“Thanks.”
She’d been so focused on getting what she’d come for, she hadn’t thought of the other repercussions of the crash. “Poor Mr. White,” she said. “You were just about to land. He must be frantic to know what happened to you.”
“Oh, poor Mr. White will know what happened to me. He’ll know I’m down, one way or the other.”
“You should have notified him that you’re all right.”
“Couldn’t. My phone’s busted, and my spare isn’t charged up. So either he’s out searching for me himself, or he’s reporting to the authorities that the plane and I are unaccounted for. In which case, we’ll soon have hillbillies with badges poking around and asking questions, and somehow…” He dipped his knees to bring them eye to eye. “I get the drift that you had just as soon avoid that as much as I would. Doctor.”
The emphasis on her title didn’t escape her. Neither did his pause, which invited her to confirm, qualify, or dispute his “drift.” When she didn’t speak at all, one corner of his lips tilted up marginally, smugly. “What I thought.”
He straightened his knees and returned to his full height. “Whatever you’re up to, it’s no skin off my nose. But I’m anxious to meet Brady White up close and personal, and to demonstrate just how alive and well I am.”
“When you blew over my car, I tried to call him but didn’t have service.” She took her cell phone from a coat pocket, then turned it toward him so he could see for himself that she didn’t have a signal. “Cell service is unreliable up here, especially in bad weather.”
“You know this area?”
“I’m one of the hillbillies.” She gave him a pointed look. “I grew up here. That’s how I knew about the county airport.” Looking beyond him at the plane, she asked, “Are you just going to leave it here?”
“It’s not going to fly off.”
“Is it yours? Do you own it?”
He shook his head. “I’m only a flyer for hire.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” He continued without a segue. “If the fog clears, I’ll get somebody to bring me out here tomorrow. I have to take pictures to include in my report.”
“To?”
“The nearest FAA office. Depending on whether or not the agent I draw is a real hard-ass, this probably won’t be investigated. No deaths, no injuries. Very little to report, right?”
Again she got the feeling that he was fishing and was curious to hear how she would answer. She fiddled with her phone to avoid looking directly at him. “I don’t know anything about FAA regulations.”
“I know everything.”
She dropped the phone back into her pocket, then gave him a slow once-over, starting at his uncombed hair and working all the way down to his scuffed boots. His jaw was bristly. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, only jeans and a battered bomber jacket. The shirt underneath it looked slept in.
There was a nickname for his sort of cargo pilot, but she couldn’t recall it offhand.
Meeting his cool gaze again, she said, “I rather imagine you also know how to get around FAA regulations, Mr. Mallett.”
“Lucky for you. Nobody else would’ve risked flying here tonight.”
“Why did you?”
He just looked at her, his face a mask. Then, “About that lift?”
“Yes. If we can find our way back to my car.”
“I charted the layout of the airfield. The road you were on dead-ends at the southeast corner of the property.”
He turned away from her and walked back toward the airplane. He disappeared around the tree into which it had nosed and reappeared with a leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a padlocked black box. He gave her back her flashlight, then handed her the box. “Delivered.”
She hugged the box against her chest. “Thank you. Truly.”
“We’ll complete the paperwork when we get to the airfield office. And I accept gratuities. Truly.”
He returned the gun to its zippered compartment in his bag, then took a flashlight from it and switched it on. He motioned with his chin. “Back the way you came.” He went past her, assuming the role of leader. Over his shoulder, he said, “Stick close. If you fall behind and get lost in the fog, you’re on your own. I won’t come looking.”
She believed him.
2:16 a.m.
The two men who were hunkered down in the underbrush a few yards away from the wreckage waited until the pilot and doctor were swallowed up by the fog. The cold haze had helped conceal them, but it was also making a complicated situation just that much more difficult.
When it should have been so easy.
That’s what the boss was going to say when Goliad called in to report this royal fuckup.
“What now?” his partner whispered.
“Plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“For me to know. Come on.” As Goliad stood up, he looked down with loathing at the man beside him, whom he would gladly throttle here and now. The boss had told him to bring someone with him, someone disposable, to be the fall guy if something should go wrong. Timmy had been suggested.
Bad idea. Timmy had screwed up, and, for him, there would be hell to pay. But not until the time was right. Presently, Goliad was letting him live because he might yet prove to be useful.
Goliad had been born in the Texas town of the same name. It was the name on his baptismal certificate. The name stuck, but the baptism didn’t take. His sainted mother had died clutching her rosary and sobbing over the path he’d chosen for his life. It wasn’t the straight-and-narrow one she’d fervently and futilely prayed for.
Timmy had been inducted into his first gang at the ripe age of eleven after he’d slit the throat of his abusive father and took to the rough streets of Philadelphia, where he was absorbed into the thriving criminal element. Now in his early twenties, he maintained a feral, street-gang mentality.
They made an odd pair. Goliad carried a handgun but was rarely called upon to use it. His height and breadth of chest made him so physically imposing that few men would think of challenging him.
The top of Timmy’s head didn’t even reach Goliad’s shoulder. He was small, wiry, and mean. He liked to provoke and was easily provoked. He preferred blades to bullets and never carried fewer than three knives, well concealed.
As they headed back to where they’d left their car, Timmy asked, “Are you going to tell the boss about the laser?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” Goliad replied, intentionally leaving Timmy to worry. But he didn’t want to get a knife in the back, so he motioned for Timmy to take the lead.
“I can’t find my way back to the car in this shit.”
“Then I guess you’ll stay lost out here in the woods and may never be found.”
Timmy must’ve sensed the underlying threat. Mumbling about how much he hated nature and missed city life, he plowed ahead, but it was Goliad who set the pace, keeping close behind Timmy, giving him a prod whenever he tripped over something unseen or slowed down to avoid collision with a sapling or boulder that took shape out of the fog, often only inches in front of them.
“I just want to know one thing,” Goliad said. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I’ve got a curious mind,” Timmy said in a whine. “I saw it on TV. A story telling how dangerous lasers were to pilots. Lots of them are getting zapped.”
“So you thought you’d try it out on this pilot, see if it worked to make him crash.”
“I just meant to mess with him some.”
Goliad shook his head over the stupidity. “Where’d you get the damn thing?”
“Saw UPS delivering a package to a house. Stole it off the front porch soon as the truck drove off. Didn’t even know what was in the carton until I opened it. Bonanza!”
“When was this?”
“Coupla weeks ago.”
“You know, they catch thieves like that on home security cameras.”
Timmy guffawed. “I know how to dodge those.”
“You had better hope. Have you shown it off to anybody?”
“No. Never turned it on before tonight.”
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to experiment.”