“How do you spell it? When did this take place?” For a couple of minutes, he scribbled notes as the caller imparted information. “You have an address for him? Okay, go see if he’s at home. Find out where he was around two o’clock this morning. Let me know ASAP.”

He clicked off, glanced across at Rye, then used speed dial to make a call. “Wilson, me. Shake anything out of Dr. O’Neal?”

Wilson must’ve replied in the negative.

“Me neither. Not much, anyway,” Rawlins said. “Listen, Thatcher just called from the hospital. Seems Brady White had a heated argument day before yesterday with a local guy who keeps his plane in the hangar. He owed Brady for fuel and back rent. When Brady tried to collect, the man accused him of price gouging and refused to pay. Brady’s holding the keys to the guy’s plane until he receives payment.” He coughed behind his fist. “Thatcher’s going to check him out.”

Wilson asked a few questions, which Rawlins answered in monotones.

Numerous sly and insulting remarks skittered through Rye’s mind, but he figured that Rawlins was eating enough crow as it was. Besides, he was relieved to know that Brady White had regained consciousness. So when Rawlins clicked off, he said, “Brady came out of it okay?”

Rawlins shook his head. “He’s still out. Our deputy got all this about the argument from his wife. She’s standing vigil at the hospital. Has a lot of friends with her. The Whites are well thought of around here.”

“I gathered.” It was deflating news that Brady still hadn’t come around. Rye waited a beat, then asked, “Can we get to that statement now so I can be on my way?”

“In a minute. Answer me this, why did you take issue over the fingerprinting?”

Rye shrugged. “I don’t know. Impulse. Seemed a dumb and wasteful thing to do to artifacts.”

“Huh.” Rawlins studied him for a moment. “Why have you and Dr. O’Neal acted so squirrely about the contents of that box? What’s in it?”

“I’ve told you a dozen times, I don’t know. You’ll have to get that from her.”

“Good idea.”

The deputy stood up and motioned Rye toward the door.

4:42 a.m.

Under duress, Brynn surrendered to Wilson the cell number of her colleague, Dr. Nathan Lambert.

She and Nate Lambert had worked together on various cases for the past several years. Both were specialists in their field, but Nate had ten more years’ experience, and he flaunted it. He had a publicist who booked him for lectures and a publisher who was waiting for a book.

He’d made a name for himself, and his notoriety was such that he could now hand-select his patients, and he did. Many were among the rich and famous who checked into the hospital under aliases. Paradoxically, Nate had a penchant for name-dropping.

Wilson placed the call. Despite the hour, Nate answered immediately, as though he’d had the phone already at his ear. Wilson identified himself, and Nate’s first words were, “Oh, God, no. Has something happened to Dr. O’Neal?”

“I’m here.” She said it loudly enough for him to hear her through the speaker.

“Brynn, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But my situation isn’t. It’s been an eventful night, and that’s putting it mildly.”

“Were you able to meet the plane?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” Brynn detected the vast relief in his voice and envisioned him running his hand over his marble-slick head, which he shaved with scrupulous timeliness. He said, “When I didn’t hear from you, I got worried and checked with the contact in Columbus. Dash, I think it is? He assured me that the plane was on its way.”

“You must have spoken with him before he was notified of the crash.”

“The plane crashed?”

Wilson made a hand gesture that granted her permission to relate the consequential events that had taken place since she’d left Atlanta. Nate responded to each revelation with a shocked silence or sudden intake of breath, but he listened without interrupting her. She explained the circumstances concisely but comprehensively. When she finished the tale, she ended by reassuring him that the black box was in her possession and intact.

“Still sealed?” he asked.

“And padlocked.”

“Wonderful.” Then, after a brief pause, he asked with characteristic curtness, “So, what’s the problem?”

Wilson jumped in ahead of her. “The problem, Dr. Lambert, is the juxtaposition of the two incidents. We’re investigating the attack on Mr. White, and need to ascertain if it’s connected in any way to the contents of this box.”

“How could it be?”

“Precisely.” Brynn gave Wilson a pointed look. “I haven’t disclosed anything that would compromise our patient’s privacy. But my stance on that has put me in a standoff with the investigators.”

The door was pushed open, and Rawlins walked in. The limited space didn’t allow for Rye Mallett to come all the way into the room, so he lingered on the threshold. During their brief face-off on the staircase, she’d seen that his eyes were green. They homed in on her now.

He looked perturbed and smug at the same time. She supposed he was annoyed over having been detained, smug over being vindicated when Brady White’s altercation with a customer had come to light. When she’d overheard Wilson’s phone conversation with Rawlins about it, she’d experienced a moment of smugness herself.