Low Pressure

Making his disgust plain, he released Moody’s hair, went back to the bed, took Bellamy by the hand, and pulled her up. On their way to the door, he paused. “You know, Moody, Rupe Collier is so dazzled by his own image, so far up his own ass, he no longer knows right from wrong. What makes you worse than him, you do.”

“I can’t fly in this.”

Neither Dent or Bellamy had said a word since Dent had retrieved his pistol from the wobbly TV tray, shov

ed open the screened door, then stood aside and brusquely motioned her through it.

She had left the case file on the bed. As Dent dragged her past Moody, she’d paused, feeling she should say something. But the truth of it was, her revulsion matched Dent’s. Her eyes met the detective’s briefly before his head dropped forward. Without another word, she and Dent had left the dreary cabin.

For twenty minutes, he’d been speeding down the state highway in the direction of Marshall, pushing the rented sedan as though expecting it to respond with the velocity of his Corvette and cursing when it didn’t.

The sky had grown increasingly dark. Raindrops had begun to land hard on the windshield. Without music from the radio, or conversation between them, each splat sounded loud and ominous.

A jagged fork of lightning and the sequential crack of thunder emboldened her enough to speak. “I can’t fly in this,” she repeated, since Dent hadn’t responded the first time.

Now, he jerked his head around toward her. “Do you think I would?”

“Then…” She gestured at the airport signpost as they whizzed past it.

“I’ve got to secure that airplane. Anything happens to it, it’s my ass.” Snidely, he added, “Unless you’re good for it. You’ve got a lot of money. Maybe your daddy would buy it for you.”

“Shut up, Dent. You’re only mad at yourself.”

“Myself?”

“For being so hard on Moody.”

“Wrong. If I’d been as hard on him as I wanted to be, I would have killed him.”

When they reached the airport, he whipped into a parking space, his motions conveying his short temper as he shut down the car, got out, and slammed the door. Braving the elements, he ran toward the entrance to the airport terminal.

Bellamy cringed when another drumroll of thunder vibrated through the car. She didn’t want to be stranded inside it with nothing to protect her from the storm except for the window glass and a few panels of thin metal. But leaving the car and exposing herself to lightning and thunder was out of the question, even for the short time it would take her to run into the terminal.

Talking herself through her rising panic, she reached for her cell phone and placed a call to Olivia, who answered immediately. “Where are you? What’s that racket?”

“It’s thunder.” But she didn’t say where she was. “How’s Daddy?”

“Doing better, actually.” Judging by the unnatural brightness in Olivia’s voice, Bellamy suspected that she was at his bedside and putting up a false front. “He’s eager to talk to you.”

“I’d like that. But first, tell me how you’re holding up.”

“Hanging in there. I talked to Steven earlier today. That helped.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, in spite of everything, he was happy to see you yesterday.”

“I’m glad to hear that, too.”

“I’ll hand the phone to Howard now.”

Through the phone, Bellamy could hear her father urging Olivia to use this time to get something to eat. Seconds later, his weak voice whispered, “Hey, good-lookin’.”

“Whacha got cookin’?”

“Olivia won’t be gone long. She knows something’s up, and it’s scaring her.”

“Maybe you should tell her.”