Page 80 of Airborne
Chad frowned. “Then I’m right. I suspect the two men collaborated treason, and one of them is dead. Of course you can’t confirm it.”
“That’s the way of the FBI. Did Heather give you clarity?”
“You mean does she think I’m blameless?” He laid the sandwich on the napkin and stretched out on the sofa. “Let’s just say we’re not on the best of terms.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“It’s the way of a shattered marriage.”
“I can tell how much you don’t care in your voice.” Javier eyed him. “How is she?”
Chad must do better to hide his feelings. He gave the agent a quick overview. “The surgeon came in while I was there. He wants to keep her under observation a few days before releasing her to quarantine.”
“Any new virus cases?”
“One of the women who shared a room with Heather. Two more deaths.” Chad recalled the names on this morning’s news... a mother and a child. “Better news would be an antiviral and an arrest. The people exposed on the flight are entitled to resume normal lives.”
“Time is a huge adversary.”
Chad dug his fingers into his palm to channel the throb. “I will clear my name. Help stop the insanity directed at innocent people and me. Tell me what to do while people stomp my name through the mud.”
“Leave the investigation to the professionals and pray for answers.”
Chad hadn’t forgotten Javier’s religious views.
Except Chad had a plan, one neither the FBI nor Heather would approve, and he didn’t intend to pray about it.
Javier’s cell phone rang. He lifted a finger. “Hold on. I’ve got to take this.” He listened and raked his hand through coal-black hair. “I’m with him now.” He glimpsed at Chad. “He’s in no shape to be anywhere but a hospital. Send me the pic. Thanks.” Javier held on to his phone.
“What’s the problem?” Life couldn’t get much worse.
“A reporter came forward and ID’d the man who attacked you. Said she’d experienced a temporary memory lapse. If you’re awake enough, here’s a pic for you to identify.”
Chad struggled to sit. The phrasePhysician, heal thyselfcrossed his mind. He reached out to take Javier’s phone. The bearded man who’d punched him sneered back. “He’s the one. What’s his name?”
“Simon Peale. In and out of jail. Robbery, drugs, breaking and entering.”
“My guess is he cared less about anyone on the plane.”
Javier snorted. “Spot on. He says a man offered him $8,000 to walk into the hospital, join the reporters, and punch you.”
“Who?”
“Peale never met the man. Arrangements were made by phone.”
“How convenient.” Chad’s anger matched the incessant pain. “He’s in custody?”
“Yes.”
“I want to talk to him face-to-face.”
Javier held up a hand. “No rush—he’ll stay behind bars.”
“His benefactor could bail him out.”
“Chad, give yourself a few days to heal, then take a trip to New York.”
“Tomorrow.”
