And, truth be told, to fly into that backwoods airfield under these more-than-iffy conditions, he would have to be altogether crazy. He wasn’t. He was a levelheaded pilot who didn’t take unnecessary risks.

Dash needed the other kind.

He looked across the lobby toward the sofa, shifted his cigar again, hiked his pants up beneath his substantial overlap, and took a deep breath. “Uh, Rye?”

The man lying on the sofa didn’t respond.

“Rye,” Dash said more loudly, “you awake?” The sprawled form remained motionless, but Dash continued. “I’ve got a situation here. Rotten kickoff to the holiday season, and you know that’s when I make half my year’s income. This guy’s turned pussy on me, and—”

Dash stopped talking when Rye Mallett lifted the old magazine off his face. He rolled up and swung his feet to the floor. “Yeah, I heard.” He stood, tossed down the magazine, and reached for his bomber jacket and flight bag. “Where am I flying?”

10:21 p.m.

Rye had opted not to take the Beechcraft for the reasons cited by the other pilot, whose name he didn’t know and couldn’t care less about. Dash had put the Cessna 182 through its preflight check while Rye accessed a computer in one of the waiting areas. He’d gone onto a website that provided aerial photos of airports.

He’d studied the bird’s-eye view picture of the Howardville County Airfield, made note of the lay of the land and how the FBO fit into the landscape, then printed out the photo to take with him.

He called flight service and filed his flight plan using instrument flight rules. He would be relying on instruments from takeoff to landing. Nothing unusual about that, but the fog was.

Wanting to get the skinny, and not from someone in a TV studio with capped teeth and cemented hair, he’d logged on to several flight-related blogs to see what the chatter was. As expected, nearly all the messages posted today had been about the fog and the hell it was creating. The pilots who’d flown in it were warning others about vast areas of zero visibility.

Typing in his user name on one of the sites, Rye had posted a question about Howardville. He’d received a flurry of replies, the first of which was, “If ur thinking of flying into there tonight, what color flowers do you want on your casket?”

Another: “Beware the power lines. If u make it as far as the landing strip alive, brace yourself. That bitch is a washboard.”

Similar posts had followed, words of caution spiced with graveyard humor and the irreverent quipping that was universal among aviators who didn’t wear uniforms. The upshot of the online conversation was that one would be wise not to fly into Rye’s destination tonight.

But Rye often received such warnings, and he flew anyway.

Even Dash had seemed uncharacteristically concerned. The only thing Rye had ever seen the older man get sentimental over was a three-legged cat that had hobbled into the hangar one day. The animal was emaciated and flea-ridden. It hissed and scratched at anybody who went near it. But Dash had taken a shine to it and had fed it until it was strong enough to hobble off. Which it did one night, never to be seen again. When Rye asked after it, Dash had told him with noticeable gruffness in his voice, “Ungrateful bastard run off.”

Rye had gotten a glimpse of Dash’s well-hidden softer side then, and again now as Dash escorted him out onto the tarmac where the Cessna workhorse sat ready.

Dash grunted as he bent down to remove the chocks from the wheels and, after grumbling about his damned trick knee, said, “The box is buckled into the copilot seat.”

Rye nodded and was about to step up into the cockpit, but Dash cleared his throat, signaling that he had more to say. He removed the cigar from his mouth and regarded the unlit tip of it. “You know, Rye, I wouldn’t be asking you to fly tonight except that it’s the start of the holiday season and—”

“You already said that.”

“Well. And, anyhow, you’re the best pilot for this type of flying.”

“In lieu of flattery, how about a bonus?”

“Besides,” Dash continued without addressing the mention of a bonus, “I doubt it’s as bad as they’re letting on.”

“I doubt that, too. It’s probably worse.”

Dash nodded as though he also feared that might be the case. “After you make the delivery, don’t worry about flying right back.”

“You’re all heart, Dash.”

“But if you could return her by noon tomorrow—”

“Sure.”

“I know that’s a quick turnaround, but you don’t require a lot of sleep.”

Rye had conditioned himself to function well on as little sleep as possible, not only because that particular skill made him more flexible when it came to FAA regulations—and cargo carriers appreciated flexibility in their freelance pilots—but also because the less he slept, the less he dreamed.

Dash was saying something about the pilot’s hoarded boxed lunch. “I could weasel a sandwich out of his stingy self if you want to take one with you.”

“Can’t stand tuna.”

“No, me neither. There may be a couple of stale doughnuts left over from this morning.”

Rye shook his head.

Dash worried the cigar between his teeth. “Look, Rye, you sure you’re—”