“Actually, I prefer ’em. What I’ve got an aversion to is a pilot who gets sabotaged and damn near killed in my plane, waits hours to call me with the details, and then when he does, takes me by the hand and leads me around the mulberry bush a few times and thinks—wrongly—that I’ll be satisfied with that.”

“I share your frustration, believe me. I don’t know what’s going on, either. I’d like to hang around till I find out who was at the other end of that laser and take a dull handsaw to his dick. But the best thing for me, and for you, too, is to soft-soap that in my accident report. Say it could have been a laser, not that it definitely was. I want to get away from here as soon as possible and write this off as a misadventure.”

Dash thought it over. Then, “You saw inside the box?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don’t want Dash-It-All to get caught up in anything illegal.”

“Hear you. I don’t want to get caught up in anything, period. I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. Free to go.” Without trying to sound desperate, he said, “Send me somewhere, Dash.”

“Where are you now?”

“ER waiting room. I dropped by to see about the guy who got clobbered.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘writing it off.’”

“I owe him this much. Jesus.”

“Okay, okay. And then you’re ready to skip Dodge?”

“As soon as I’ve looked over the plane and talked to the FAA office in Atlanta. I doubt an agent will truck it up here before Monday, earliest. Probably he won’t come at all. Keep checking your email. I’ll send you pictures. You can forward them to your insurance adjuster.”

“Never mind what I said a minute ago. Breaks my heart to think of that 182 being junked. It was a damn good plane.”

“Breaks my heart for you. May be worth salvaging.”

“We’ll see.”

“You got a flight for me?”

Dash blew out a gust of breath. “Rye, why don’t you cut yourself some slack? You had a close call last night.”

“All the more reason to get back up.”

“I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

“Do me a favor. Put me in the air.”

Dash rumbled something that Rye didn’t catch, then said, “Okay. First thing that comes up is yours. But it’s Thanksgiving, and you’re stuck in that burg. How will you get out?”

“I’ll finagle a ride.”

“To where? My first choice would be to have you in Atlanta.”

“Mine, too.”

“Let me know when you manage it. In the meantime, get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I said okay. From Atlanta, you can send me anywhere. Doesn’t matter where.”

“As you’ve told me a thousand times.”

“And thanks for being so decent about the plane.”

“That’s me, decent.” Having said that, he clicked off.

Rye slid his phone into the pocket of his jacket. He adjusted his focus and looked at his reflection mirrored in the window glass. He made quite a sight. Warmed-over shit came to mind. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. His scruff was two days too long, and his hair looked like it had been groomed by a leaf blower. No wonder the lady at the admissions desk had regarded him with apprehension.

No wonder Brynn O’Neal had.

Last he’d seen of her, she’d been talking to her colleague on the phone. Rawlins had led Rye back to his office and installed him there. Typical of military and police procedures, gears ground slowly. Getting the damn statement written up and signed had taken more than an hour. Once Rawlins cleared him, he had gotten out while the getting was good. Brynn had been nowhere in sight.

On the ground floor, he’d spotted Myra manning a desk in an otherwise vacant room. He’d stopped to ask her for directions to the hospital, and she’d provided them.

“How far is it?”

“Mile, mile and a half. I can drive you over.”

“Thanks anyway. I’ll hoof it.”

He’d left by way of the employee door through which he’d been escorted in, officially ending his eventful but brief interaction with Dr. Brynn O’Neal.

I can’t wait to start never seeing you again.

By now she would be on her way back to Atlanta, back to her Dr. Lambert, her terminally ill patient, her medical practice, her life, which he’d wanted to know nothing about. He’d seen the last of her. Connection severed. No further involvement. Not even a goodbye.

Just as well.

He told himself.

“Sir?”

The attendant was back, and she was smiling. He started toward her, but she pointed him toward the elevator. “Second floor. Marlene’s watching for you.”

At that point, he wanted to turn and run. He’d wanted to get matter-of-fact information passed along by a stranger. He hadn’t bargained on having a one-on-one with Brady’s wife, for godsake. But even he couldn’t be heel enough to leave now.

He rode up and stepped off the elevator, immediately recognizing the woman from the vacation photo on Brady White’s desk. She had a soft, matronly figure and a beautiful smile.

She reached for his right hand and clasped it between hers. “I know who you are, but, forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

“Rye Mallett.”

“Mr. Mallett—”

“Rye.”

“I’m Marlene. It means so much to me that you came to check on Brady. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been at the airfield last night. How’s he doing?”

“They’re calling his condition ‘guarded.’ No skull fracture or depression. No bleeding has shown up on the brain scans. He’s got a concussion, but I’ll take that.” She beamed a smile at him. “Your timing is perfect. They’ve given us only two minutes with him.” She let go of his hand and started walking quickly down the hall.

Rye’s long stride caught him up with her. “He’s come to?”

“Only a few minutes ago.”

“He’s okay, then?”

“Groggy, disoriented, but he’ll want to see you.”

Rye panicked at the thought of a personal encounter. “You should be the one using the two minutes.”

She smiled at him as they approached one of only three ICU beds. “He would never forgive me. But he doesn’t know about the crash yet. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it.”

“No. Of course not. Has he said who attacked him?”

“He doesn’t even remember it. The last thing he remembers is talking to you on the radio and hearing your engine. The doctor said it looked like he was struck from behind. Deputy Thatcher agreed.”

Through the glass wall, Rye could see the man on the bed. He was hooked up to a variety of monitors that looked more complicated than a cockpit panel.

Brynn would know what they were for.

He hesitated on the threshold. Marlene went in ahead of him, then bent over her husband and said something to him. Rye saw his legs stir beneath the sheet. Marlene turned and motioned him in.

Rye walked to the bedside. Brady White wasn’t recognizable as the man in the picture, but that was understandable. There was a bandage on his head. His eyes were open, but he seemed to have trouble focusing. However, he gave Rye a feeble smile and groped for his hand.

Rye took his and shook it, glad to feel its warmth. Going through his mind like a looped recording was, Thank God you didn’t die. Thank God you didn’t die. He couldn’t have borne that.

“Thanks for coming out for me last night,” he said. “I hate this happened to you. I want you to know how sorry I am.”

Brady tried to shake his head but grimaced with the effort. In a scratchy voice, he said, “You made it in okay?”

Rye held his hands out to his sides to show that he was uninjured. “Whenever your number of safe landings equals your number of takeoffs…” He smiled, and it was returned.

Brady held up his first two fingers in a V. “Two beers.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten. We’ll have them and talk flying.”

Brady nodded. His eyelids flickered, then closed.

“Mrs. White.” A nurse had come in, their signal to leave.

Marlene kissed her husband’s forehead then rejoined Rye in the hall. As they walked back toward the elevator, she told him she would ride down with him.

While they waited for the elevator, Rye asked her if she thought the guy who rented space in Brady’s hangar had been the one to attack him. “If so, that must’ve been some quarrel.”

“I don’t know the man except by name, and only through Brady. He described their argument as ‘heated,’ but that could have been an understatement to keep me from worrying. When Deputy Thatcher asked me if Brady had any enemies, I couldn’t think of anyone else that he’s been crosswise with.”

Rye knew little of Brady White, but he seemed like a man who made more friends than enemies. Even if this dispute over the cost of fuel had cultivated him a violent enemy, how would that guy have known Brady was going to be out there last night when every other airport was shut down? Oh, and have a laser with him. And one angry lessee didn’t compute with two sets of footprints.

Much more likely was that whoever had attacked Brady knew he would be on duty at the airfield, which meant they knew that Rye was scheduled to land there.

“Marlene, besides you, did Brady tell anybody about me coming in, give anyone my ETA?”

“Not to my knowledge. Why?”

“Just narrowing down the suspects.”

“That’s hardly your responsibility.”

“I feel responsible.”

She patted his arm. “The assault on Brady had nothing to do with you.”