Chapter 44
Oxygen had never tasted so sweet.
The ER's fluorescent lights felt like needles stabbing through Izzy's skull, but that might have been the carbon monoxide hangover.
Or the fact that she'd been awake for…. She'd lost count of the hours.
Her oxygen mask fogged with each breath, and the IV in her arm pulled every time she turned to check on Cory.
Which was every thirty seconds.
"You okay?" she called across the trauma room for the dozenth time.
"Good," came his steady response. "You?"
"All good." The words came muffled through her oxygen mask.
The night nurse—a formidable woman named Bernice—appeared between their beds with the expression of someone who'd reached her limit. "If you two ask each other that question one more time, I'm moving one of you to pediatrics."
"Sorry," they said in unison.
Bernice adjusted Izzy's oxygen flow. "Your O2 levels are still low. Both of you. Less talking, more breathing."
She bustled out, and Izzy counted exactly sixty seconds before Cory stage-whispered, "How about now? You okay now?"
A laugh bubbled up, turning into a cough. "You're impossible, Fraser."
"That's Chief Impossible to you, Reyes."
The trauma room doors swung open with institutional authority. FBI agents Debartolo and Preston entered, looking like men who'd just won the lottery but were trying not to gloat about it.
Debartolo pulled a chair between their beds. "Looks like we got us the heroes of the hour."
Izzy studied the agents over the top of her oxygen mask. Something had shifted in their demeanor—less accusatory, more... Was that respect?
"That was some tactical thinking with the flash-bang," Preston admitted, pulling out his tablet. "Using it as a decoy to fake your deaths? Impressive."
"We aim to please," Izzy managed, though talking made her chest tight.
Debartolo actually smiled. It looked unnatural on his face, like a cat attempting opera. "Janet Morrison's been talking for two hours straight. Waived her right to counsel. Says she wants everyone to know how 'clever' she was."
The pieces finally falling into place made Izzy's head spin more than the poisoning. "It was all her?"
"Yup." Preston pulled up his notes. "Started planning the moment Tom rejected MedFlight's two-million-dollar buyout offer. Which he confirmed, by the way. Can you imagine? Your husband turns down two million on principle, so you decide murder is the logical next step?"
She watched Cory shift in his bed, could practically hear his analytical mind clicking. “So you’ve got enough to move against MedFlight then.”
But Debartolo was already shaking his head before Cory finished. “Just the old guy’s word. No way we can touch an international outfit like MedFlight with that.”
“What about the other air ambulance outfits they obviously targeted?” Izzy pointed out.
Both agents grimaced. “The Bureau will investigate, but that outfit’s got deep pockets,” Preston said.
“And serious connections,” Debartolo added. “Never say never, but….”
Cory nodded tiredly. “Yeah.” He tugged at the cord of his mask. "How did Janet find Brad Houzer?" he asked.
"Town gossip, apparently. Her hairdresser’s son runs with the same crowd.
Janet knew he owed money, knew he was desperate.
Approached him at the Wagon Wheel, taught him the sabotage technique herself.
" Debartolo shook his head. "Learned it from Tom's own technical manuals.
Twenty years of filing his papers, she'd absorbed everything. "
"The fentanyl," Izzy breathed. "Tom's prescription."
"Exactamundo," Preston confirmed. "When Brad got greedy, demanded more money, she slipped the fentanyl into his regular pills. Made it look like an overdose."
The cold calculation of it made Izzy shiver.
"The jacket at the hardware store," Cory said, and Izzy could see the pieces clicking into place for him too. "She wore Tom's jacket."
"With the hood up, keeping her face turned from cameras. And she used the self-check-out." Debartolo pulled up security footage on his tablet. "She's five inches shorter than Tom, but bundled up, quick movements—people saw what they expected to see."
"The mechanical pencils?" Cory pressed.
Preston actually looked impressed. "Planted one at the shooting scene." He shuddered. “The woman is smart, I’ll give her that. Glad she’s not my wife. She almost pulled this off.”
“What about the money? You should be able to trace any payments she received.”
Preston pursed his lips. “That’s the thing. There haven’t been any payments.”
Cory raised his eyebrows. “She was clear about doing this for the payoff.”
“The payoff she was planning to extort from MedFlight after she brought down Mountain Angel.” Debartolo jumped in. “Crazy woman did this all on spec. Figured she’d threaten MedFlight into paying up after the fact.”
"Ouch." Izzy couldn’t help the comment.
"Right?" Preston scrolled through more notes. "She knew Tom's schedule perfectly. Turned off his phone during key times so there'd be no GPS data. Started the hangar fire wearing his clothes. Even created that confession on his computer while he slept Sunday night."
"After years of filing his papers," Debartolo added. "She could forge his writing perfectly. Said Tom was so predictable, it was easy. Same routines, same passwords, same everything for decades."
Izzy watched Cory process this, saw him thinking about his own routines, his precise patterns. She'd learned his coffee preferences in just days. How well did the people closest to you really know your habits?
“She could retract her confession,” he said quietly. “Happens all the time.”
Preston shrugged. “Sure. But by then we’ll have a mountain of hard evidence. We know where to look now.”
“Starting with that watch that old guy found out by the Mountain Angel hangar,” Debartolo added. “One of her early mistakes.” He paused, clearly relishing their interest. “It belonged to her father. Jameson Smythe. Those early Breitling’s were all registered.”
"Here's the weird part," Preston leaned forward, voice dropping like he was sharing gossip. "She thinks Tom will forgive her."
Izzy jerked upright, immediately regretting it as the room spun. "She thinks he'll forgive attempted murder?"
"Keeps saying 'He'll understand I did it for us,'" Debartolo mimicked Janet's prim tone. "Asked several times if she could share his hospital room. When we said no, she asked if we could at least put them in adjacent rooms so she could 'take care of him.'"
Izzy pressed her free hand to her forehead. "That's..."
"Delusional? Psychotic? Completely bonkers?" Preston supplied helpfully.
"I was going to say sad," Izzy admitted.
"Forty years of marriage, and she tries to kill him," Debartolo shook his head. "Some anniversary gift."
"Speaking of which," Preston cleared his throat, suddenly finding his tablet fascinating. "We may have been... overzealous in pursuing you as a suspect."
Izzy waited. That couldn't be all.
"Your frozen accounts have been released," Debartolo added, still not meeting her eyes. "Mountain Angel can resume operations once the FAA clears it. Probably by end of week."
Cory sat up, staring the men down with his stony Chief-of-Police face. “What about her license?”
Preston waved him away. “Already restored. Her file’s clean.”
“Better be,” Cory muttered.
Izzy blinked, muzzy head spinning as she tried to take it all in. The Feds backing down. Not quite an apology, but from the FBI? She'd take it.
"What about the FAA guy, Osgood?" Cory asked from his bed. "His daughter's settlement—"
"All verified. Clean money, tragic circumstances. His only crime was depression and missing obvious sabotage." Preston stood, clearly done with emotional discussions. "He's agreed to retire quietly."
The agents left with perfunctory nods, and Izzy found herself staring at the ceiling tiles. It was over. Really over. Her accounts would be unfrozen, Mountain Angel would fly again, and Chantal...
"Chantal can come home," she whispered.