Low Pressure

“Who the fuck you think?”

“Goddammit, Gall! I’m gonna kill you!”

“Get in line.”

Dent, struggling to cap his arousal, covered his eyes with his forearm. “What’s that mean?”

“Your pickup-driving redneck?”

“Yeah?”

“He came calling. He’s out for blood, all right.”

Dent sat

up, swung his feet to the floor, and drew his shirttail over his lap. Bellamy had also sat up, her eyes watchful and worried, correctly gauging the seriousness of his expression.

“Tell me,” Dent said into the phone.

“He was parked several hundred yards from the field a good part of the day.”

“How’d you spot him?”

“Didn’t. Guy from Tulsa on his way down to South Padre stopped here to refuel. He’d spotted the truck on his approach. Since it was out in the middle of nowhere, he thought it might’ve been somebody lost or broken down, needing help. I told him I’d check it out.

“Which I did. After he took off, I got some binoculars. The moron thought he was well hidden in the brush, but his truck was facing south. The sun was reflecting off his windshield like a spotlight all afternoon.”

“Could’ve been somebody hunting rabbits, taking in the scenery. How can you be sure it was my guy?”

“I got more than one good look at him. Big guy. Solid. Black leather vest. Tattooed left arm. Ugly son of a bitch, too.”

“Did he see you?”

“Anytime I checked on him, I did it from inside. And he had his own binocs. He was watching me. I went about my business, acted like I didn’t know he was out there. Night came on. He was still there, and I figured he’d been waiting for dark to pay me a visit. I was ready for him.”

“What did you do?”

Gall described the stage he’d set for the man they believed to be Ray Strickland. “He fell for it. He barreled into the hangar, screaming like a banshee, and shoved his knife into what he believed to be my gut. Was actually a piece of a blown-out tire. Looked pretty natural, though, when it was zipped up inside my coveralls. Same curvature as my belly.” He chuckled.

“Gall, this is nothing to laugh at.”

“No, I guess not.”

“What did he do when he realized he’d been tricked?”

“I’m not rightly sure. Messed hisself maybe. ’Cause I tripped the breaker switch and all the lights went out, the radio went off, and he was left in total darkness and silence, not knowing what the hell had happened.

“I could hear him cussing a blue streak as he tried to dislodge his knife from that tire, but in the end, he took it with him, my coveralls included. Just scooped it all up and ran like hell. Left my shoes, and I’m glad. I just now got them worked in.”

“Did he return to his truck?”

“Yep. Made it okay, I guess, ’cause I saw the headlights when he drove off. One good thing, before it got dark, I got his license plate number.”

“Did you call this in?”

“To that sheriff’s deputy who came out after your plane was trashed. I told him I thought it was probably the same guy. Gave him a description of Strickland. He said they’d lifted dozens of partial prints off your airplane, which they’re ‘sorting through.’”

“They’ve got missing kids to find and meth labs to shut down. I doubt my damaged airplane has priority.”