Firefly Nights. Cynthia Thomason

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      “Where the heck are we?” Adam asked. He’d sat up and had flattened both hands to the passenger window. His expression had transformed from disinterest to something resembling terror.

      Sheriff Oakes veered left into a gravel parking lot riddled with potholes and ground to a stop. “We’re at the Saddle Top Motel, son,” he said. “This is where you and your mother will be staying.”

      Kitty shot a warning look over the front seat when Adam started to speak. Then she swallowed past a lump in her throat that accompanied the realization that vacationers hadn’t stayed here in years. “Your nephew lives here?”

      “Sure does. The place has been in Campbell’s family for a long time. Camp’s grandpa used to run it, but the business failed when the expressway diverted traffic. It’s been closed now for nearly thirty years.” Oakes stared out the windshield. “Doesn’t look too bad, all things considered.”

      Right. If your current home was a park bench or the asphalt under a bridge. Kitty didn’t see the point in expressing her own opinion, so she just said, “Why does your nephew live here instead of in town?”

      The sheriff paused a moment before saying, “Free-and-clear housing, I would expect. Once Campbell’s grandfather passed, he inherited the place.”

      So this man is an incompetent pilot with a busted-up leg, and no visible means of support. Great.

      Oakes continued. “Campbell didn’t need the motel until recently. Before coming home, he lived on the Matheson estate in Raleigh.” Oakes’s voice held a hint of pride. “Now, that’s a name you’ve heard of, I’ll wager.”

      “Matheson? No, sorry.”

      “Matheson Fine Furniture?”

      Kitty shook her head.

      “Well, I’ll be. I thought everybody had heard of Leland Matheson. He’s worth a few cool millions. Campbell lived on his estate and worked as his business adviser and personal pilot for the past three years since he got out of the Air Force.”

      Kitty felt as if she were on a roller coaster of good news–bad news. This last bit of information was encouraging. Apparently the nephew had recently held a decent job. But since she was here to take care of this pilot who had just crashed his plane, Kitty couldn’t help wondering if his former employer, doubting his pilot’s skills, had fired him. Figuring the best way to know was to ask, she said, “So, why did your nephew leave his job?”

      Oakes frowned. “He said it had something to do with a personal matter. Plus, he wanted to start a business back here where he grew up. Bought his own two-seater aircraft for taking aerial photographs. Unfortunately the fuel line ruptured, so that plan’s on hold.”

      A shiver ran down Kitty’s spine. Her father often chartered personal aircraft in his capacity as owner of Galloway Groves. She always found an excuse not to accompany him on trips. The thought of being in a small plane was high on her list of least favorable ways to travel. And she figured that anybody who made a living flying one of those death traps ought to know he was only a loose screw away from disaster.

      The sheriff opened his car door and stepped out. “Come on, folks. Campbell should be here in the hospital van any minute. Wanda says the motel key’s under the potted plant by the office door.”

      Potted plant? Was he referring to that mildewed pickle crock with three spindly twigs sticking out the top? Kitty guessed he was because that’s precisely where he headed.

      She got out and opened Adam’s door. When he remained in the car, she reminded him why they were here.

      “Okay, already.”

      They stood side by side staring at ten worn-out, run-down, dismal units broken by a peaked-roof office in the center. If a building could droop, this one did. In fact, the entire structure looked as if it was just waiting for the mercy of a wrecking ball.

      * * *

      “HOW YOU DOING back there, Captain Oakes?”

      Campbell turned away from the familiar landscape flashing by the side window of the Spooner County medi-van. “I’m okay, Joe,” he said to the young man in the front passenger seat. “And you don’t have to call me captain. It’s been plain old Campbell for quite a while now.”

      “Yeah, I know, but you’re still a hero around here. Everybody knows what you did over in Iraq.”

      Campbell glanced down at the fiberglass splint that went from his ankle to his thigh and suppressed a grimace of disgust. Everybody knows what I did four days ago, too, he thought. A few years before, during Operation Iraqi Freedom, he had flown forty successful sorties over Baghdad in a Fighting Falcon. And then on Wednesday he crashed a single-engine Cessna Cardinal into a cow pasture. “My status as a hero, if I ever had one, is over,” he said.

      Joe shrugged. “I still remember the stories about you. I think the town council should have had a parade or something when you came back home.”

      Campbell focused out the window again, mostly to hide the smirk he couldn’t suppress. Joe didn’t understand. Nobody in Sorrel Gap would have a celebration for a prodigal son who’d been living on Matheson property in Raleigh. A renovated six-room carriage house on the lavish twenty-acre estate was a cultural world away from this small North Carolina town.

      And the truth was, Campbell wouldn’t be here now except Diana Matheson had screwed him over one time too many. His future had come down to a choice between his pride and his cushy income, and Campbell had opted for pride. He’d left the estate just ahead of Diana, who caught a plane to Europe to get over her distress. Right. At least he’d been the one to say goodbye first.

      The medi-van topped the hill and descended toward the Saddle Top Motel, a sad reminder of Campbell’s childhood and the glory days when Old Sorrel Gap Road was known as the Gateway to the Blue Ridge. Campbell could have afforded better accommodations in town, but so what? The building, as pathetic as it was, was his.

      Still, as the Saddle Top came into view, Campbell experienced the same melancholy that gripped him whenever he returned to the cheerless structure struggling to survive in the gap. Only this time it was worse. This time, instead of just feeling as hopeless as the old motel was, Campbell would have to suffer the indignity of being hoisted into his living quarters by the medi-van driver and his helper.

      And there would be no easy escape from the gap. Because of his leg, he wouldn’t be able to walk or drive away for weeks. And even after five hours of surgery and a half dozen rods and pins, the doctors still couldn’t tell Campbell for certain that he’d be able to walk without a limp, or ever pilot the Cardinal again. And that was assuming the plane’s landing gear and right wing could be repaired.

      Unfortunately this mishap had occurred just when things had started to turn around for him. He had a half dozen contracts for aerial photographs stacked up on his desk. Now he’d have to tell his customers to wait out his iffy recovery or hire somebody else.

      Campbell pressed his lips together as a painful draw of air stretched the muscles in his chest. Hard to believe that the dependable Fighting Falcon hadn’t suffered so much as a scratch on her steel-gray exterior during his entire deployment. Four months after he’d started Oakes Aerial Photographs, Campbell had watched the Cessna towed back to the airstrip in shambles.

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