“Exactly. You’re thirty years old, man. You have to start thinking for yourself. And with your head, not your dick.”

Tucker looked at the bandages in his lap. “I’m sorry. It all got out of hand. It was like flying on autopilot. I didn’t mean to…”

“Time to take the controls, buddy.”

“Jake, something weird happened during the crash. I’m not sure if it was a hallucination or what. There was someone else in the cockpit.”

“You mean besides the whore?”

“Yeah, just for a second, there was a guy in the copilot seat. He talked to me. Then he disappeared.”

Jake sighed. “There’s no insanity plea for crashing a plane, Tuck. You lost a lot of blood.”

“This was before I got hurt. While the plane was still skidding.”

“Here.” Jake tucked a silver flask under Tuck’s pillow and punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll call you, man.” He turned and walked away.

Tuck called after him, “What if it was an angel or something?”

“Then you’re in the Enquirer next week too,” Jake said from the door. “Get some sleep.”

4

Pinnacle of the Pink Pyramid

A low buzz of anticipation ran through the halls of the hospital. Reporters checked the batteries in their microrecorders and cell phones. Orderlies and nurses lingered in the hallways in hope of getting a glimpse of the celebrity. The FAA men straightened their ties and shot their cuffs. One receptionist in administration, who was only two distributorships away from earning her own pink Oldsmobile, ducked into an examining room and sucked lungfuls of oxygen to chase the dizziness that comes from meeting one’s Messiah. Mary Jean was coming.

Mary Jean Dobbins did not travel with an entourage, bodyguards, or any other of the decorative leeches commonly attached to the power-wielding rich.