“You must like each other.”
He huffed. “Not a bit. We’re just used to each other.”
“Do you live in Columbus?”
He shook his head. “That was just the last place I lighted.”
“So where is home?”
“The last place I lighted.”
Obviously that wasn’t the answer she’d expected, and it subdued her for another minute or more. Then, “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“So I’m told.”
“You don’t have any plans?”
He turned his head aside and looked through the fog beyond his right shoulder. Plans had been made for him. He hadn’t accepted. “No.”
“You’ll spend the day alone?”
“More than likely.”
“Maybe your friend Dash will get you back to Columbus so you can celebrate—”
“Look.” He came to an abrupt stop and turned to her. She stopped and faced him. “Dash isn’t my friend and won’t give a damn how I spend my Thanksgiving, any more than I care how he’ll spend his. I know you’re just trying to make friendly conversation to fill an awkward silence between strangers, but I’m not big on friendly conversation, and I don’t find silences awkward. In fact I like silences and prefer strangers.
“So stop asking me personal questions, okay? A few minutes from now, we’ll go our separate ways and never see each other again. You got your whatever.” He indicated the box she held under her arm against her rib cage. “I’ll get paid for delivering it, I’ll give you a receipt. With that, our business will be concluded. Over. So I don’t need to know anything about you and your life, and you sure as hell don’t need to know anything about mine.”
He felt her seething anger as she turned away and resumed walking—more like marching—toward the airfield’s office, which had materialized in the fog. The brick building was small, squat, square, and had little to recommend it. Its only two windows were in front and overlooked the landing strip, a windsock, and a pair of antiquated fuel pumps. Through the fog, Rye also made out the semicircular shape of a Quonset hut hangar nearby.
The runway lights blinked through the gloom. The light coming from the windows of the office was faint, as though its source was in a back room. A pickup truck was parked between the office and the hangar, indicating that the manager was still there.
Brynn approached the office with an angry energy that matched Rye’s. Then she stopped and turned back to him. “When I set out from Atlanta tonight, I knew the round trip would be difficult, but, thanks to you, I’ve had more of an adventure than I bargained for, including the near loss of my life. Furthermore, you’ve delayed my return trip when time is of the essence.
“You never even apologized for almost crashing your plane into me, or for any of the other objectionable things you’ve said and done. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your life, Mr. Mallett. As soon as I sign off on your paperwork—forget a gratuity—you’ll be rid of me, and I’ll be well rid of you. I can’t wait to start never seeing you again.”
She pivoted on her heel and continued walking toward the building.
The putdown was deserved, of course. He couldn’t say exactly why she’d gotten under his skin, but she had. It was an itch he had to terminate. So he’d reset barriers and reestablished boundaries, and he’d achieved that by behaving like a complete jerk.
It had worked to ward her off. She wasn’t smiling anymore, wasn’t drawing his attention to her pouty lower lip, wasn’t inspiring fantasies of slippery sex during a tropical rainstorm.
All way too enticing. He couldn’t get away from her fast enough.
By the time she reached the office door and pushed it open, he had caught up with her, then bumped into her when she came to a dead stop.
A man sat slumped over a desk, his head lying on it.
Shock rooted him and Brynn in place, but only for a second. Rye pushed her out of his way and rushed over to the desk. Brynn hesitated only long enough to set the black box on a chair and switch on the overhead fluorescent lights.
Rye bent over the man. If this was Brady White, he was two decades older than Rye had estimated, given the youthfulness in his voice. Blood from a wound behind his ear had formed a puddle on the desktop. Rye worked two fingers inside the collar of his plaid flannel shirt and pressed his carotid.
“He’s got a pulse. Check him out.” As he stepped aside to give Brynn better access, he swung his flight bag off his shoulder and unzipped it.
She lifted the injured man’s eyelid to look at his pupil and turned his hand over where it lay on the desk so she could get his pulse. As she felt for it, she looked up at Rye. “How did he—”
“He didn’t. It was done to him.” He took the pistol from his bag. “Don’t touch anything else. Keep a heads-up. Yell if you hear anything outside. I’m going to take a look around.”
“Is the gun necessary?”
“We’ll soon know.”
Rye carefully walked around two sets of muddy shoe prints he’d noticed on the vinyl flooring and started down a short hallway. It took him under a minute to check the three back rooms. One was little more than a closet stocked with cleaning and office supplies. There was a compact bathroom having only a commode and sink. A reception-type room was furnished with a sofa, a pair of matching chairs, and a coffee bar. Nothing was fancy or new, but everything was organized and tidy.
He looked for a back door. There wasn’t one.
When he returned to the main office, Brynn had the receiver of the desk phone to her ear, holding it with fingertips covered by her sleeve.
“We assume it’s Mr. White. He has a head wound. No, we believe that it was inflicted.”
Rye patted down the man’s pants pockets and located his wallet. In it was Brady White’s driver’s license. He held it up to Brynn, and she confirmed his identity to the 911 operator. “He’s unconscious, but his pupils are reactive.”
As Brynn gave the dispatcher a rapid description of the situation and Brady’s condition as best she’d been able to determine it, Rye looked down at the bald spot on the crown of Brady’s head, which somehow made him appear more vulnerable than the bleeding gash.
Rye had relished the thought of bashing this man himself. Now, he was ashamed for leaping to what was obviously a wrong conclusion about him. On the desk, beside the radio setup through which he’d been communicating with Rye, was a framed photo of Brady, a woman of similar age, two boys, and a younger girl with a missing front tooth. All were dressed in typical summer vacation clothing. Cameras and sun visors. In the background was the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.
Also on the desk, acting as a holder for pens and pencils, was a coffee mug decorated with a picture of the Wright brothers’ plane, aloft on the beach at Kitty Hawk. A shelf at eye level above the desk held a collection of books on aviation, an autographed picture of Chuck Yeager, and a model of the Spirit of St. Louis.
Brady White was an aviation buff. To this guy, aiming a laser beam at a cockpit would be a mortal sin.
“Pulse, sixty-two but thready,” Brynn was saying into the phone. “Yes, of course, but they need to hurry. Thank you.”
She hung up and said to Rye, “The ambulance could take up to ten minutes because we’re so far out. And the fog.” She glanced toward the back rooms. “Any indication of…anything?”
He shook his head. “Far as I can tell, nothing back there has been disturbed. Cash and credit cards are in his wallet, so it wasn’t a robbery. No back door.” He called her attention to the shoe prints. “They entered same way we did, came up behind him, probably while he was on the radio with me. They did what they came to do, turned off the radio, left.”
“The sheriff’s office is sending deputies out to investigate.”
He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes? Is he going to be all right?”