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Rye had resumed his place with his back to the wall, grinding his teeth in agitation, taking in the scene, and thinking sourly that it must be a slow night in law enforcement.
From the look of things, every officer in the county had heeded the 911 call. After the first two squad cars arrived, others showed up in rapid succession. You’d think on a foggy holiday eve, cops would be busy with fender benders, DUIs, and settling disputes at the reunions of dysfunctional families.
Instead, uniformed men and women—Rye had lost count after a dozen—had crowded into the compact office of the Howardville County Airfield. It was as though the crime of the century had been committed here tonight. Good thing it hadn’t been, because they’d tromped all over the shoe prints on the floor.
In a jargon made up mostly of medical acronyms, Dr. O’Neal had given the EMTs a concise update on Brady’s condition, then relinquished him into their care. Shortly thereafter, the ambulance had left with him, still unconscious.
Now Brynn was in conversation with two men in gray uniforms that designated them as sheriff’s deputies. Because of the hubbub caused by the other people milling around but generally doing nothing constructive, Rye couldn’t catch what she was saying to the pair, but, following a lengthy monologue, she flicked her hand toward him. As one, the three turned. Rye stayed as he was, with arms and ankles crossed, seemingly indifferent to their scrutiny. One of the deputies excused himself from Brynn and his fellow officer and strolled over, notepad in hand.
“Rye Mallett?”
“That’s right.”
“Spelling?”
Rye spelled his name, and, as the officer jotted it down, he introduced himself as Deputy Don Rawlins. “What happened here tonight, Mr. Mallett?”
“Dr. O’Neal and I got here, found the guy slumped over his desk, unconscious and bleeding.”
“You a friend of his?”
“Never laid eyes on him. I’d only talked to him by radio.”
“Tell me about that.”
“I flew in from Columbus, Ohio, and was on final approach when—”
“Crummy night to be flying.”
When Rye didn’t respond, the deputy looked up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. Rye looked back and raised his eyebrows by way of asking if the deputy wanted to hear his story or not. The officer tipped his head for Rye to continue.
Disliking the deputy’s attitude, he decided to stick with the lie he’d told Brynn at the crash site. “I was on final approach when my panel lights blinked out. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It was a flicker, but it came at the worst possible time. No instruments, no visual because of the fog. I was flying blind.”
“You crashed.”
In abbreviated, layman’s terms, he described the crash. “I narrowly missed the doctor’s car. It was a close call. We were both lucky. Wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. I walked away with nothing but a bump on the head to show for it.” He pushed back his hair to show him the goose egg. The deputy looked at it with no detectable concern.
He said, “The doctor tells us your plane is banged up pretty good and not going anywhere for a while.”
“It can’t be buffed out, no.”
“She gave us the general vicinity of where it is. We’ve got officers going out to take a look.”
Rye grimaced. “I’m required to call the FAA and file an accident report. My phone was busted, and since discovering White, I haven’t had time. I need to get some pictures of the craft, as is, so tell your guys not to disturb anything.”
“I’ll tell them,” Rawlins said, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to do it. “What caused your instruments to blink out?”
“A glitch. It’s an old plane.”
Rawlins looked doubtful. “I’m no pilot, but I know this is a tough place to fly in and out of. We had a guy fly in here last year. Sunday pilot. Came in too low, clipped the power lines as he—”
“I’m not that guy.”
Rye’s curt interruption seemed to rub the deputy the wrong way. “Oh, no?”
“No.”
The lawman looked him over then gave a skeptical snort and wrote something on his pad. “What was so all-fired important that you had to fly here tonight?”
