Low Pressure (3 page)

Satisfied that his plane was ready, he signaled Gall with a thumbs-up. “Good to go if they are.” He went into the restroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin tablets with the dregs of his coffee, which hadn’t been as hot as Gall had boasted but was double the recommended strength. And, as advised, he put in eye drops guaranteed to get the red out. All the same, he put on his sunglasses.

When he emerged from the building, his three passengers were waiting for him on the tarmac, standing shoulder to shoulder.

It was easy to pick out the patient. The man was tall and dignified, but had the yellowish-gray complexion of someone suffering from cancer and its harsh chemical treatments. He was dressed in casual slacks and a sport jacket, both of which looked several sizes too large. A baseball cap covered his bald head.

In the middle of the trio was an attractive woman, slightly younger than the man, but well into her sixties. Something about her . . .

Dent’s footsteps faltered, then he came to a dead standstill. His eyes swung back to the man and tried to picture a healthy version of him.
Son of a bitch
. It was Howard Lyston.

There could be no mistake because beside him stood his wife, Olivia, looking as well put together as Dent remembered her. She was a pretty woman who took the time and trouble to stay that way. She was still trim, although her weight was distributed differently now, a little more around the middle. Her hair was lighter. The skin around her mouth and beneath her chin was looser than it had been nearly two decades ago. But her haughty expression was the same.

Dent stared at them for several moments, then swiveled his head around. Gall was lurking in the doorway of his office, obviously watching to see how this scene would play out. Under Dent’s glare, he scuttled back into the office and closed the door. Dent had some choice words for him, but they could wait.

He came back around and regarded the Lystons with contempt. “Is this a joke? If so, I fail to see the humor.”

Olivia turned her head and spoke to the younger woman standing on the other side of her. “I told you this was a dreadful mistake.”

The younger woman took two steps toward him. “It’s no joke, Mr. Carter. We need to get to Houston.”

“There’s a superhighway that runs between here and there.”

“Daddy can’t travel that far by car.”

“
Daddy
?”

She removed the large, dark sunglasses that had been covering easily a third of her face. “I’m Bellamy. Remember?”

Yeah, of course he remembered, but this was
Bellamy
? Susan’s kid sister? Like a nervous cat, always ducking out of sight whenever he came around. Skinny, gawky, braces on her teeth and pimples on her face. This was her?

Her bony frame had since been padded in the right places. Her complexion was now unblemished, her teeth straight. She was dressed casually but expensively, and there were no split ends in the dark, glossy ponytail that was draped over one shoulder. Altogether a nice package.

But you couldn’t melt an ice cube on her ass.

She emanated the same snooty attitude as her parents. Directed especially toward Denton Carter. Olivia was looking at him as though he hadn’t showered that morning. The old man was either too sick or too indifferent even to speak. As for Bellamy, she had an imperious manner that rubbed him the wrong way, and they’d only exchanged a few words.

He wasn’t going to take their shit. Not a second time.

“There’s a commercial airport southeast of downtown,” he said, addressing Bellamy. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Big shiny airplanes? They fly them several times a day to and from Houston.”

She responded to his sarcasm with a smile that was equally caustic. “Yes, well, thank you for the suggestion. But it’s an ordeal for Daddy to go through airport security and all that that entails. I was told”—she glanced beyond him toward the hangar, where Gall was playing hide-and-seek—“I was told you have an airplane for charter. I’ve agreed to your terms and paid in advance for your services.”

Dammit, he needed that payment.

Two and a half grand was pocket change to the Lystons. To him it meant electricity, groceries, and a loan payment on his airplane. He could have kicked himself for not charging more. He could kick Gall even harder for not telling him who his paying passengers were. Setting him up to be blindsided like this, what was the old fart thinking?

For that matter, what were the Lystons thinking? Why had they selected him out of all the charter options, including private jet service, which they could well afford? He doubted they wanted to form a friendship circle.

He sure as hell wanted nothing to do with them.

But, unfortunately, what Gall had said about gift horses applied here. If they could stand his company, he could stand theirs. Houston was a short flight.

Dent turned to Howard Lyston, forcing him to acknowledge his existence. “What time is your appointment?”

“Two o’clock.”

“I’ll have you there with time to spare.”

“Good,” Bellamy said. “If there’s nothing else, could we please get underway?”

Her condescension was all too familiar, and it made Dent feel like grinding his teeth. Instead, he smiled and indicated the steps leading into the cabin of his airplane. “After you.”

The flight was smooth. The only difficulty they encountered was getting Howard Lyston into and out of the airplane. Not only was he so weak he could barely muster the strength to move, it was apparent to Dent that he was in pain. When he settled into the backseat of the limousine that was waiting for them when they arrived, he seemed pathetically relieved to have gotten that far. Olivia slid in beside him, solicitous and protective, just as she’d always been.

Bellamy held back with Dent, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of airplane engines and a stiff Gulf wind. “Invariably the staff and doctors are running behind schedule, so I can’t predict how long we’ll be.”

The opaque sunglasses were back in place, but the lower part of her face was taut and tense, which, Dent supposed, could be attributed to concern for her father. Or maybe she had the same low regard for him that her parents did. God only knew what she’d heard said about him over the past eighteen years.

“I’m on your clock, so I’ll be here whenever you get back.” He gave her one of his business cards. “My cell number is on there. If you give me a heads-up when you leave the hospital, I’ll have the plane ready to go by the time you get here, so we can take off immediately.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated for a moment, then opened the deep shoulder bag she was carrying, dug out a hardcover book, and extended it to him. “Have you read this?”

He took the book from her. “
Low Pressure
. T. J. David.”

“A.k.a. Bellamy Lyston Price. Did you know I’d written a novel?”

“No.” And he wanted to add,
Nor do I give a damn
.

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 me 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.

I
t 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.”

He could tell she had more to say, although for several seconds a hollow silence was all that came through the line. Then, “We flew down in a private plane.”

That statement, while seemingly innocuous, vibrated with a portentous note. Steven waited.

“Bellamy chartered it. Guess who the pilot was.”

Steven’s gut clenched. “Please tell me you’re not about to say—”

“Denton Carter.”

He placed his elbow on the bar, bent his head toward his hand, and rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers in an attempt to ward off the migraine this information would no doubt bring on.

“I tried to dissuade her,” Olivia continued. “She was determined.”

“For crissake, why?”

“Something about getting closure, mending the past. You know how your stepsister is.”

“Ever the mediator.”

“She wants everything to be . . . nice.”

“Was
he
?”

“Nice? No. No happier to see us than we were to see him.”

“Then why did he agree to fly you?”

“That old man who owns the airfield—”

“He’s still alive?”

“He arranged it, apparently without telling Dent who’d booked the charter. When he realized who we were, he was as unpleasant and arrogant as ever. There’s no love lost on either side.”

“Did he know about Bellamy’s book?”

“According to her, no. But he might have been pretending, or being obtuse. Who knows? We have to fly back with him when we’re finished here.” Steven heard a sniff and realized just how upset his mother was. “I never wanted to see that boy again.”

She continued to bemoan what an untenable situation it was. Steven understood how she felt. His emotions ran the gamut from dismay to alarm to anger, as they’d been doing since the day
Low Pressure
was published. His anxiety had worsened when Bellamy’s identity and the biographical nature of the book became public knowledge.

William Stroud, his business partner, tapped him on the shoulder and signaled that it was time to open. The receptionist had moved into place inside the door. Wait-staff were scattered throughout the dining room, putting finishing touches on the table settings. The sommelier was standing by to answer questions about the extensive wine list.

“Mother,” Steven said, cutting in, “I’m sorry, but I must go. We’re about to open for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I should have realized—”