Brynn turned and continued up the stairs just ahead of Rye. He was tempted to grab a strand of wavy hair and yank her to a stop, then tell her she had her nerve being pissy with him, when it was he who had every right to be furious. He, who only ever wanted to be left alone to go about his business, now found himself embroiled in one hell of a mess of her making, and the nature of the mess was still a mystery to him.

The situation had gone tits up the instant that laser had skewered his eyeballs. Things hadn’t improved. They continued to get worse.

A sheriff’s office was never a good place to find oneself in the predawn. He had the uneasy feeling that he was entering the lions’ den and realized he was bracing himself for whatever nasty shock came next.

Besides Wilson, Rawlins, and Myra, there were only a handful of personnel on duty, but as they reached the second floor, an older officer, who was on his way downstairs, hesitated when he saw Brynn and smiled in recognition.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said in the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker. After getting only a marginal smile and murmured hello from her, he held back whatever else he was about to say, doffed an imaginary hat, and continued on down the steps.

The staircase opened into a large squad room with a warren of desks, only one of them occupied by a sleepy-looking man in plainclothes who sat staring into a computer monitor.

“You and I will take room three,” Wilson said to Brynn. Rye noticed that she headed toward an offshoot hallway without needing direction.

Rawlins followed them and said to Rye, “Down here.” He passed the room Brynn and Wilson entered. Farther down the hall, he opened the door to a cramped office. He hung his coat and hat on a wall-mounted hook and motioned Rye in. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”

“Can I please borrow a phone charger?” Rye asked.

“Sure.” Rawlins pulled the door shut as he left.

Between Rawlins and Wilson, it was no contest as to which was the “bad cop.” Rye wondered why he’d been unlucky enough to draw him.

He sat down in front of a desk that looked like it had sustained storm damage. The rest of the office was equally cluttered, the walls papered with outdated calendars, old wanted posters, and notices of one kind or another.

Several tacky golf trophies were jammed between books and files in the three-shelf bookcase. It also contained a bobblehead of a Clemson tiger next to a picture of a younger Rawlins wearing the full gear of the university’s football team. A signed baseball was encased in a Plexiglas cube.

The things a man hoarded revealed a lot about the man and what he valued.

Rawlins was easy to peg. A former jock, clinging to glory days.

Brady White loved his family and aviation.

Rye Mallett?

He looked down at his brown bomber jacket where it lay across his lap.

It was vintage World War II. He’d discovered it in a trunk in a dusty antiques store that specialized in aviation memorabilia. It had been love at first sight. He’d asked the proprietor to please hold it for him until he could scrape up enough money to buy it. He left a ten-dollar down payment and paid on the layaway whenever he had some spare cash. On the day he’d gotten his pilot’s license at age sixteen, he’d gone into the store, settled the balance, and worn the jacket out.

The store owner couldn’t recall from where or whom he’d obtained the trunk, so Rye never learned the name or fate of the aviator who’d worn the jacket during the war. The patches on it designated his squadron and various air bases, but Rye never pursued those clues. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the pilot’s fate, because odds were good that he hadn’t survived. If he had, he never would have parted with his bomber jacket.

Rye ran his hand over the creased and scored leather, wishing he knew how each imperfection had come to be there. They were imbedded into the leather, representing chapters in the jacket’s history. He’d added nicks and scratches of his own, making him an intrinsic part of it, yet he didn’t consider himself its owner. He was merely its caretaker, the flyer to whom it had been temporarily entrusted until he passed it on to another.

Thinking back to Dr. O’Neal’s prissy disapproval of the lining, he snickered. He stretched his legs out, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Except for the nap he’d taken on Dash’s sofa, he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He was beat.

The next thing he knew, Rawlins was back. Rye sat up straight, dry-scrubbed his face, and glanced at his watch. He’d dozed for nearly fifteen minutes.

During that time, the deputy had been busy. His hands were so full, he had to push the door shut with his heel. He passed Rye a phone charger and pointed to the nearest wall outlet.

“Thanks.” Rye took his spare phone from his flight bag and plugged into it.

Rawlins set a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. “Cream’s curdled and we’ve run out of powdered. I have sweetener.” He scattered a variety of packets on the desk as he sat down.

“I’m good.” Rye removed the plastic lid and sipped. The brew was scalding, strong, and bracing.

Rawlins set his cell phone within reach on his cluttered desk, drank from his cup of coffee, then worked an oversize paperclip off the sheaf of paper he’d carried in tucked under his arm. Rye saw that it was a stack of printouts of official-looking forms and documents.

Fuck.

Rawlins said, “You’re a surprise, Mr. Mallett.”

Rye kept his expression a blank. “How’s that?”

“You look like a bum and act like a prick, but you graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors, flew dangerous missions in Afghanistan, returned from your second tour a decorated hero.” Rawlins looked across the desk at him. “What happened?”

“I found God.”

The deputy heaved a weary sigh and leaned back in his desk chair. “Your comic timing needs work.”

“Speaking of timing, how soon can I get out of here?”

Rawlins reacted to that with a show of temper. “I don’t want to be here, either, you know. The sun is about to come up on Thanksgiving, and my wife is mad as hell because a passel of kinfolk is descending at noon, and I forgot to pick up evaporated milk last night. Or maybe it was condensed milk. Whichever, she can’t finish her pie-baking, and I’m catching the blame.” He brought his chair upright like he was about to launch. “All because of you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No?”

“No. Well, except for keeping my plane aloft long enough to spare Dr. O’Neal’s life, but good flying doesn’t seem to go very far with you people.”

“You ever been arrested?”

Rye hitched his chin toward the stack of paperwork. “What’s it say?”

Rawlins thumbed through several sheets. “Says disturbing the peace.”

“When and where, specifically?”

“That’s rather the point,” Rawlins returned dryly. “All over the place.” He scanned more sheets. “Says drunkenness.”

“Guilty. San Diego. Bad batch of tequila. Spent the night in the drunk tank, which was a lot more luxurious than the motel the skinflint client had agreed to cover. At least I knew whose pee it was on the floor.”

“Reno, Nevada. Assault in a hotel room.”

“You’re reading it wrong. I filed the complaint. He assaulted me.”

“He?”

“She failed to mention she had a husband.”

Rawlins snuffled and shook his head. “Man. When you bottomed out, you bottomed out good, didn’t you?”

“I’m an overachiever.”

The deputy wasn’t amused. “Who won? You or the husband?”

“I threatened to throw him out the tenth-floor window if he didn’t back off.”

“Were you bluffing?”

“We’ll never know. He backed off before I was tested.”

Rawlins studied him over his cup of coffee as he took another drink, then said, “You’re lying.”

“I’ll swear under oath that it was the tenth floor.”

“You’re lying when you say you don’t know what’s in that box of Dr. O’Neal’s.”

“I don’t.”

“Or why Brady White was attacked.”

“No idea.”

“That’s a crock of shit, Mr. Mallett.”

Rye yawned widely.

Rawlins looked through more of the sheets. “You’ve spent a lot of time flying in Central and South America.”

“I’ve logged thousands of hours.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Big continent. Lots of real estate to cover. Lots of out-of-the-way places that can only be reached by air. Peru alone has—”

“Have you ever flown weapons?”

“Only for the U.S. Air Force.”

“Drugs?”

“Yes.”

He could tell the swift admission took Rawlins aback.

“Once,” Rye qualified, holding up his index finger. “Without my knowledge. The payload was knock-off designer handbags destined for a discount department store chain in south Texas. When I arrived and started unloading the freight, I discovered the damn purses were stuffed with heroin. I was pissed. Anonymously tipped both the DEA and Customs, but not before making the guy who set me up rue the day he was born.”

“You’re telling me that no one’s ever tried to hire you—”

“I didn’t tell you that. I’m approached all the time. Kingpins, penny-ante pushers, corrupt government officials. They’ve all offered me top dollar because they know I’ll fly anywhere.

“But the thought of federal prison doesn’t appeal to me, and, in any effing case, I’m not a damn drug runner.” He stood up and pulled on his jacket. “You haven’t thought this through, Rawlins.”