“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.
Satisfied that his plane was ready, he signaled Gall with a thumbs-up. “Good to go if
they are.” He went into the restroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin tablets with the dregs of his coffee, which hadn’t been as hot as Gall had boasted but was double the recommended strength. And, as advised, he put in eye drops guaranteed to get the red out. All the same, he put on his sunglasses.
When he emerged from the building, his three passengers were waiting for him on the tarmac, standing shoulder to shoulder.
It was easy to pick out the patient. The man was tall and dignified, but had the yellowish-gray complexion of someone suffering from cancer and its harsh chemical treatments. He was dressed in casual slacks and a sport jacket, both of which looked several sizes too large. A baseball cap covered his bald head.
In the middle of the trio was an attractive woman, slightly younger than the man, but well into her sixties. Something about her…
Dent’s footsteps faltered, then he came to a dead standstill. His eyes swung back to the man and tried to picture a healthy version of him. Son of a bitch. It was Howard Lyston.
There could be no mistake because beside him stood his wife, Olivia, looking as well put together as Dent remembered her. She was a pretty woman who took the time and trouble to stay that way. She was still trim, although her weight was distributed differently now, a little more around the middle. Her hair was lighter. The skin around her mouth and beneath her chin was looser than it had been nearly two decades ago. But her haughty expression was the same.
Dent stared at them for several moments, then swiveled his head around. Gall was lurking in the doorway of his office, obviously watching to see how this scene would play out. Under Dent’s glare, he scuttled back into the office and closed the door. Dent had some choice words for him, but they could wait.
He came back around and regarded the Lystons with contempt. “Is this a joke? If so, I fail to see the humor.”
Olivia turned her head and spoke to the younger woman standing on the other side of her. “I told you this was a dreadful mistake.”