Motorsports again. The phone was in his hand. Aurora’s business card was in his pocket. The metal case was on the seat beside him. Ethan dialed the number for the University of Michigan’s history department. It rang four times. A receptionist answered. He asked for Dr. Warren Hail.
There was a pause, then a transfer, then another ring. This is Warren Hail. Ethan cleared his throat. Dr. Hail, my name is Ethan Cross. I’m calling from Arizona. I read your article about Pinnacle Advanced Motorsports. A pause. That piece is a few years old. Not many people read it. I read it today and I think I might have something you’ve been looking for.
Another pause longer this time. What exactly do you think you have, Mr. Cross? A 1968 Mustang Fastback Highland Green sitting in my garage in Red Creek. My father worked for Pinnacle. I have the documents to prove it. And I think the car is chassis number XP7709. The silence on the other end of the line lasted so long that Ethan checked to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
Then Dr. Hail said very quietly, “Don’t let anyone touch that car. Don’t let anyone near it. I’ll be on a plane tomorrow.” Ethan hung up and sat in the truck. His heart was hammering. The desert heat pressed against the windshield. In the distance, the mountain shimmerred like something half real.
He started the engine and drove home. Dr. Warren Hail arrived in Red Creek on a Sunday afternoon driving a rented Nissan sedan that looked like it had already been through a war with the desert gravel roads. He was older than Ethan had expected, mid60s, maybe closer to 70, with wire rimmed glasses and a sunburn already forming across the bridge of his nose.
He wore khaki pants and a button-down shirt that had been ironed at some point, but had lost the fight with 3 hours of Arizona heat. He carried a leather bag over one shoulder that looked heavier than it should have been. Ethan met him in the parking lot. They shook hands. Hail’s grip was firm, but his fingers were thin.
Academic hands, not mechanic’s hands. Long flight? Ethan asked. I’ve had longer. Flew to a barn in rural France once to look at a car that turned out to be a replica. That was longer. He looked around at the garage, the leaning sign, the cracked asphalt. This is your operation. This is it. Good. I was worried it’d be some kind of showroom.
Showrooms mean the owner already thinks they know what they’ve got, and that makes my job harder. Ethan led him inside. Lily was sitting on her stool by the workbench, library book open, pretending to read. She’d insisted on being there. Ethan had argued. Lily had won. That was how most of their arguments ended. Dr.
Hail, this is my daughter, Lily. Hill extended his hand. Lily shook it with exaggerated formality. Are you really from Michigan? Born and raised. Is it cold there? 9 months out of 12. That sounds terrible. It builds character. Hail smiled. A real one, not the professional kind Aurora had deployed. Then he turned to Ethan.
Show me. Ethan walked to bay three and pulled the tarp aside. He stepped back and let Hail approach on his own. The historian didn’t rush. He stood about 4 ft from the car and just looked at it. His eyes moved slowly, front to back, roof to tires, then back again. He set his bag down on the floor, opened it, and pulled out a flashlight, a magnifying loop, and a small notebook with a pen clipped to the cover.
Then he crouched near the driver’s side front fender and began examining the body. Nobody spoke. Lily watched from her stool. Ethan leaned against the workbench with his arms crossed, trying to look calm and failing. Hail worked his way around the car in silence for almost 30 minutes. He checked the door jambs.
He lay on his back and slid under the front end with the flashlight. He spent a long time looking at something near the firewall. When he came out, there was grease on his shirt and dust in his hair, and his expression had changed. “Where are the documents you mentioned?” he asked. Ethan brought out the metal case and opened it on the workbench.
Hail put on a pair of reading glasses, different from his regular glasses, these ones thicker, and began going through the photographs one by one. He held each to the light, turned it over, read the notations on the back, and set it aside with a care that suggested he was handling something fragile, which Ethan supposed he was. When Hail reached the contract, he stopped.
He read it once, then again, then held it closer to the light and studied the signatures. Your father was Henry Cross, Hail said. Not a question. Yes. He’s listed here as a developmental test driver and mechanical consultant for Pinnacle. Did you know that? I didn’t know any of it until I found the case. Hail set the contract down carefully.
He removed his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he looked at Ethan with an expression that Ethan couldn’t immediately read. It wasn’t excitement exactly. It was something closer to disbelief fighting against evidence. Mr. Cross, I need to be very honest with you about what I think I’m looking at.
And I need you to understand that I could be wrong. Okay. That car, he pointed at the Mustang, has stampings on the inner fender that don’t correspond to any production Ford vehicle. The serial numbers are alpha numeric in a format consistent with what we know about Pinnacle’s cataloging system. The body modifications, and there are several subtle things a lay person wouldn’t notice, are consistent with documented Pinnacle engineering practices.
