Now he operated Richardson Avionics and Electrical out of a rented cinder-block building with a hand-painted sign. On good weeks, charter companies brought him display units and electronic assemblies for inspection, diagnosis, and component work routed through the correct certification channels. On bad weeks, he fixed farm radios and wiring in tractors because somebody had to pay the light bill. He owned less than most of the people who entered his shop and understood more about the things they brought him than they usually expected.
That morning there was a shipping note taped to the front door. A charter operator needed a repaired display processor brought personally to the private terminal at Hallidge Field by noon. The item had already passed its bench inspection and documentation checks; Caleb's job was to deliver it without entrusting it to the ordinary loading dock. The operator offered a two-hundred-dollar rush fee. Caleb thought of Emma's coat, the broken zipper he closed each morning with a safety pin, and the surprise in her face if she came home to find a new one hanging by the door.
He considered hiring a courier. The courier would have swallowed most of the fee, and he could not afford to be proud about money that had not yet entered his account. He placed the carefully packed unit in the truck and put his father's toolbox beside it, though he had no immediate reason to carry a box full of tools to a delivery counter. Marcus's voice rose from an old memory: Never leave your tools behind when you don't know what the day is going to ask of you.
At ten-thirty, Caleb locked the shop, turned the faded sign to CLOSED FOR DELIVERY, and climbed into the truck. He had not read the news about Victoria Hayes's reward, and he knew nothing about the stalled aircraft or the engineers flown in from three continents. He was thinking about a two-hundred-dollar rush fee, the price of a purple winter coat, and whether Mrs. Parker would mind keeping Emma for an extra twenty minutes if the traffic at the interchange was bad.
The route to Hallidge Field took him past luxury dealerships, a medical park, and a new development whose entrance sign promised a better way to live. Caleb had once worked on an emergency generator for the developer and waited six weeks to be paid. He drove on without looking at the sign. Above the highway, a small commuter aircraft banked toward the main airport, sunlight catching its wings. Caleb followed it with his eyes until a horn behind him reminded him to pay attention to the road.