Their words scattered like dry leaves as the black Bell Long-Ranger thundered in at a measured pitch and perfectly flared and gently descended. My niece, Lucy, its pilot, hovered in a storm of fresh-mown grass flooded white by landing lights, and settled sweetly. I gathered my belongings and headed into beating wind. Plexiglas was tinted dark enough that I could not see through it as I pulled open the back door, but I recognized the big arm that reached down to grab my baggage. I climbed up as more traffic slowed to watch the aliens, and threads of gold bled through the tops of trees.

“I was wondering where you were.” I raised my voice above rotors chopping as I latched my door.

“Airport,” Pete Marino answered as I sat next to him. “It’s closer.”

“No, it’s not,” I said.

“At least they got coffee and a john there,” he said, and I knew he did not mean them in that order. “I guess Benton headed out on vacation without you,” he added for the effect.

Lucy was rolling the throttle to full power, and the blades were going faster.

“I can tell you right now I got one of those feelings,” he let me know in his grumpy tone as the helicopter got light and began to lift. “We’re headed for big trouble.”

Marino’s specialty was investigating death, although he was completely unnerved by possibilities of his own. He did not like being airborne, especially in something that did not have flight attendants or wings. The Richmond Times-Dispatch was a mess in his lap, and he refused to look down at fast retreating earth and the distant city skyline slowly rising from the horizon like someone tall standing up.

The front page of the paper prominently displayed a story about the fire, including a distant AP aerial photograph of ruins smoldering in the dark. I read closely but learned nothing new, for mostly the coverage was a rehash of Kenneth Sparkes’s alleged death, and his power and wealthy lifestyle in Warrenton. I had not known of his horses before or that one named Wind had sailed in last one year at the Kentucky Derby and was worth a million dollars. But I was not surprised. Sparkes had always been enterprising, his ego as enormous as his pride. I set the newspaper on the opposite seat and noted that Marino’s seat belt was unbuckled and collecting dust from the floor.

“What happens if we hit severe turbulence when you’re not belted in?” I talked loudly above the turbine engine.

“So I spill my coffee.” He adjusted the pistol on his hip, his khaki suit a sausage skin about to split. “In case you ain’t figured it out after all those bodies you’ve cut up, if this bird goes down, Doc, a seat belt ain’t gonna save you. Not airbags either, if we had them.”