Jake dropped his hand. “Not including farm animals, though, right?”

Dusty winced and moved to close the door. “You-all can’t stay long. Mr. Case isn’t supposed to see no one.”

Jake put the grocery bag down on the table, pulled out a fourinch-thick bundle of mail, and tossed it on the bed next to Tucker. “Your

fan mail.”

Tucker picked it up. “It’s all been opened.”

“I was bored,” Jake said, opening the pizza box and extracting a slice. “A lot of death threats, a few marriage proposals, a couple really interesting ones had both. Oh, and an airline ticket to someplace I’ve never heard of with a check for expenses.”

“From Mary Jean?”

“Nope. Some missionary doctor in the Pacific. He wants you to fly for him. Medical supplies or something. Came FedEx yesterday. Almost took the job myself, seeing as I still have my pilot’s license and you don’t, but then, I can get a job here.”

Tucker shuffled through the stack of mail until he found the check and the airline ticket. He unfolded the attached letter.

Jake held the pizza box out to the bodyguard. “Dopey, you want some pizza?”

“Dusty,” Dusty corrected.

“Whatever.” To Tuck: “He wants you to leave ASAP.”

“He can’t go anywhere,” said Dusty.

Jake retracted the box. “I can see that, Dingy. He’s still wired for sound.” Jake gestured toward the catheter that snaked out of Tucker’s pajama bottoms. “How long before you can travel?”

Tucker was studying the letter. It certainly seemed legitimate. The doctor was on a remote island north of New Guinea, and he needed someone to fly jet loads of medical supplies to the natives. He specifically mentioned that “he was not concerned” about Tucker’s lack of a pilot’s license. The “need was dire” and the need was for an experienced jet pilot who could fly a Lear 45.