by R. D. Kardon
Mike shrugged. “Honestly, Tris, I don’t see the need. He flies great from the right seat. A captain has to swap seats all the time. You and I do it regularly.”
She shook her head. “This is different, Mike. I’m telling you; Bruce is different.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t think it is—that he is. So, about the angel flight. You’ll continue to coordinate with the team at Tetrix and get all the passenger data and information you can. Any special requirements, whether our passenger will need a wheelchair, special pick-up, etc. If our passenger doesn’t need anything special, then you and I can discuss any details the day before we launch.”
“I can delegate most of that to Phyll. She normally handles passenger info.”
He shook his head. “No. This is too important to the company. I get why you don’t want to do it, Tris. But you need to.”
She’d told him everything about Tetrix, things she hadn’t even told Dr. C. When the memories made her tremble, Mike held her. When she teared up, he did too. He’d processed every horrific detail, his emotions mirroring her own.
They’d ordered Chinese afterward. Celebrated how she’d risen from those defeats, clinked their chopsticks over Beef Lo Mein and bit opposite ends of a shared egg roll. Those culinary rituals cemented their relationship as the fresh start both so desperately wanted.
“Sure. Whatever you say, Chief.” She laid her napkin on top of her uneaten food, tossed the whole mess into the trash, swung her coat on and headed toward the door. She left Woody and Mike’s trash right where it was.
“Hey,” he called after her. She didn’t stop. “Hey.”
Tris had already stepped outside, but she raised the heel of her right foot behind her to stop the door from closing and considered her partner.
His shoulders sagged, the edges of his almond-shaped eyes turned down, lips parted. Both arms were extended, his right hand reaching toward her, fingers beckoning her to grab them. “Tris please. Don’t run away from me again. Please. Come on Tris. Don’t do this. See you later, all right? Your place? You know I have a trip tomorrow. Let’s be together before I leave. Say yes. Please.”
Oh, how she wanted to. To smile at him. Maybe even press her lips together slightly in the promise of a kiss.
Instead, she uttered a humorless laugh, raised her foot and let the door click shut behind her.
PART III:
THE ANGEL FLIGHT
April 2000
Exeter, Illinois
Iqaluit, Nunavut, Canada
Bangor, Maine
Thirty-Six
Danny’s hotel room in Little Rock looked out on City Hall. Its tall, narrow windows reminded him of a prison he used to fly over as a flight instructor.
Everything reminded him of a prison lately. He had called Tris on her mobile at least ten times. It kept going to voice mail. He truly was trapped—between wanting to tell her what he’d learned and knowing he should stay out of it. Leave her alone. Just let it be.
Then he’d remember how hurt she was when Bron died. No, this wasn’t the same thing. But she could still be hurt.
Maybe Mike had already told her about his abrupt departure from Legacy, about the restraining order, the police. Everybody had secrets and each couple revealed them—or not—when the time was right.
It drove him crazy, not knowing if she knew. Tris would have said something, would have told him about this, wouldn’t she? Or maybe she’d keep Mike’s secrets.
Danny was about to call her again when his pager buzzed. It was an Exeter number he didn’t recognize.
He entered the number on the keypad of his mobile phone. “Hello. This is Danny Terry. Is someone paging me?”
“Hang on. Hang on . . .” he heard someone say in the background. Tris.
“Tris. Where are you?”
“The Westin hangar. But I’m using the mechanics line. There’s a bunch of people around. So, you’ve been calling. Sorry it took me a while to get back. What’s up?”
After two days of rehearsing what he’d say, how he’d tell her, now he was tongue-tied. How do you tell someone their boyfriend is a stalker?
“Hey, Tris. Well, you know how you asked me a while back why Mike left Legacy. Did he ever tell you?”
“He quit to save his marriage. So sad—it didn’t work. What’s going on? I’m doing an equipment check for the angel flight.”
Danny talked faster. Nerves. “Yeah, well, a guy I ran into in the crew lounge seemed to know Mike’s situation here pretty well. There’s way more to it.”
“Can you tell me quickly? If not, can we meet up when I get back?”
He finally had her attention. He hated gossip. But this was Tris.
“Tris, the word on the street is that she dumped him, and he lost it. Lost his cool.”
“What? How?”
He couldn’t stand it anymore.
“He showed up to the airplane for work one day and the police were there to detain him. And . . . well . . . they say he stripped off all his clothes.”
Tris busted out laughing. He had to move the receiver away from his ear.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Mike? He’s one of the most mellow, easygoing people I’ve ever met. He flew the 76 all over the world with Legacy. And, by the way, he just beat me out for the Chief Pilot job. Nah. You got that wrong.”
And now he wondered himself. Did he, indeed, have it wrong? Was he trying to pry them apart? Wait. Did she just say she didn’t get the Chief Pilot job?
In the desk chair in his hotel room with his feet up on the air conditioner, Danny pushed himself so far back he almost fell over. “You didn’t get Chief Pilot? Man, that sucks. So, Mike’s the Chief?”
“He is. As of a few days ago.”
“Well, then you’ve gotta hear this, Tris. The guy I talked to, a captain at Legacy, said he was one of the people who handled Mike’s case with the union. They let him resign to—I don’t know—help him out. And now he’s your Chief?”
“The Chief Pilot, Danny. Not mine. For the company. I’m still senior captain. Anyway, I think this may be another example of ‘air phone’,” she said, using the bastardization of the game “telephone” as a placeholder for the fantastic transformation pilot chatter underwent as it was passed on.
He squeezed a plastic water bottle and watched the clear liquid rise to the top before it spilled over. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. This guy was probably exaggerating.” But Danny believed every word that captain had told him. Too much cloak and dagger around the conversation for it to be bullshit. If someone made stuff up, they’d usually start laughing in the middle of the story, or at least at the end. This was real.
He had to tell her all of it.
“Look, I know this all sounds nuts. But let me tell you the rest.”
“There’s more? You’re kidding.”
Danny heard a compressor start up in the background. He hesitated, but only for a second. “I am serious, and so was the captain who told me this story. After their divorce, Mike wouldn’t leave his ex-wife alone. He stalked her. The cops were called.”
This time, Tris hesitated, just a beat. “That’s crazy,” she finally said. “If all this happened, why didn’t Emily or Heather ever mention it to you? Or to Bruce? Because I’m telling you, I have not seen anything or heard a word to indicate that is the type of thing Mike did, could, or would have done. No kidding.”
Now it was Danny’s turn to sound unsure. “I asked Em. She said she had no idea. But, then, you know, Mike’s parents aren’t super-close to Em’s and . . .”
“Danny, I know you’re only looking out for me. Come on, buddy. If what that captain you talked to said happened actually did, there’d be some story following Mike around. You know how it is in aviation—a story like that? And, yet, there’s nothing. Woody’s known him for years. If this was in his background, you think he’d have gotten the CP job?
“Tris, don’t you think you should at least ask him? Maybe ask Wood
y if he’s heard anything?” He’d gone this far, why not go all the way?
“No way Woody’d hire someone with a criminal record. Look, thanks for having my back. Let’s get together at our donut place soon. After the angel flight, okay?”
The longing Danny held in check finally seeped out. His words were choked, guttural. “All right, then. Bye, Flygirl.”
“Bye, buddy. See you.”
Thirty-Seven
As departure day approached, Zorn summoned a representative of the angel flight crew to the Tetrix hangar. As much as it grated on her, Tris had to go.
She elected to take the long way around the perimeter of the airport, instead of a more direct route. With temperatures in the high forties and bright sunshine, it would be an easy mile walk.
After last week’s Chief Pilot decision, she and Mike hadn’t spent a night together, although they talked on the phone every day. The Royal had four days of roundtrips to Miami in a row, and Woody wanted Bruce to fly with Mike as much as possible before his big day.
Mike had caught a bad cold going back and forth between winter and summer, so both he and Tris agreed it was best to sleep in their own apartments.
Their physical separation gave Tris time for her disappointment to thaw. The letdown over losing the promotion was still palpable but dissipated a little bit each day.
Mike hadn’t taken the promotion from her. She’d lost it. She’d made the wrong call on Bruce. She’d been late in Burbank. She could play the victim if she wanted to, a role she’d been forced into before. But that uniform no longer fit her.
“I can come over and bring cough drops and Nyquil. And wear a mask,” she’d joked on the phone with Mike the night before.
In a voice that sounded even scratchier and sexier than usual, if a little nasal, he said, “Nah. I have everything I need. Except you. I surely do want you.”
Those words, the memory of them, warmed her during her walk. Finally at the Tetrix hangar, Tris pressed the familiar buzzer.
This time, a man’s voice answered. “Yeah. What?”
“It’s Tris Miles from Westin Charter.”
The door buzzed open. And there stood Ed Deter.
Still bald and plump, with rimless glasses perched on his craggy nose and small, round eyes focused on her, Deter looked like he hadn’t aged since she last saw him on her final day at Tetrix. He hovered behind the reception desk with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand.
Tris resisted the urge to ask if he’d been demoted.
“Well, Miss Miles. Long time.” Deter stuck his hand out. She had no trouble grasping it. Despite their differences, they’d made a form of peace.
“Ed. Hello. I’m here about . . .”
“The angel flight. Yes, I know. Everyone else is flying, so Zorn asked me to meet with you. You flying it?” He focused intently on the captain’s bars on her uniform jacket, visible since she removed her coat.
“I’ll be in the right seat. We’re checking out a new captain.”
Deter’s lips opened in surprise. “You’re a check pilot now?”
“I’m a senior captain at Westin. So. The passenger details?”
But Deter was not to be rushed. While he rummaged on the desk for something, Tris heard Dicky Lord’s voice coming from the hangar. Tetrix had hired Dicky as a captain, bypassing Tris. A bad taste materialized on her tongue. Tris was sweating, so she took off her uniform jacket and cooled off in her short-sleeved pilot shirt.
She needed to get out of there, and fast.
“Here’s a copy of the internal flight request,” Deter said. “It has some details about your passenger you may not have seen yet.” As Tris was about to take the document, Deter flipped it toward her on the desk. Then he asked her to wait.
“What? Is there more?” she said, one foot toward the exit.
The entrance doorbell rang again. “I think you’ll want to stick around for this.” Deter buzzed someone in.
A tall, slender man with a severe receding hairline walked in, wearing a Burberry coat and black-framed glasses. Tris recognized him but couldn’t recall from where. He was probably one of the Tetrix passengers she used to fly.
The man walked up to the desk, looked at Tris and then asked Deter, “Is Brian Zorn here?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m Ed Deter.” Deter shook the man’s extended hand. “But I think you’ll want to meet this woman.” He pointed at Tris. “Captain Tris Miles,” he said, matter-of-factly.
The man turned, and again stuck out his hand. “Hello. I’m Erik Hudson.”
Christine’s husband. Tris took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “Mr. Hudson. I’m honored. I’ll be the captain flying your wife, Chris—uh, Dr. Edgemon, to Exeter.”
Hudson beamed. “A lady pilot. Christie will love it. I can’t wait to tell her.” He considered Tris, his eyes filling with tears. “Thank you. For everything. For going to get my wife and bringing her here. I don’t know what I’d do . . .”
Hudson pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose and eyes. “She’s losing faith, losing hope. Who can blame her?” He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “This is Christie’s only chance. Our last chance.”
Deter’s eyes had closed, his head bowed. He mumbled something under his breath—a prayer? In that instant, the shadow of her awful experience at Tetrix—the internal saga that had strangled her for so long—disappeared in the wake of their responsibility to this desperate man and his sick wife.
Awash in visceral currents of hope and hopelessness, Tris understood how their mission had gotten its name.
Thirty-Eight
It was a regular two-day trip. Another two-day trip, like he’d done hundreds of times before. Bruce repeated this mantra over and over. Just a typical flight. Everything was the same. Except it wasn’t.
“Where’s my socks? Heather?” He called from the bedroom, a bit too loudly, since Heather stood no more than two feet away pulling laundry out of the dryer.
No response. He’d have to grab them himself. Bruce couldn’t finish packing until he got those damn socks. Packing was a process; do it the same way every time, nothing gets forgotten. Socks next, then underwear, then shirts, then pants.
He punched his fist into his palm, shook his head, and marched into the hallway. Heather stood by the dryer folding a pair of socks.
“Here you go, honey.”
Bruce yanked the still-warm socks out of her hand, strode back to the bedroom, threw them in his bag and proceeded with his internal checklist. He wouldn’t take a pair of jeans. He wasn’t going out. He’d have room service, if anything. It was expensive, but the last thing he wanted to do was go out with the happy couple on their overnight.
It wasn’t like Tris had been jerking Mike off in the cockpit. No, nothing like that. But they were close, he could tell. Wonder what Danny’s opinion was about them? Everyone behaved like Danny was so in love with Em. Bruce knew better.
After this flight he’d be able to run his own show. Woody said that the second airplane would be on line in a couple of weeks.
Once his upgrade was done, Mike promised that Bruce could help choose a new first officer. Someone he wanted to fly with. That girl who he’d instructed with at the flight school came to mind. She was gorgeous, and a pretty good stick. He’d get a resume from her after he upgraded. She’d be grateful for the opportunity, just like he’d been back in the day. They’d have a blast going on overnights together, hanging out—especially after the baby was born, when he’d probably need a little bit of fun.
Suddenly, the sheer weight of his love for Heather overwhelmed him. What am I thinking?
Bruce sat next to his partially packed suitcase and folded his hands in his lap. Then he fished his pager out of his pocket. The red light wasn’t flashing. No new pages. But he pressed the display button, again and again, at least ten times before he threw the thing against the wall.
“Did you drop something, baby?” Heather called.
Say noth
ing. Say nothing. He picked up the pager and finished packing. He zipped up the Purdy Neat and rolled it over to the door with the handle raised so he could grab it as he walked out.
Bruce bent over, breathing heavily, in and out, eyes shut, hands balled into fists in his pockets for he had no idea how long. His pulse had been steadily increasing, to the point where his skin flushed.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Nerves, it had to be nerves. Tomorrow was a big day. He’d confirmed that there would be no freight aboard, at least out of Exeter. And, really, who would want anything carried to the middle of East Bumfuck, Canada?
If there was no freight, there could be no HAZMAT. There couldn’t be another Lemaster.
“Hey, did you call that therapist whose number I gave you?”
Bruce swallowed hard. “I have an appointment for after the angel flight. But, Heather, really, you know the risk . . .”
“Didn’t Mike tell you pilots see shrinks all the time? And just don’t report it?”
Bruce shoved his hands back into his pockets so hard, the waistband of his jeans slipped down to his thighs. When did my pants get so loose? “Do you think he did? Saw someone? After the divorce?”
“He should have—he was wrecked,” Heather replied. “Ask my parents. If anyone knows, it’s them.”
Bruce realized he didn’t want to know. Their home phone rang. Probably a telemarketer. Heather waddled over to answer it.
“Hey, Heather,” he called a few minutes later in what he hoped she’d recognize as a normal tone of voice.
“Mmm?”
“Hon?”
He heard her mumble something, and then call back to him. “Bruce, I’m on the phone. Give me a minute.” More mumbling, then the sound of the cordless phone settling back in its cradle.
“Who was that?” he asked as he walked into the living room.
Heather’s eyes were rimmed red and she repeatedly raked her hair back with her fingertips. Not a good sign.
“What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
Heather sniffed and shook her head. “No, the baby’s fine. I was just talking to Em. She’s pretty upset.”