Page 24 of The Chase

A former Italian journalist who had witnessed the accident wrote:Some ten years later, the death of Marco Perez still haunts those in motorsport. Many questions have gone unanswered and those closest to Perez, including his family and former Merrick teammates, refuse to take part in solving the mystery surrounding his death on September 9. Did he die on the track in Manta, or did he die some hours later in hospital as we, the people, have been led to believe?

I couldn’t help wonder if any of that mattered, but I read on.

Evidence supports the first theory. Little is known about the extent of the injuries he suffered in the horrific crash that killed him. Speculation was that his neck was broken on impact and he died instantly. If that is the case, why, then, were people told he died later in a Detroit hospital?

An unpopular belief of those in motorsport is that canceling the race would have cost the federation millions of dollars in lost revenue. Instead, people were led to believe that Perez was hanging on to life, that there was hope he would recover. What is more intriguing is the unwavering silence from his wife, Maria Morelli, which she continues to maintain. She has never spoken publicly about the crash, nor have either of her children with Perez. Their son Rafe was thirteen, their daughter Luna only nine. It is quite possible that they themselves have no idea when or where exactly their father died. What is undisputed is that Marco Perez died as a result of the injuries he suffered in Detroit. As his death certificate and autopsy report reveal, he died of massive head trauma. There was never any chance he would recover, and racing had suffered yet another loss, reminiscent of the death of Miguel Ronaldo, who died in a horrific crash years earlier. On that fateful September 9, the world lost a great man and gained questions that still remain to this day.

I leaned back in my seat. This was news to me. And whether he’d died on the track or in the hospital, he’d died doing what he’d loved. Why was this journalist even making a big deal about it?

A YouTube video was embedded below the article, labeled footage from September 9. Against my better judgment, I played it. Photographs of the crash scene hit the screen. I’d seen the accident that had claimed my father’s life, but the pictures still managed to startle me. I felt uneasy as I watched the montage, as if something or someone would jump out at me.

A photo of my father’s blue-and-white helmet drew a gasp from me. The photo, taken shortly after the crash, was still crimson with my father’s blood. The montage ended with a series of pictures that would haunt me for the rest of my life. They were of medical personnel feverishly trying to save my father’s life there on the track. The camera had zoomed in on the scene, and I could make out his bloodstained face, his motionless body lying on a stretcher. The last picture was a closeup of a huge, swollen gash on the side of his head, his face horribly disfigured, blood on the stretcher in bright red pools.

Somehow, I couldn’t even think of the pictures I’d looked at only moments ago, of Dad holding me as a baby, looking so happy. They’d all been replaced with these images.

I clutched my chest and leapt out of the seat. In my haste, I’d backed into the wall, my eyes still staring at the horrific images on the screen. At first, I didn’t hear myself scream, or feel the tears streaming down my face. Mom hadn’t let Rafe see Dad that day because of the way he looked. And now I knew why. He would have been unrecognizable.

I was trying to breathe, but my screams were smothering me. Mom came running into the room, her expression panic-stricken. She ran to me. I was sitting on the floor, my knees up against my chest, and my hands covering my face. Mom looked at the phone screen to see what had upset me. What she saw brought back memories of a very dark day, I was sure of it. She quickly shut off the screen and comforted me.

“Luna, it’s all right,” Mom said, embracing me tightly. “Tony,” she called out loudly. “Please come quickly.”

He came into the room moments later, finding me clutching Mom. We were both crying.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Those bastards,” Mom screamed. “They just won’t let Marco rest in peace.”

She held me in her arms for a bit before she was able to coax me to stand. I hadn’t stopped crying, and I wasn’t sure I could stand. The room swam in circles around me.

“Let me take her,” Tony said, scooping me up in his arms. I wondered if this was what an out-of-body experience felt like. I barely registered that my feet were no longer on the floor. He brought me to my room, with Mom following closely behind. I saw Rosa in the hallway with Catia, my sister’s face a mask of fear. But I couldn’t stop crying, could barely draw breath.

“Rosa, call Dr. Berlucci, and tell him to come with some tranquilizers,” Mom said calmly.

Rosa nodded and took Catia downstairs with her. Tony placed me down on my bed. I covered my face as weak whimpers escaped from my body. Mom lay down next to me, hugging me until the doctor arrived. I couldn’t pull myself together enough to pay attention to what he said to me or my mother, but I accepted the sedative he gave me. Moments later, I drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

ChapterEleven

Luna

Iopened my eyes. My head felt heavy as if I were traveling through a deep fog. The clock next to my bed read one thirty. The sun was shining into my room. I rubbed my eyes, and slowly, the past few days came back to me. The images of my father, the sheer pain that had ripped through my insides. What my mother must have gone through then. The understanding and guilt that had torn me apart. How could I ever blame her for shutting herself off from the world?

I shook the images from my head and wandered down the stairs to find the house empty. I looked out the window. Mom was in the garden while Tony and Catia swam in the pool. I picked up the newspaper. It was Sunday’s paper! Where had all the days gone? The race in Spain? I was missing it all.

I flipped to the sports section and quickly checked Saturday’s qualifying times. Both Rafe and Devin had done well. There was a picture of both of them together on the following page. They were speaking to one another, Devin sporting a new pair of shades, Rafe with a serious expression on his face.

I scanned the article that went with the picture. It went on to say how both were concerned when I had come down with the flu that had kept me from traveling to Barcelona. The newspaper wished me a speedy recovery. Whoever had come up with the cover story needed a promotion.

“Luna,” Rosa said, her voice filled with happiness.

I jumped. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

Rosa threw her arms around me. “You look so much better! How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I said. I barely remembered the past few days. I remembered getting up, maybe eating a bit, my mother begging me to talk to her. But it was all hazy and hard to make sense of.

“You scared us.”

“I scared myself,” I said, looking at the photo of Devin and Rafe again. I suddenly wanted Devin with me.

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