by BROWN SANDRA
“The guy’s sick. He’s going to MD Anderson for chemo.”
“Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”
An unintelligible mutter about greed, then, “I think I can swing that.”
“You do, and it’s a deal. What’s the weather like?”
“Hot, muggy, Texas in May.”
“Precip?”
“Possible scattered thundershowers late this evening. Nothing you can’t dodge, nothing scary.” After a hesitation, “You’re sure you’re okay to fly?”
“Gas up the plane.”
On his way to the bathroom, his bare foot hooked the electrical cord of the gooseneck lamp and pulled it off the nightstand. It fell with a thud, but fortunately the bulb didn’t break. He kicked the lamp and a heap of discarded clothing out of his path and stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the cold glare when he switched on the light.
He shaved by feel in the shower, brushed his teeth bent over the sink, and decided to let his hair dry naturally rather than use the dryer. Any grooming inconveniences these shortcuts imposed were preferable to looking at himself in the mirror.
Back in the bedroom, he dressed in his flight uniform: jeans, white oxford cloth shirt, black necktie, which he knotted but left loose beneath his open collar. He stamped into his boots, then scooped his wallet, keys, and aviator sunglasses off the dresser. At the door he paused to look back at the naked woman in his bed. She, whatever her name was, was still out cold. He considered leaving a note asking her to please lock the door when she left the apartment.
Then his bloodshot eyes swept the place, and he thought, Why bother? There was nothing in it that a thief could possibly want.
Morning rush hour was over, so traffic was reasonably light. The one remnant of Dent’s former life was red, equipped with an after-market-enhanced 530-hp engine, six-speed transmission, long tube headers, and a Corsa titanium exhaust. Punching the Corvette up to eighty whenever he had a clearing, he sped it beyond Austin’s northern city limit to the private airfield.
He could have kept his airplane at a fancier FBO, one with a control tower, but there were loyalty issues to take into account. Besides, this one suited him better.
His airplane was parked on the tarmac, which formed a concrete apron in front of the corrugated metal hangar. It had seen better days. It had seen better days twenty or so years ago, when Dent had first started hanging around.
Johnsongrass grew like fringe around the base of the rusted exterior walls of the hangar. The faded orange wind sock was the only one Dent had ever seen there, and he figured it was the original that had been attached to the pole shortly after World War II.
Parked in back, out of keeping with the rundown appearance of the building and Gall’s beat-up pickup truck, was a shiny black Escalade with darkly tinted windows.
Dent drove the Vette into the hangar, jerked it to a stop with a squeal of tires, cut the engine, and got out. Gall was seated behind the cluttered desk inside the hangar office, which amounted to one cloudy glass wall overlooking the hangar’s interior and three other walls constructed of unpainted, untaped Sheetrock. The enclosure was ten feet square, and it was jam-packed.
Maps, diagrams, topographical charts, and yellowed newspaper clippings of aviation stories were thumbtacked to the walls, which were pocked with pinholes. Outdated flight magazines with curling covers were stacked on every available surface. Sitting atop a rusty, dented file cabinet was a stuffed raccoon that had cobwebs over its glass eyes and bald spots in its fur. The calendar above it was from 1978 and was stuck on Miss March, who wore nothing except an inviting grin and a strategically placed butterfly.
When Dent walked in, Gall stood. Planting his fists on his hips, he looked Dent up and down, then harrumphed in undisguised disapproval and rolled his unlit cigar from one side of his stained lips to the other. “You look like hammered shit.”
“Got my money?”
“Yeah.”
“Then spare me the insults and let’s get to it.”
“Not so fast, Ace. I brokered this charter and take responsibility for the safety of the three passengers.”
“I can fly the goddamn plane.”
Gall Hathaway was unfazed by Dent’s tone. He was the only person on earth Dent would answer to because Gall’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him. The old man fixed a baleful stare on him, and he backed down.
“Come on, Gall. Would I fly if I wasn’t fit to?”
Gall hesitated for a few moments more, then slid a folded check from the pocket of his oil-stained coveralls and passed it to Dent.
“A check?”
“It’s good. I already called the bank.”
Dent unfolded the check, saw that it was drawn on a Georgetown bank for two thousand five hundred dollars payable to him and signed. All seemed to be in order. He put the check in his wallet.
“I pumped in ninety gallons of gas,” Gall said. “She’ll cover the fuel bill when you get back.”
Dent gave Gall a hard look.
“I trust her. She left her credit card as collateral.” Gall opened the lap drawer of his metal desk. In it were stubby pencils, bent paper clips, orphaned keys, a Bic pen with a fuzzy tip, and an American Express Platinum card. “She assured me it was valid. I checked anyhow. It is. For two more years. What FBO do you want to use? She left it up to you.”
Dent named the one he preferred.
“Cheaper fuel?” Gall asked.
“Fresher popcorn. Ground transportation?”
“She asked me to arrange for a limo to be waiting. That’s done.”
“They’re waiting in the Escalade?”
“She said it was too hot and stuffy inside the hangar.”
“She seems to be running the show.”
“I guess you could say.” Gall was suddenly having trouble looking him in the eye. “The old man is awful sick. Be pleasant.”
“I’m always pleasant.”
Gall snuffled. “Just remember, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Anything else? Mother?” Gall snarled, but Dent headed off whatever he was about to say with a question about coffee. “Still hot?”
“Ain’t it always?”
“Tell them I need twenty minutes, then we’ll take off. Anything they need to do in the meantime, go to the bathroom, whatever—”
“I know the drill.” Gall mumbled something Dent didn’t catch, which was probably just as well, then he added, “Before they see you, squirt some of that stuff over your eyeballs. They look like road maps.”
Dent went into the hangar proper and sat down at a table where the computer stayed linked to his favorite weather Web site. He made a note of the storms forecast for that evening, but the skies were presently clear.
He had made the flight to Houston Hobby many times. Nevertheless, he reviewed the information he needed for the flight portion of the trip as well as for the airport. He had Garmin in the cockpit. The Airport Facilities Directory for each state, plus FBO data, were downloaded onto his iPad, which he could access from the cockpit. But as a safety precaution he always printed out and carried with him information pertaining to takeoff, the destination airport, and an alternate airport. Lastly, he called ATC and filed a flight plan.
Outside, he went through the preflight check of his airplane, even knowing that Gall already had. He got under the wings to drain gasoline from five different locations, checking the glass tube to be sure no water had collected in the fuel tanks. It was a time-consuming chore, but he’d known a guy who’d failed to do it. He’d crashed and died.
Satisfied that his plane was ready, he signaled Gall with a thumbs-up. “Good to go if they are.” He went into the restroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin tablets with the dregs of his coffee, which hadn’t been as hot as Gall had boasted but was double the recommended strength. And, as advised, he put in eye drops guaranteed to get the red out. All the same, he put on his sunglasses.
W
hen he emerged from the building, his three passengers were waiting for him on the tarmac, standing shoulder to shoulder.
It was easy to pick out the patient. The man was tall and dignified, but had the yellowish-gray complexion of someone suffering from cancer and its harsh chemical treatments. He was dressed in casual slacks and a sport jacket, both of which looked several sizes too large. A baseball cap covered his bald head.
In the middle of the trio was an attractive woman, slightly younger than the man, but well into her sixties. Something about her . . .
Dent’s footsteps faltered, then he came to a dead standstill. His eyes swung back to the man and tried to picture a healthy version of him. Son of a bitch. It was Howard Lyston.
There could be no mistake because beside him stood his wife, Olivia, looking as well put together as Dent remembered her. She was a pretty woman who took the time and trouble to stay that way. She was still trim, although her weight was distributed differently now, a little more around the middle. Her hair was lighter. The skin around her mouth and beneath her chin was looser than it had been nearly two decades ago. But her haughty expression was the same.
Dent stared at them for several moments, then swiveled his head around. Gall was lurking in the doorway of his office, obviously watching to see how this scene would play out. Under Dent’s glare, he scuttled back into the office and closed the door. Dent had some choice words for him, but they could wait.
He came back around and regarded the Lystons with contempt. “Is this a joke? If so, I fail to see the humor.”
Olivia turned her head and spoke to the younger woman standing on the other side of her. “I told you this was a dreadful mistake.”
The younger woman took two steps toward him. “It’s no joke, Mr. Carter. We need to get to Houston.”
“There’s a superhighway that runs between here and there.”
“Daddy can’t travel that far by car.”
“Daddy?”
She removed the large, dark sunglasses that had been covering easily a third of her face. “I’m Bellamy. Remember?”
Yeah, of course he remembered, but this was Bellamy? Susan’s kid sister? Like a nervous cat, always ducking out of sight whenever he came around. Skinny, gawky, braces on her teeth and pimples on her face. This was her?
Her bony frame had since been padded in the right places. Her complexion was now unblemished, her teeth straight. She was dressed casually but expensively, and there were no split ends in the dark, glossy ponytail that was draped over one shoulder. Altogether a nice package.
But you couldn’t melt an ice cube on her ass.
She emanated the same snooty attitude as her parents. Directed especially toward Denton Carter. Olivia was looking at him as though he hadn’t showered that morning. The old man was either too sick or too indifferent even to speak. As for Bellamy, she had an imperious manner that rubbed him the wrong way, and they’d only exchanged a few words.
He wasn’t going to take their shit. Not a second time.
“There’s a commercial airport southeast of downtown,” he said, addressing Bellamy. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Big shiny airplanes? They fly them several times a day to and from Houston.”
She responded to his sarcasm with a smile that was equally caustic. “Yes, well, thank you for the suggestion. But it’s an ordeal for Daddy to go through airport security and all that that entails. I was told”—she glanced beyond him toward the hangar, where Gall was playing hide-and-seek—“I was told you have an airplane for charter. I’ve agreed to your terms and paid in advance for your services.”
Dammit, he needed that payment.
Two and a half grand was pocket change to the Lystons. To him it meant electricity, groceries, and a loan payment on his airplane. He could have kicked himself for not charging more. He could kick Gall even harder for not telling him who his paying passengers were. Setting him up to be blindsided like this, what was the old fart thinking?
For that matter, what were the Lystons thinking? Why had they selected him out of all the charter options, including private jet service, which they could well afford? He doubted they wanted to form a friendship circle.
He sure as hell wanted nothing to do with them.
But, unfortunately, what Gall had said about gift horses applied here. If they could stand his company, he could stand theirs. Houston was a short flight.
Dent turned to Howard Lyston, forcing him to acknowledge his existence. “What time is your appointment?”
“Two o’clock.”
“I’ll have you there with time to spare.”
“Good,” Bellamy said. “If there’s nothing else, could we please get underway?”
Her condescension was all too familiar, and it made Dent feel like grinding his teeth. Instead, he smiled and indicated the steps leading into the cabin of his airplane. “After you.”
The flight was smooth. The only difficulty they encountered was getting Howard Lyston into and out of the airplane. Not only was he so weak he could barely muster the strength to move, it was apparent to Dent that he was in pain. When he settled into the backseat of the limousine that was waiting for them when they arrived, he seemed pathetically relieved to have gotten that far. Olivia slid in beside him, solicitous and protective, just as she’d always been.
Bellamy held back with Dent, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of airplane engines and a stiff Gulf wind. “Invariably the staff and doctors are running behind schedule, so I can’t predict how long we’ll be.”
The opaque sunglasses were back in place, but the lower part of her face was taut and tense, which, Dent supposed, could be attributed to concern for her father. Or maybe she had the same low regard for him that her parents did. God only knew what she’d heard said about him over the past eighteen years.
“I’m on your clock, so I’ll be here whenever you get back.” He gave her one of his business cards. “My cell number is on there. If you give me a heads-up when you leave the hospital, I’ll have the plane ready to go by the time you get here, so we can take off immediately.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated for a moment, then opened the deep shoulder bag she was carrying, dug out a hardcover book, and extended it to him. “Have you read this?”
He took the book from her. “Low Pressure. T. J. David.”
“A.k.a. Bellamy Lyston Price. Did you know I’d written a novel?”
“No.” And he wanted to add, Nor do I give a damn.
But he withheld that because she was looking up at him, her head tilted at an inquisitive angle. He couldn’t see through the lenses of her glasses into her eyes, but he got the feeling she was carefully gauging his answer. “No,” he repeated. “I didn’t know you’d become a writer. Price, you said?”
“My married name.”
“So why T. J. whatever?”
“I picked it out of the phone book.”
“How come?”
Olivia called to her through the open door of the limo. “Bellamy? Coming?”
To Dent, Bellamy said, “The book may help pass the time while you wait for us.”
With that, she turned and joined her parents in the limo.
As it pulled away, Dent stared after it, cursing beneath his breath. Entering the building, he took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Gall, who answered with, “Make it fast. I’m busy.”
“What the fuck, Gall?”
“You can afford to be particular about passengers? In this economy?”
“It should be up to me who I fly. Had I known it was them, I’d have stayed in bed.”
“You’re scared of them.”
“Why are you trying to piss me off even more than I already am?”
“You needed the charter. Their money is good. Tell me where I’m wrong.” After a silence, he grunted with satisfaction, then said, “I got work to do,” and hung up.
In days past, Dent had loved hanging out at airports of any kind, be it a major hub or a county airfield with a gr
ass landing strip used mostly by crop dusters. He liked nothing better than talking shop with other pilots.
Now, he avoided conversation with them. Nor would any want to talk to him once he introduced himself by name. He went into the pilots’ lounge only long enough to grab a couple of newspapers, then made himself comfortable in an armchair in a remote spot off the main lobby. He read both sports sections. Tried to work a crossword puzzle, but didn’t get very far. He idly watched a five-year-old soccer game being telecast on ESPN.
When lunchtime rolled around, he picked up a cheeseburger at the grill and took it outside to a patio eating area. He ate the burger while watching planes take off from Hobby. Each time one soared off the runway, he felt that familiar and thrilling tug deep in his gut. As much as anything, maybe even more than anything, he missed the adrenaline rush of jet propulsion, the thrust that was virtually sexual. It had been like a drug to him, and he’d quit cold turkey.
Eventually Houston’s sultry heat drove him back into the air-conditioned building. He returned to his spot and, out of sheer boredom, opened Bellamy Price’s novel and began to read.
The prologue left him numb with disbelief. After five chapters, he was angry. By the time he came to the last chapter, he was seeing red.
Chapter 2
It was the calm before the storm, otherwise known as dinner at Maxey’s.
Sister restaurants in New York and Boston had already established its reputation, so almost as soon as Maxey’s Atlanta opened fifteen months ago in the tony Buck-head area, it became a choice spot for the well-heeled and beautiful—and wannabes—to see and be seen in.
Co-owner Steven Maxey was seated at the brushed-chrome bar, reviewing the chef’s specials for the evening and mentally gearing up for the onslaught that would begin as soon as the doors opened at five-thirty. When his cell phone vibrated, he glanced at the caller ID and, with a sense of dread, answered. “Hello, Mother.”
“I know you’re busy.”
“Never mind. Is it Howard?”
“We’re in Houston. We came down to see what our options are in terms of further treatment.”
