Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

Now her little sister was continuing in that same destructive vein. She’d written a book about it, for crissake! Oh, she’d changed the names, even her own. She’d set the story in a fictitious city. But those thin disguises weren’t for shit if you knew the true story. Her characters were easy to match up to the real people.

It made Ray burn every time he thought of how she’d described the character representing Allen. She’d called him “smarmy.” Ray wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. His big brother was being ridiculed and reviled all over again in the pages of that goddamn book. And to make certain of it, Susan’s sister, who was all grown up now and ought to know better, was on TV talking it up, profiting off of Allen and the event that had ruined his life.

No way in hell was that right. Ray wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

Soon as he heard she was back in Austin, he’d started a campaign to make her rosy life a little less so. He’d wanted her worried, nervous, afraid, like Allen had been when he was arrested. Like Ray had been when Allen was arrested.

Then, after having his fun with her, he was going to make her regret she’d ever written a single word about his brother.

Today, he’d decided to send her a warning. Even though he hated making her more money off her book, he’d bought a copy and had enjoyed shredding the pages with his knife. At an Ace Hardware store, he’d bought a can of red paint and a brush. Getting into her house had been easy and so had finding her bedroom.

And this was the best part: At the last minute, he’d gotten the idea of using a pair of her panties instead of the paintbrush. He’d found her undies folded into neat stacks in a bureau drawer. He’d taken his time to choose the pair he liked best. They hadn’t absorbed the paint so good, but they’d got the job done.

When he’d finished, he moved into the kitchen, where he settled in to wait for her to come home. The afternoon wore on. The temperature rose, as did the humidity, but he didn’t turn on the AC. For some reason, it seemed important that he be uncomfortable. He didn’t want it to be easy. He was doing this for Allen.

Night came on, but the temperature didn’t go down along with the sun. He had sweat through his jeans, and his leather vest was sticking to his torso by the time he finally heard her car wheel into the driveway. He listened as she unlocked the front door and knew the instant she saw the mess in the hallway. Her gasp of surprise made him want to laugh out loud.

He was tempted to come charging out of the kitchen giving a rebel yell and scaring the living daylights out of her. Instead, he played it smart. He waited, straining to hear where she’d go or what she’d do before deciding what his next move would be.

Then the low growl of a car motor reached him. A door slammed. Footsteps on the walk.

Shit! Ray had grabbed the plastic bag containing the paint can and gotten the hell out of there. He hadn’t even paused to close the back door. He jumped over the flowerpot he’d broken while jimmying the backdoor lock. He vaulted the fence and ran through a neighbor’s backyard.

Eventually he covered the few blocks to where he’d left his pickup. He was panting and leaking sweat from every pore by the time he reached the truck, but he was more angry than scared. Somebody had interfered with his plan.

He took a risk by driving past her house, but men like him were into danger and taking risks. As it turned out, this one had paid off. He had identified the motherfucker who’d spoiled his fun.

Denton Carter.

At first Ray couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw him standing under the porch light at Bellamy Price’s front door. But there was no mistaking him.

“Cocky flyboy,” Ray muttered now as he hunched over the bar and rolled the empty shot glass between his hands. Resentment bubbled inside him. Dent Carter was one of those lucky sons o’ bitches who could be dragged through shit but somehow always came up smelling like roses. Ray knew he’d suffered some hard knocks over the years. He’d gotten fired from an airline. Something about a near crash.

But, true to form, Dent had rebounded. Parked at the curb in front of Bellamy’s house was a sexy red Corvette, and Ray had seen for himself Dent being welcomed inside. Why wouldn’t he be, when, in her book, she’d all but labeled his character a superstud?

The whole thing made Ray spitting mad.

He signaled the waitress and pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket. Warmed up by the sight of cash, she came right over to him, bringing the bottle of Patron with her.

“Another for you, handsome?”

Oh, now he was handsome? Money sure had a way of changing people’s minds. He wondered how far it would get him with her. How friendly would she be if he reached out and yanked her chain? Literally. She’d probably scream like bloody hell.

“Make it a double.”

She reached for a second shot glass and filled it. “What are you celebrating?”

“I’m holding a private wake.”

“Oh, sorry. Who died?”

“Nobody.” He raised his glass to her. “Yet.”

Dent fumbled for his ringing cell phone, squinted at the caller ID, and answered with a snarl. “Are you kidding me? Two mornings in a row?”

“Get your ass out here.”

Gall hung up without saying anything more, which wasn’t like him. He lived to argue. He reveled in arguing with Dent. Something was up.

Dent threw off the sheet and repeated the procedure of the day before, except that he didn’t shave and substituted a chambray cowboy shirt for the white shirt and necktie. He was out the door within five minutes.

In under twenty he got to the airfield, where Gall was inside the hangar, standing beside Dent’s airplane. His hands were planted on his hips and the soggy cigar was getting a workout between chomping teeth.

As Dent walked toward him, Gall motioned with disgust toward the aircraft, but Dent had seen the damage the moment he got out of his car. The cockpit windshield had been cracked. There were dents as large as softballs in the fuselage. The tires had been punctured. A blade on one of the propellers had been bent. The worst of it were the gashes cut into the top of each wing, like they’d been taken to with a giant can opener.

He made a slow circuit of the aircraft, surveying the vicious handiwork, his outrage mounting. When he rejoined Gall he had to unclench his jaw to ask, “Mechanical?”

“I haven’t checked anything yet. Thought I ought to leave it as it is till the insurance man sees it. Called the sheriff’s office, too. They’re sending somebody out. The wings alone, or the propeller by itself, either one would ground you for a spell. But both…”

Dent looked at him.

He shrugged, saying ruefully, “A month, at least. Probably longer.”

Dent swore elaborately. To him this wasn’t just an airplane. Or just his livelihood. This was his life . If he’d been attacked with a hammer and sharp blade he couldn’t have felt it any more personally. “How’d he get in?”

“Used bolt cutters on the padlock. I’ve been meaning to replace it with one of the newer kind, but, you know… never got around to it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Gall. You didn’t do this. If I ever get my hands on the person or persons who did—”

“Promise to save me a piece of the son of a bitch.” He tossed his cigar into the fifty-gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. “Here comes Johnny Law.”

The next hour and a half were spent with the investigating deputy, who seemed capable enough, but Dent could tell this crime wasn’t going to get top priority when it came to detective work. The deputy’s questioning implied that the vandalism was retaliation for which Dent was responsible.