Stephen Hunter came to the Bristol Motor Speedway in August 2008, eight months out from the deadline of his next novel, still searching for a setting.
The usual pieces – the people, the action, the motives – were more or less in place. What Hunter lacked was the right backdrop, one that would supercharge a storyline with dramatic tension, propel characters through an intricate plot and lay a foundation for an emotionally satisfying finish.
Under this mental strain, he drank in the sights and sounds of the Sharpie 500: the roar of the open engines mingling with the throaty yells of thousands upon thousands of NASCAR enthusiasts; the pounding of beers; and the holding of hands. All weaving family and generations into an ecstatic mix.
There, too, was the enormous physical bulk of the race track itself – like a piece of a gigantic beer can crunched on top of Bristol’s deep green, rolling hills.
“I thought, these people could use a really good gunfight right in the middle of this,” Hunter said in an interview.
Like that, the novel had a setting.
