On the Move by Pamela Britton Page B

garage area. He pointed to the red light that hung atop a chain-link fence, the lens flickering as though it belonged on an ambulance.
    She stood there for half a second, disappointment turning her temporarily speechless.
    “But…I’m from SSI. I’m Brandon Burke’s agent. I was supposed to see him before the race.”
    “Honey, I can’t let you in. Garage is Hot.”
    “Look,” she said. “Is there any way to get a message to him?”
    “You’re kidding, right?” the man said. “Forty-five minutes until the green flag drops, and you want me to go deliver a personal message to your favorite driver. Give me a break, lady.” The guard motioned to someone behind her. Another person who wanted in, only he had the right pass. Green, she noticed, the word Hot emblazoned in reflective foil across the front.
    “I don’t mean for you to deliver it personally. Can’t you use a radio or something?” Vicky asked.
    He waved another person through. “Lady,” he said. “If you want access to pit road, you’ll have to get there like everyone else does, through the Fan Zone.”
    “You mean, I can still get inside with this pass?”
    “Fan Zone,” he said impatiently. “That’ll work there. Pit road entrance is straight ahead. But you’ve only got fifteen more minutes before they start clearing it of Cold Passes.” He pointed her toward the industrial-like complex she’d passed earlier, one with race fans streaming in and out of it. It was only a couple hundred yards away. She could make it. Perhaps flag down Brandon before he climbed into his race car….
    “Thanks,” she muttered.
    She took off running like a champion racehorse. But once she neared the entrance, she had to slow down because a line of people wanted in, too. By the time she crossed beneath a sign proclaiming her inside the Fan Zone, she had barely five minutes left.
    “Where’s the entrance to pit road?” she asked someone.
    “Straight ahead,” a guy wearing a white T-shirt and shorts said, a camera strung around his neck.
    She passed by concession stands, then a stage. “Thank god,” she muttered, passing through a tunnel lined with people on both sides, cameras poised and ready in case their favorite driver walked by, autograph books held in anxious hands, many of them wearing shirts already signed by their heroes.
    The speedway was at the end of the road she stood upon, a lane obviously used by the cars currently lined up nose to tail. Beyond the parked vehicles, she could see the track, the black tar seeming to glow as if it held an inch of water. Above it all rose the grandstands. Each seat seeming to be taken, the constant shifting of human bodies making it appear to undulate as if it were alive.
    She glanced at her watch. Pit road was about to close and the drivers were obviously not at their cars because most of the cars were still covered. Maybe she could find Brandon hanging out with his pit crew. She’d no idea if drivers actually did that, but she had to try.
    “Sorry,” said a man wearing a white uniform, “you can’t go out there.”
    Disappointment turned her stomach.
    “You can only go through there with that pass.” He pointed to the narrow alleyways that ran alongside the white wall that separated pit road from where the mechanics stored their tools.
    “Oh…thanks,” she said, and darted off, only to suddenly draw up short. She could go down the aisle to her left or right. “Do you know where Brandon Burke’s pit place is?”
    “Pit stall? ”
    She nodded.
    “Don’t have a clue.”
    Vicky’s smile fell. “Okay, thanks,” she said, turning away. Which direction to go? She chose left. How long did she have before they started to boot people out? She wondered. Did they give a sign of some sort? A warning bell? Not that she’d hear anything over the roar of the crowd. The constant drone of elevated voices, generators and aircraft overhead was so intense, she didn’t know how people stood it for any length of