Free Drag-Strip Racer by Matt Christopher Page A

didn’t like the idea of Dana using it to
bribe
Dusty into sponsoring him.
    Dana wasn’t home when Ken and the girls got back. Their father, sitting on a high-backed rocking chair on the rear porch,
     said he had gone to work. “Well, did you have fun?” he wanted to know, turning his head slightly to gaze at the little red
     car on the trailer.
    “No, Dad, I didn’t,” Ken said, and explained briefly the trouble he had had at Candlewyck, and with the two men at the abandoned
     airfield.
    “Maybe it’s just as well,” his father murmured. He leaned forward and spat over the edge of theporch. “One of these days an ambulance will be driving you to a hospital again, and maybe the next time it’ll be for something
     worse than your leg.”
    Ken smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Dad. Don’t worry.”
    He hobbled into the house, had a drink of ice-cold tea from the refrigerator, then sat down and tried to think of where else
     he could take the Chevy to run passes. He knew of several macadam roads some fifty or sixty miles south of Wade, where a contractor
     had started a development and had his plans go awry. But Ken discarded the idea, figuring it was too far to drive.
    Dana pulled in on his Kawasaki at twenty after three. Ken heard the motorcycle as he stood in the living room, doing stretching
     exercises. He continued to do them for a few more minutes, quitting when he heard the kitchen door open and Dana come in.
    He stood there in the room without his crutches, his stomach tightening as he waited for Dana. Soon Dana came into the room,
     holding his helmet under his arm. He smiled as he greeted Ken, then the smile faded as he saw the strange look on Ken’s face.
    “Hey, what’s up?” he said. “You look upset.”
    “I
am
upset,” Ken snapped. “I just found out why Dusty decided to sponsor me instead of Taggart.”
    Dana frowned. “Did he tell you?”
    “No. Dottie told me about your part in recovering the engine, and I put two and two together. She thought I knew. Look, I
     agree it was real good of you to do what you did in finding out who had stolen Dusty’s engine, but I want to know why you’re
     so anxious all of a sudden for me to drive for Dusty. You haven’t seemed to want to be friendly lately; so if this is some
     way to get your hands on Li’l Red, you—”
    “Wait a minute, Ken. You—”
    “—can just forget it!” Ken cut in sharply.
    Dana stared at his brother. “Why, you little twerp! You think I’m so anxious to get my hands on that car? I wouldn’t give
     you the satisfaction now of telling you why I asked Dusty to let you drive! But why don’t
you
try to figure out the right answer,
brother?”
And Dana whirled and marched out of the room.

ELEVEN
    D ANA STORMED OUT of the house, leaving by the front door to avoid being seen by his father.
    He put on his helmet, buckled it, and got on his motorcycle. He kicked the starter and took off, dirt bursting from the spinning
     rear tire and clattering up against the fender.
    He tore down the street, breaking the speed limit by ten miles an hour for almost two blocks before he throttled back. But
     he still kept it a couple of miles over the legal speed limit.
    Who in heck did Ken think he was by talking to him like that, anyway?
    Then he thought, darn it, what’s gone wrong with us? How can my own brother be so suspicious of me? Maybe I
was
jealous about the car, but I’d never do anything that would harm Ken!
    He might as well have said he’s disowned me. What’s the sense of being a brother if you can’t help out one another sometimes?
    He drove block after block, not knowing or caring where he was going. Then he thought of Sally—Sally Biemen—and made a right-hand
     turn at the next intersection.
    Sally was a six-foot, interesting-looking brunette he had met at a motorcycle slalom some eight months ago. She had her own
     bike, a 125CC Honda that she drove back and forth to work. Somehow