Low Pressure (2 page)

“Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Jerry, yes.” He had an open, friendly face and thinning hair. He’d come to several book signings, and she’d spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a bookstore on the NYU campus. “Thank you for coming out this morning.”

“I never pass up an occasion to see you.”

She signed her name on the title page, which he held open for her. “How many copies does this make that you’ve bought, Jerry?”

He laughed. “I’m buying birthday and Christmas presents.”

She suspected he was also starstruck. “Well, I and my publisher thank you.”

She moved on and, while Jerry fell back into the crush, Van Durbin boldly nudged people out of his way so he could stay even with her. He persisted with the question about a possible movie based on her book.

“Come on, Ms. Price. Give my readers a hint of who you see playing the key characters. Who would you cast as your family members?” He winked and leaned in, asking in a low voice, “Who do you see playing the killer?”

She gave him a sharp look.

He grinned and said to the photographer, “I hope you captured that.”

The rest of the day was no less hectic.

She and Dexter had attended a meeting at the publishing house to discuss the timing of the release of the trade paperback edition of
Low Pressure
. After a lengthy exchange of opinions, it was decided that the book was selling so well in the hardcover and e-book formats that an alternate edition wouldn’t be practical for at least another six months.

They’d gone from that meeting to a luncheon appointment with a movie producer. After they dined on lobster salad and chilled asparagus in the privacy of his hotel suite, he’d made an earnest pitch about the film he wanted to make, guaranteeing that if they sold him the rights, he would do justice to the book.

As they’d left the meeting, Dexter joked, “Wouldn’t your friend Van Durbin love to know about that meeting?”

“He’s no friend. T. J. David’s true identity was supposed to be a carefully guarded secret. Who did Van Durbin bribe to get my name?”

“A publishing house intern, an assistant to someone in the contracts department. It could have been anybody.”

“Someone in your agency?”

He patted her hand. “We’ll probably never know. What does it matter now who it was?”

She sighed with resignation. “It doesn’t. The damage has been done.”

He laughed. “ ‘Damage’ being a matter of opinion.”

Dexter had dropped her off at her apartment building with a warning: “Tomorrow’s going to be another whirlwind day. Get some rest tonight. I’ll be here at seven a.m. to pick you up.”

She’d waved him off with a promise that she wouldn’t be late, then entered the lobby of her building. The concierge had called to her from behind his desk. “A package for you was delivered just a little while ago.”

It had looked innocent enough when she’d set it on her dining table along with a stack of mail. The box had been sealed with clear packing tape. She’d noted that the label was printed with her name and address, but not the sender’s information. That was curious, but she didn’t think too much of it as she split the tape, folded back the flaps, and lifted out the gift-wrapped box inside.

She never could have prepared herself for the hideous surprise it contained.

Now, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, she lowered her hands from her eyes and looked at the box with tissue paper blossoming out the top of it. That festive touch was so incongruous with the contents it had to have been planned that way as part of the joke.

Joke? No. This wasn’t funny. It was malicious.

But she couldn’t think of anyone whom she had offended, nor of anyone who would hold her in such contempt. Would Rocky Van Durbin, even having
Sleazy
as a middle name, do something so low-down and dirty as to send her a dead rat?

Slowly she worked her way up the wall, sliding her spine along it for support as she unsteadily came to her feet. Standing, she was able to see the rat nestled in the shiny paper. She tried desensitizing herself so she could look at it. She tried to objectify the corpse, but because each of its features was so grotesque, they seemed extraordinarily detailed.

She swallowed bile, chafed the goose bumps on her arms, and by force of will pulled herself together. It was only a dead rodent, after all. Rats were a common sight in the subway stations. Seeing one scuttling along the tracks had never caused her to have this kind of violent reaction.

She would replace the lid on the box and carry it to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. Then she’d be rid of it; she could forget about it and go on about her business, having refused to let the prankster get the best of her.

Steeling herself, she took a step forward, and another, and another, until she was almost upon it.

And then the rat’s tail flicked.

D
ent answered the phone with a grumble. “What?”

“You’re still in the sack?”

“What time is it?”

“You sound drunk.”

“Do I need to be sober?”

“If you want the job.”

“Today?”

“Soon as you can get here.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. Is it worth my trouble?”

“Since when can you afford to turn down a charter?”

“Okay, okay. How much?”

“Two thousand, down and back.”

“To?”

“Houston Hobby.”

“Overnight stay?”

“No.”

Dent sat up and placed his feet on the floor, testing his level of sobriety. He raked his fingers through his hair then left his hand there, palming his muzzy head. “Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

“The guy’s sick. He’s going to MD Anderson for chemo.”

“Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

An unintelligible mutter about greed, then, “I think I can swing that.”

“You do, and it’s a deal. What’s the weather like?”

“Hot, muggy, Texas in May.”

“Precip?”

“Possible scattered thundershowers late this evening. Nothing you can’t dodge, nothing scary.” After a hesitation, “You’re sure you’re okay to fly?”

“Gas up the plane.”

On his way to the bathroom, his bare foot hooked the electrical cord of the gooseneck lamp and pulled it off the nightstand. It fell with a thud, but fortunately the bulb didn’t break. He kicked the lamp and a heap of discarded clothing out of his path and stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the cold glare when he switched on the light.

He shaved by feel in the shower, brushed his teeth bent over the sink, and decided to let his hair dry naturally rather than use the dryer. Any grooming inconveniences these shortcuts imposed were preferable to looking at himself in the mirror.

Back in the bedroom, he dressed in his flight uniform: jeans, white oxford cloth shirt, black necktie, which he knotted but left loose beneath his open collar. He stamped into his boots, then scooped his wallet, keys, and aviator sunglasses off the dresser. At the door he paused to look back at the naked woman in his bed. She, whatever her name was, was still out cold. He considered leaving a note asking her to please lock the door when she left the apartment.

Then his bloodshot eyes swept the place, and he thought,
Why bother
? There was nothing in it that a thief could possibly want.

Morning rush hour was over, so traffic was reasonably light. The one remnant of Dent’s former life was red, equipped with an after-market-enhanced 530-hp engine, six-speed transmission, long tube headers, and a Corsa titanium exhaust. Punching the Corvette up to eighty whenever he had a clearing, he sped it beyond Austin’s northern city limit to the private airfield.

He could have kept his airplane at a fancier FBO, one with a control tower, but there were loyalty issues to take into account. Besides, this one suited him better.

His airplane was parked on the tarmac, which formed a concrete apron in front of the corrugated metal hangar. It had seen better days. It had seen better days twenty or so years ago, when Dent had first started hanging around.

Johnsongrass grew like fringe around the base of the rusted exterior walls of the hangar. The faded orange wind sock was the only one Dent had ever seen there, and he figured it was the original that had been attached to the pole shortly after World War II.

Parked in back, out of keeping with the rundown appearance of the building and Gall’s beat-up pickup truck, was a shiny black Escalade with darkly tinted windows.

Dent drove the Vette into the hangar, jerked it to a stop with a squeal of tires, cut the engine, and got out. Gall was seated behind the cluttered desk inside the hangar office, which amounted to one cloudy glass wall overlooking the hangar’s interior and three other walls constructed of unpainted, untaped Sheetrock. The enclosure was ten feet square, and it was jam-packed.

Maps, diagrams, topographical charts, and yellowed newspaper clippings of aviation stories were thumbtacked to the walls, which were pocked with pinholes. Outdated flight magazines with curling covers were stacked on every available surface. Sitting atop a rusty, dented file cabinet was a stuffed raccoon that had cobwebs over its glass eyes and bald spots in its fur. The calendar above it was from 1978 and was stuck on Miss March, who wore nothing except an inviting grin and a strategically placed butterfly.

When Dent walked in, Gall stood. Planting his fists on his hips, he looked Dent up and down, then harrumphed in undisguised disapproval and rolled his unlit cigar from one side of his stained lips to the other. “You look like hammered shit.”

“Got my money?”

“Yeah.”

“Then spare me the insults and let’s get to it.”

“Not so fast, Ace. I brokered this charter and take responsibility for the safety of the three passengers.”

“I can fly the goddamn plane.”

Gall Hathaway was unfazed by Dent’s tone. He was the only person on earth Dent would answer to because Gall’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him. The old man fixed a baleful stare on him, and he backed down.

“Come on, Gall. Would I fly if I wasn’t fit to?”

Gall hesitated for a few moments more, then slid a folded check from the pocket of his oil-stained coveralls and passed it to Dent.

“A check?”

“It’s good. I already called the bank.”

Dent unfolded the check, saw that it was drawn on a Georgetown bank for two thousand five hundred dollars payable to him and signed. All seemed to be in order. He put the check in his wallet.

“I pumped in ninety gallons of gas,” Gall said. “She’ll cover the fuel bill when you get back.”

Dent gave Gall a hard look.

“I trust her. She left her credit card as collateral.” Gall opened the lap drawer of his metal desk. In it were stubby pencils, bent paper clips, orphaned keys, a Bic pen with a fuzzy tip, and an American Express Platinum card. “She assured me it was valid. I checked anyhow. It is. For two more years. What FBO do you want to use? She left it up to you.”

Dent named the one he preferred.

“Cheaper fuel?” Gall asked.

“Fresher popcorn. Ground transportation?”

“She asked me to arrange for a limo to be waiting. That’s done.”

“They’re waiting in the Escalade?”

“She said it was too hot and stuffy inside the hangar.”

“
She
seems to be running the show.”

“I guess you could say.” Gall was suddenly having trouble looking him in the eye. “The old man is awful sick. Be pleasant.”

“I’m always pleasant.”

Gall snuffled. “Just remember, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Anything else? Mother?” Gall snarled, but Dent headed off whatever he was about to say with a question about coffee. “Still hot?”

“Ain’t it always?”

“Tell them I need twenty minutes, then we’ll take off. Anything they need to do in the meantime, go to the bathroom, whatever—”

“I know the drill.” Gall mumbled something Dent didn’t catch, which was probably just as well, then he added, “Before they see you, squirt some of that stuff over your eyeballs. They look like road maps.”

Dent went into the hangar proper and sat down at a table where the computer stayed linked to his favorite weather Web site. He made a note of the storms forecast for that evening, but the skies were presently clear.

He had made the flight to Houston Hobby many times. Nevertheless, he reviewed the information he needed for the flight portion of the trip as well as for the airport. He had Garmin in the cockpit. The Airport Facilities Directory for each state, plus FBO data, were downloaded onto his iPad, which he could access from the cockpit. But as a safety precaution he always printed out and carried with him information pertaining to takeoff, the destination airport, and an alternate airport. Lastly, he called ATC and filed a flight plan.

Outside, he went through the preflight check of his airplane, even knowing that Gall already had. He got under the wings to drain gasoline from five different locations, checking the glass tube to be sure no water had collected in the fuel tanks. It was a time-consuming chore, but he’d known a guy who’d failed to do it. He’d crashed and died.