Low Pressure

Chapter 22

By turns, Ray was enraged and nervous.

The man at the airfield had made a fool of him.

He must’ve looked real stupid to the old codger, when he’d thought he was being so clever.

He was aware of his limitations. In high school, he’d been told he read below a second-grade level. That was okay. He could live with that. But it stung deep to be exposed as a complete imbecile.

By now Dent and Bellamy would have heard the story of how he’d walked—charged—right into the carefully laid trap. Ray imagined the old man wiping tears from his eyes, slapping his knee with hilarity as he told them, “He came running in here and stabbed a slab of rubber. What a jackass.”

They would have had a good laugh at his expense. Instead of being scared of him, they’d regard him as a clumsy buffoon. The thought of that infuriated him. Mostly, though, he was mad at himself. He hadn’t done Allen proud.

He needed to

fix that.

And that was what made him nervous, because he wasn’t sure what he should do next.

Once he’d put some distance between him and the airfield, he’d switched his truck’s license plates with those of another pickup he found at a twenty-four-hour Walmart. He’d put on a straw cowboy hat so that his near-bald head wouldn’t be so noticeable. He’d swapped out his leather vest for a shirt with long sleeves that would cover up his snake tattoo. The old man couldn’t have seen it because it had been too dark inside the hangar, but Dent Carter might have noticed it when he jumped him at the IHOP. It made Ray easily identifiable.

He hated having to cover it. Like some people felt about wearing a cross on a chain around their neck, or carrying a rabbit’s foot for good luck, Ray believed that his snake tattoo gave him special powers. He felt stronger and smarter every time he looked at it or touched it.

Afraid to stay in his apartment in case the police came looking for him there, he’d driven around all day, no destination in mind, never stopping for long, just keeping on the move. All the same, he felt trapped, like things were closing in on him.

But by damn, he couldn’t get caught until Bellamy Price was dead. So anything he did now had to count, and it had to count big. He must be bold.

“Take the bull by the horns.” That was what Allen would advise.

With his brother’s words of wisdom echoing inside his head, he took the next exit off I-35 and made a U-turn beneath the overpass, reentering the freeway in the northbound lanes.

He knew what he had to do, and it didn’t have to be fancy.

Feeling much more confident now, he rolled up his shirtsleeve and placed his exposed left arm in the open window of his truck, practically daring anyone to mess with him.

Right off, Gall sensed the tension between Dent and Bellamy.

No sooner had her toe touched the tarmac than she excused herself to call her stepmother. Gall watched her enter the hangar, then turned to Dent, who was coming down the steps of the airplane.

“How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

Gall patted the side of the airplane. “This puppy practically flies herself, doesn’t she?”

“No airplane flies itself.”

“Just saying.”

“You’ve said it. I’d be crazy not to hire on with this guy.”

“As I said, I’m just saying.” Gall motioned toward the hangar. “What’s with her?”

“Bellamy?”

“No, the Queen of Sheba. Who do you think?”

Dent glanced in her direction. “The news from Houston isn’t good.”