by Sandra Brown
Are you family?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give out patient information to anyone except a family member.”
Rye looked away for a second or two before coming back to the woman at the ER’s admission desk. In order to talk to him, she had slid open a panel of glass, but rules were a more substantial barrier than the partition.
He decided to appeal to her humanity. “Do you know Brady White personally?”
“I’ve known him forever. We were in the same class all through school. Marlene was a year behind us.”
Rye assumed that Marlene was Mrs. White. “I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if he’s going to be all right.”
Her expression turned doleful, but she didn’t waver. “It’s hospital policy, sir. I can’t give—”
She flinched when Rye rested his hands on the counter and leaned toward her. “If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been out there last tonight. I need to know he’s going to pull through.”
She adjusted her eyeglasses and looked him over, taking particular notice of his bomber jacket and flight bag. “You’re the one who crashed his plane?”
“Yeah, I’m that one,” he said, trying not to sound too wry. “I walked away from my ordeal. Brady didn’t. Can you at least tell me if he’s come around?”
She hesitated, looked over her shoulder as though fearing someone in authority might catch her violating policy, then winked at him and whispered, “Don’t go anywhere. Let me check.” She slid shut the panel of glass and disappeared through a doorway at the back of the office.
Rye was alone in the waiting room. The bright fluorescent lighting made it seem cold and inhospitable. The irony of that didn’t escape him. He walked over to an eastern-facing window. Although Thanksgiving Day had dawned, there wasn’t a pink sunrise to admire. The density of the fog obscured it.
At this hour, it would still be full dark in Austin. Too early to call.
Which actually made it the ideal time. It was doubtful anyone would answer, he wouldn’t have to talk, but the call would be registered. He could honestly claim that he’d made an attempt.
He punched in the number. The call went through. He disconnected on the third ring. Done.
But then he realized that the number of his spare phone wouldn’t be recognized. That call hadn’t counted. He still had it to dread.
Dash would be up. Dash was always up. Rye called. Dash answered in his customary snarl, and when Rye identified himself, he said, “Well, it’s about time. I’ve been—”
“My phone was busted, and before you light into me, let me fill you in on a few details that the deputy who called you last night didn’t know.”
For once in his life, Dash held his tongue for as long as Rye talked. He concluded by telling Dash how sorry he was about the Cessna. “I did my best. Wasn’t good enough.”
“Shit, Rye. The plane’s insured. I’ll collect the money and sell the undamaged parts, and come out ahead. It’s worth more wrecked than it was intact. But if you’d’ve been killed—”
“You wouldn’t have collected a thing. I’m not insured. My life isn’t worth a dime.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Wasn’t.”
After a short, tense silence, Dash asked, “You’re sure about the laser?”
A tide of anger washed over Rye. “Don’t insult me, Dash.”
“Just asking a simple question. Don’t read nothing into it.”
Rye knew there was much more behind Dash’s simple question, but he left it alone. “The beam hit me square in the eyes.”
“All I needed to hear. I’d like to castrate the bastard.”
“Get in line.”
“Have the cops rounded up any suspects yet?”
This was going to be the dicey part. “I didn’t tell them about it. I let them think I screwed the pooch.” Rye figured Dash was too astonished to speak. He continued before he could. “Wouldn’t have done any good to tell them, Dash. They’d only have my word for it, and I can see the eye rolls now. If I’d cried laser, it would’ve looked like I made up a far-fetched excuse for missing the runway.”
“And that’s worse than having them think it was your error?”
“This time, yeah.”
“Want to tell me why?”
“It’s complicated.”
Dash snorted. “That much I know.”
“It has to do with the client.”
“Dr. Lambert, or the one who came to meet you?”
“Both, I think. This whole thing is off somehow. She protects that box like it’s the Holy Grail.”
“She?”
“Dr. O’Neal.”
“The Dr. O’Neal you’ve been talking about is a she?”
“What? You’ve got something against female doctors?”
“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 f
rom 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.”
Maybe not directly. But did it have to do with Brynn O’Neal?
The elevator arrived. As they boarded, Rye switched subjects. “I take it that Brady is an aviation buff.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Does he fly?”
Her expression turned rueful. “No.”
The elevator door opened on the lobby level. They stepped out, and Rye’s heart kicked against his ribs when he saw Brynn alighting from a sheriff’s unit parked in the porte cochere. Wilson was at the wheel. Brynn bent down and said something to him, then closed the door, and he drove away. She entered the lobby through the automatic doors. She was carrying that damn box.
Immediately spotting him and Marlene White, whom she must have recognized from the photograph on Brady’s desk, she made her way over. She acknowledged him with a nod, then turned her attention to Brady’s wife and introduced herself.
Mrs. White clasped Brynn’s hand as she had Rye’s. “Dr. O’Neal, thank you so much for seeing to Brady last night.”
“Call me Brynn, please. And you’re welcome. I only wish I could have done more. What’s his condition?”
Marlene repeated what she’d told him. “He regained consciousness only a little while ago. Just in time for Rye to see him.”
Brynn turned her gaze up to him. “You two talked?”
“W
e exchanged a few words. Not sure he’ll remember any of it.”
“Oh, he’ll remember,” Marlene said around a laugh. “He won’t forget you telling him that you’ll talk planes.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t have his pilot’s license,” Rye said.
“He would if he could. All he ever wanted to do was fly. But he has a heart murmur caused by a faulty mitral valve. They discovered it when he was still in his teens, but he was probably born with it. He suffers mild symptoms that are controlled with medication. It doesn’t prevent him from doing pretty much whatever he wants to.”
“Except fly,” Rye said.
“Except fly,” she repeated sadly.
Brynn asked, “Doesn’t it bother him to manage the airfield, watch other people do what he would love to be doing?”
“No, just the opposite. He’s still plane crazy and enjoys the camaraderie with pilots.” She looked over at Rye. “When he heard that you were thumbing your nose at the weather and flying in here last night, he was as excited as a kid. As he left the house, he said, ‘I can’t wait to meet this fellow.’ Now he has. Your visit today will have meant the world to him.”
“When he’s recovered, I’ll come back and take him flying.”
Tears misted Marlene’s eyes. She pressed her hand to her chest. “He would love that.”
Rye could tell that his spontaneous offer had surprised Brynn. Hell, it had surprised him. He was aware of her searching his expression, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he bent down, picked up his flight bag from off the floor. “Now that it’s getting light, I need to go check on the plane.”
“How are you getting out there?” Marlene asked. “You don’t have a car, do you?”
“I’ll figure out something.”
“You’ll take mine.”
He chuffed and gave his head a hard shake. “I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
He searched for a reason to refuse. “Didn’t a deputy drive you here last night?”
“He offered. I declined.”
“Because you thought you would need your car.”
“I thought I might. But I don’t. I’ve got friends and relatives begging to know what they can do for me. If I need a ride before you get back, I’ll have my choice. Let me go get the key.”
“Mrs. White—Marlene, I can’t take your car.”