Low Pressure

“There are gaps in her memory of that day. She’s lost segments of time.” He gave Gall an abridged version of everything Bellamy had told him.

When he finished Gall said, “So what she thinks she remembers, and what she believes, aren’t necessarily what actually happened.”

“Right.”

“And what she disremembers—”

“Is apparently a threat to somebody who’s kept a secret for eighteen years and doesn’t want it revealed now. Which places Bellamy in danger.”

Gall released a long stream of air, running out of breath before he ran out of expletives. “Which once again puts you up to your neck in the Lystons’ shit.”

“It’s my shit, too, Gall.”

The old man didn’t refute it. How could he? The Lyston case had factored significantly into how the airline regarded Dent following the accident.

“Okay, so why Atlanta?”

Dent explained why they were there. “Bellamy wanted to call and give Steven advance notice of our visit, but I thought a surprise attack would ensure a more honest reaction from him. I didn’t want to give him time to think about it.”

“Well, that makes one smart thing you’ve said since we started this conversation. When is this ambush going to take place?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh. And what will the two of you be doing to pass the time between now and then?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Gall snorted. “That’s what I figured.”

“You figured wrong.”

“Separate beds?”

“Separate rooms. Happy now?” Gall made a sound that could have been interpreted any number of ways. Since Dent didn’t want that topic explored, he left it alone. “What about my airplane?”

“I wondered when you’d get around to remembering that you’ve got a real problem of your own.”

With a few more minutes of give-and-take in a similar vein, Dent had been given a complete assessment of the damage and an estimate on the time it would take to repair it.

“In the meantime I’ll go bankrupt.”

“Don’t go jumping off a building yet,” Gall said. “I’ve already talked to a guy.”

Dent was instantly suspicious. “What kind of guy?”

“One with lots of discretionary funds. He called me a while back looking for a private pilot.”

“No way.”

“Hear me out, Ace.”

“I don’t need to. My answer is no.”

“He’s got an incredible plane. Brand-spankin’-new King Air 350i. All the bells and whistles money can buy. Pretty as a picture. You’d fuck it if you could.”

“How come he doesn’t already have a pilot?”

“He did. He didn’t like him.”