Low Pressure by Sandra Brown

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.
    “You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”
    “No.”
    “I’m not talking MasterCard. A bookie, maybe? Loan—”
    “No.”
    “Any enemies? Been in any arguments lately? Got on anybody’s fighting side? Know of any grudges against you?”
    “No.”
    He looked Dent up and down as though unconvinced of that, but, discouraged by Dent’s scowl, he didn’t press it. He began directing questions to Gall while Dent joined the insurance adjuster, who’d arrived shortly after the deputy.
    Stiff, starched, and buttoned up, the kind of corporate team player Dent despised, the adjuster asked a lot of questions, most of which Dent thought were unnecessary or stupid. He made a lot of notes, took a lot of pictures, and filled out a lot of forms, which he snapped into his briefcase with annoying efficiency but not one word of commiseration.
    “They’ll cheat me,” Dent said to Gall as the guy drove away. “You watch.”
    “Well, I’ll hike up the cost of parts and repairs, so it’ll even out.”
    Dent smiled grimly, grateful that he had at least one ally who understood how deeply this affected him, and not only financially. He didn’t have a wife or kids, not even a pet. The airplane was his baby, the love of his life.
    “Go over her with a fine-toothed comb. I’ll check back later for the prognosis.”
    He headed for his car but Gall stopped him. “Hold your horses. Come into the office for a minute.”
    “What for?”
    “You haven’t had your coffee yet.”
    “How can you tell?”
    Gall just snorted and ambled toward the cubicle, motioning with his arm for Dent to follow. He was eager to get away but knew that Gall felt bad about the flimsy padlock. He could spare him a few minutes.
    He filled a chipped and stained mug with the industrial-strength brew, carried it into the office, and took a seat in the chair facing the desk, being mindful of its unreliable back leg.
    “I know what you told the deputy,” Gall said. “Now tell me if you have any idea who did this.” He was avoiding eye contact and tugging on his long earlobe, a sure sign that he was leaving something left unsaid.
    “What’s on your mind?”
    Gall unwrapped a fresh cigar and anchored it in the corner of his mouth. “Before I left my