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airport, but he hadn’t expected much. The one runway and three small hangars fit with his image of the woman who said she’d found Frannie and Colt’s plane, then said she didn’t.
    He rocked and rolled over the undulating dirt parking lot and did his best to avoid the huge holes that had opened up with the warming temperatures. They’d filled with water that, presumably, would ice overnight and melt again tomorrow. Leaves on the trees, flowers and green grass all seemed a long, long way off.
    Wyatt parked next to a mud-spattered hunter-green truck. It had four-wheel drive. So did the SUV next to it. His car did not. The air was damp and cold, the kind that got into the bones. He picked his way through water-filled holes to a small, squat building with a crude sign indicating Office. People did get to the point around here.
    A sixtyish man stood out front, glaring at the gray tree line. Without even glancing at Wyatt, he said, “If you’re from the press, the story’s over. You can go home.”
    “I’m not a reporter.”
    He turned, but Wyatt sensed his mind was still on whatever he expected to find on the tree line. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m looking for Penelope Chestnut. As I said, I’m not a reporter, but I would like to talk to her about what she found in the woods.”
    The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re a Sinclair.”
    His tone hadn’t changed. He fit the stereotype of the naturally stoic, taciturn New Englander. Wyatt checked his surprise. “Yes, I’m Wyatt Sinclair. Colt was my uncle.”
    “You’re Brandon’s boy.”
    It wasn’t a question, but Wyatt said, “That’s right.”
    A heavy, fatalistic sigh, as if he should have expected a Sinclair to wander into town. “Your father sent his own investigator, you know. Jack Dunning. He’s flying up—he’s taking a detour over your family’s land first. I suppose he’ll try to spot Penelope’s dump.”
    “Jack’s thorough. I’m here for my own reasons.”
    “I see. Well, Penelope’ll be coming over those treetops in about three minutes. She’s low on fuel. Not paying attention. Too damned much going on. I never should have let her fly today.” He bit off an irritated sigh. “I’m her father, Lyman Chestnut.” He put out a hand, and they shook briefly. “I knew your grandfather, and your father and uncle.”
    Wyatt nodded. His father had never mentioned Lyman Chestnut.
    “I was fifteen when Colt disappeared,” the older man went on. “Tough break. It happens. We had a plane go down about an hour west of here a couple years ago, and it still hasn’t been found.”
    He stared at the horizon, and Wyatt got the message. Whatever he might believe about what his daughter had found on Sunday, Lyman Chestnut was on her side.
    The office door opened, and a heavyset woman thrust her hands on her ample hips and said, “Jesus Christ, Lyman, I can’t believe that girl! She says she’s running on fumes. She’s going to land. You want me to get the ambulance and fire department up here?”
    “Get the police, because when this is over, one of us is going to be arrested. Her or me. I’ve had it, Mary. She’s crossed the line.”
    Mary snorted. “Now, how many times have I heard that?”
    A small Beechcraft materialized above the treetops, and Lyman Chestnut held his breath. Wyatt thought everything looked just fine. It seemed to have good speed. A normal descent. It landed smoothly on the single paved runway without a hitch.
    Lyman breathed out with a whoosh, but his relief only lasted a moment before he clenched his teeth. “Goddamn it, this time she’s grounded.” He turned to the gray-haired woman, who still had her hands on her hips and was shaking her head in disgust, whether because Penelope had landed safely or didn’t have the close call she apparently deserved Wyatt couldn’t tell. Lyman pointed a thick finger at her. “Mary, you hear that? I’m grounding her. I own the goddamned plane. I’m her