“Is there a reason for that—for the counting?”

“You can say the Pledge of Allegiance if you want.”

“But I can’t stand up.”

“Just count, smart-ass.”

When Tucker came to, through the fog of anesthesia he saw a picture of himself superimposed over a burning pink jet. Looking down on the scene was the horrified face of the matriarch of pyramid makeup sales, Mary Jean Dobbins—Mary Jean to the world. Then the picture

was gone, replaced by a rugged male face and perfect smile.

“Tuck, you’re famous. You made the Enquirer.” The voice of Jake Skye, Tuck’s only male friend and premier jet mechanic for Mary Jean. “You crashed just in time to make the latest edition.”

“My dick?” Tuck said, struggling to sit up. There was what appeared to be a plaster ostrich egg sitting on his lap. A tube ran out the middle of it.

Jake Skye, tall, dark, and unkempt—half Apache, half truck stop waitress—said, “That’s going to smart. But the doc says you’ll play the violin again.” Jake sat in a chair next to Tuck’s bed and opened the tabloid.

“Look at this. Oprah’s skinny again. Carrots, grapefruit, and amphetamines.”

“Tucker Case moaned. “What about the girl? What was her name?”

“Meadow Malackovitch,” Jake said, looking at the paper. “Wow, Oprah’s fucking Elvis. You got to give that woman credit. She stays busy. By the way, they’re going to move you to Houston. Mary Jean wants you where she can keep an eye on you.”

“The girl, Jake?”

Jake looked up from the paper. “You don’t want to know.”

“They said she was going to be okay. Is she dead?”

“Worse. Pissed off. And speaking of pissed off, there’s some FAA guys outside who are waiting to talk to you, but the doctor wouldn’t let them in. And I’m supposed to call Mary Jean as soon as you’re coherent. I’d ad-vise against that—becoming coherent, I mean. And then there’s a whole bunch of reporters. The nurses are keeping them all out.”