Low Pressure

But he withheld that because she was looking up at him, her head tilted at an inquisitive angle. He couldn’t see through the lenses of her glasses into her eyes, but he got the feeling she was carefully gauging his answer. “No,” he repeated. “I didn’t know you’d become a writer. Price, you said?”

“My married name.”

“So why T. J. whatever?”

“I picked it out of the phone book.”

“How come?”

Olivia called to her through the open door of the limo. “Bellamy? Coming?”

To Dent, Bellamy said, “The book may help pass the time while you wait for us.”

With that, she turned and joined her parents in the limo.

As it pulled away, Dent stared after it, cursing beneath his breath. Entering the building, he took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Gall, who answered with, “Make it fast. I’m busy.”

“What the fuck, Gall?”

“You can afford to be particular about passengers? In this economy?”

“It should be up to me who I fly. Had I known it was them, I’d have stayed in bed.”

“You’re scared of them.”

“Why are you trying to piss m

e off even more than I already am?”

“You needed the charter. Their money is good. Tell me where I’m wrong.” After a silence, he grunted with satisfaction, then said, “I got work to do,” and hung up.

In days past, Dent had loved hanging out at airports of any kind, be it a major hub or a county airfield with a grass landing strip used mostly by crop dusters. He liked nothing better than talking shop with other pilots.

Now, he avoided conversation with them. Nor would any want to talk to him once he introduced himself by name. He went into the pilots’ lounge only long enough to grab a couple of newspapers, then made himself comfortable in an armchair in a remote spot off the main lobby. He read both sports sections. Tried to work a crossword puzzle, but didn’t get very far. He idly watched a five-year-old soccer game being telecast on ESPN.

When lunchtime rolled around, he picked up a cheeseburger at the grill and took it outside to a patio eating area. He ate the burger while watching planes take off from Hobby. Each time one soared off the runway, he felt that familiar and thrilling tug deep in his gut. As much as anything, maybe even more than anything, he missed the adrenaline rush of jet propulsion, the thrust that was virtually sexual. It had been like a drug to him, and he’d quit cold turkey.

Eventually Houston’s sultry heat drove him back into the air-conditioned building. He returned to his spot and, out of sheer boredom, opened Bellamy Price’s novel and began to read.

The prologue left him numb with disbelief. After five chapters, he was angry. By the time he came to the last chapter, he was seeing red.

Chapter 2

It was the calm before the storm, otherwise known as dinner at Maxey’s.

Sister restaurants in New York and Boston had already established its reputation, so almost as soon as Maxey’s Atlanta opened fifteen months ago in the tony Buck-head area, it became a choice spot for the well-heeled and beautiful—and wannabes—to see and be seen in.

Co-owner Steven Maxey was seated at the brushed-chrome bar, reviewing the chef’s specials for the evening and mentally gearing up for the onslaught that would begin as soon as the doors opened at five-thirty. When his cell phone vibrated, he glanced at the caller ID and, with a sense of dread, answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“I know you’re busy.”

“Never mind. Is it Howard?”

“We’re in Houston. We came down to see what our options are in terms of further treatment.”

Their viable options were dwindling, but neither had the heart to say so out loud. “Give him my best,” Steven said.

“I’ll be sure to. He’s napping now. Bellamy’s sitting with him. I just stepped out to phone you.”