Free Scarlet Thunder by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

public relations trailer. He would probably let me use it.
    I got up in a hurry. I was on a mission.

chapter seventeen
    In the late morning sunshine, I began to walk between the trailers and cars and other motor homes toward Tim Becker’s trailer. It didn’t take me long to get there.
    The screen door to the trailer was closed, but the inner door was open. I heard classical music playing inside.
    I knocked.
    â€œCome in,” Tim said.
    I opened the door.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he asked. I could tell he was still mad about the newspaper article. But, ever the public relations man, Tim was polite. He sat behind a desk. Neat stacks of paper covered one side of it, a newspaper the other. A fax machine sat in one corner. A computer sat on a desk in another corner, hooked up to a printer. On the walls all around him were huge color photos of Sandy Peterson and the racecar team. On a shelf was a radio, playing the music.
    â€œI really need to make a phone call,” I said, “and the nearest pay phone is across the track. May I borrow your phone? I can charge the call to my uncle’s calling card.”
    â€œI guess so,” Tim Becker said.
    â€œThank you,” I said. It hit me that maybe I had imagined a little too much. If I was wrong, I was about to make a dumb phone call. “Um, would it be okay if it was a private call?”
    â€œSure, why not?” he said. He pushed his chair back and grabbed the newspaper from his desk.
    â€œJust shout when you’re finished,” he said, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
    I picked up the telephone. I called directory assistance. I got the number for the San Diego Zoo. Uncle Mike had given me his calling card number because I often needed to make calls for him. I used that number, and less than a minute later I was talking to the trainer.
    I told him what I was looking for. He told me it was one of the cameramen who had asked about mice, first thing in the morning. I thanked him.
    I hung up the phone.
    I walked outside. Tim Becker was sitting on the bottom step of the trailer, reading his newspaper.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    He looked up from the sports pages.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” he answered. He folded the newspaper.
    He stepped aside to make room for me. I hopped down the stairs and headed back toward Uncle Mike’s motor home. My mind was definitely not on where I was going.
    One of the cameramen had asked about mice and elephants. Early in the morning. Like early enough to fill the cooler with mice. But why?
    Almost at Uncle Mike’s motor home, I saw the door to the neighboring motor home open. The one where Brian Nelson and Al Simonsen were staying, two of the cameramen who had worked the San Diego shoot.
    Normally, I would have kept walking and shouted hello to whoever was coming out. But not after talking to the elephant trainer.
    I ducked behind the side of another trailer and watched as Brian Nelson left his trailer. He was in a hurry.
    Was this truly strange, I wondered, or was I working too hard? Was I imagining there was a bad guy in this?
    I kept watching as he got farther away from me. A couple of times he looked around, like he was worried about being followed.
    Here’s one of the funny things about people. When someone drops his voice to a whisper, it’s a sure sign that he doesn’t wantto be heard. And, of course, that’s the thing that makes people curious enough to try to listen when before they wouldn’t have cared.
    I had the same response as soon as I thought Brian didn’t want to be followed. Especially after talking to the elephant trainer. It made me want to follow him.
    Which I did.
    The infield wasn’t crowded with people, but there were enough around that I could hang back as Brian picked and pushed his way among them.
    He didn’t notice me.
    His journey was a short one. It took him straight to Tim Becker’s