hear Jeff Gordon proclaimed the winner of the 2002 Southern 500. He didn’t feel much like talking after that.
“Where have you been?”
Justine faced the circle of anxious faces with her usual cheerful obliviousness. “Hey!” she said. “Matthew and I had some business to take care of. How’s Arlene?”
After an awkward silence, Bill Knight said, “We’ve all been praying. But, as poor Jim said, it’s hard to know what to pray for. Arlene has Alzheimer’s, you know, and it might be merciful if she were allowed to go now in peace.”