Angel Flight

by R. D. Kardon

  “Sure,” the woman smiled. “Would you prefer van or snowmobile?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I think van,” Mike said, smiling. “With the bags and all.”

  “Right away, captains,” the woman replied.

  Bruce stood a little bit taller.

  At the hotel’s check-in desk, each crew member was presented with an actual metal key to their room. They giggled over the antique conventions of this small, out-of-the-way town while the clerk confirmed their one-night stay.

  Bruce took the lead. “So, tomorrow, let’s head to the airport at five a.m. I’ll arrange our ride. I’ve gotta run to my room and call Heather. See you tomorrow.” He waved and rolled his bag down the hallway.

  Tris and Mike stood near the elevators, under a painting of what looked like a local warrior holding a spear. The tension of the previous night ran between them like electric current.

  Mike considered his feet. “I may just meet you guys at the airport tomorrow.”

  “Mike, please. There’s no reason for you not to ride with us. That’s silly. Let’s just relax tonight. Let’s talk. Something’s bothering you, that’s obvious.”

  He rubbed his beard and looked away. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be going to the airport directly from the hotel.” With that, Mike grabbed his go bag and marched to the open elevator.

  He’s running away from me.

  “Wait. What?” Tris tried to catch up with him but got to the elevator as the doors shut. For a split second, she could see Mike inside, his head hanging.

  Mike was part of the crew, and while Bruce was handling captain duties, Tris was still PIC. She needed to know where her crew could be reached. As soon as she got to her room, coat still on, she called Mike.

  “Hello. Mike Marshall.” He answered as though he was expecting someone he didn’t know.

  “Mike. Hey, it’s me.” No response. “So, I need to know what your plan is, and where you’ll be coming from tomorrow.”

  “Why? I have my pager in case you need me. I have an old friend here in town.”

  “In this town? You’ve got to be kidding. You haven’t mentioned it once the entire time you’ve known about this trip.” After a long stretch of dead air, she continued. “Mike? Come on, what’s happening here?”

  He sighed. “I didn’t realize until yesterday that someone I used to know lives here. I haven’t reached out yet, but if I can get in touch, I’ll probably want to hang out tonight. I don’t mean to be obtuse. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow on the way home.” His voice simply sounded sad. “I . . . I . . . Goodnight, Tris,” he finally said, and hung up.

  Tris held the receiver for a second before placing it back in the cradle. His tone signaled the promise of truth, like maybe he’d finally explain things to her. Should she tell Bruce what was going on?

  The shrill ring of the phone startled her.

  “Yes? Hello?”

  A beat passed. “Hi, Tris.” Mike had called back.

  “Yes? What?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m being such a dick.”

  “Okay, so come to my room for a little while. Whatever’s on your mind, you know you can tell me.” She’d persuade him to relax. She’d give him the keys. They’d forget the weirdness of the last twenty-four hours and enjoy the evening together.

  Mike was silent for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Hey? Mike?”

  “Tris, look, I should have told you.”

  “Dammit, Mike, told me what?”

  “There’s always a few loose ends in people’s lives. You know that, right? I’ve got one. Here in Iqaluit, incredibly. I need to tie it up.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  Another long pause.

  “I know. And I am so, so sorry.”

  IQALUIT, NUNAVUT

  CANADA

  April 11, 2000

  CHRISTINE

  Erik, I love you. There is no doubt in my mind that you are the one, the right one, the only one. After how things ended with Warren, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be with someone again. I wish I could hang around, and we could live the life we planned in this land beyond our past.

  I can’t do it, baby.

  Now, it’s time for the most important thing—telling you everything I love about you. The big and little things, the everyday things, the once-in-a-lifetime things. How when we’re sleeping, even if we’re both exhausted, you make sure that some part of you touches some part of me. Even if it’s just toe to toe, finger to knee, or hand to hand. You make the coffee, every morning, even if we’re fighting, and you bring some to me. Sometimes you carry our mugs into the shower with you, and we both laugh as we try to drink it without getting water in it—and fail every time.

  Erik, baby, I am always going to be with you. I’ll be there when the wind blows. When a snowflake hits your cheek, in that second before it melts, I am there. In the first warm rays of sunshine after the endless winter finally breaks, I am there.

  It’s basic physics, baby. That which exists, which has existed, never ends. It never dies.

  I’ll always be there.

  With love, devotion and everything else,

  Your Christie

  Forty-Five

  At five a.m. in Iqaluit, Tris stood in the lobby of the crew’s hotel with the house phone’s receiver to her ear.

  “He’s still not answering,” she said to Bruce.

  He checked his watch and exhaled slowly through puffed cheeks. “We can’t wait any longer. Where is he?”

  Tris shrugged.

  Bruce called over to the front desk, “We’re ready. Let’s go.”

  Their transportation was unique to say the least. Tris and Bruce huddled on the front bench seat of an enormous pickup truck with a snowplow attached to its grille. They’d tossed their bags into the flat bed and had to dig them out from the pile of tools, tarps, and empty coffee cups when they arrived at the airport.

  There, in the waiting area they’d left only hours before, Mike lay snoring on a couch under the open mouth of the pelted polar bear. The same woman was behind the front desk. A uniformed security guard carrying a walkie-talkie read the local paper.

  Mike had on his pilot shirt with the tie loosened, captain’s jacket draped over his body—and his untied tennis shoes dangled from his feet. Gritting her teeth, Tris resisted the urge to shake him and demand to know where he’d been last night. Instead, she stepped over and got a cup of coffee. A box of donuts sat on the coffee table. One of Mike’s feet rested close to the tip of the coconut-covered one Tris had her eye on.

  Bruce sidled up to her and gestured toward Mike. “Whaddaya want to do with him?”

  “Let’s get ready to go. We can wake him in a little while.”

  He hesitated. “He’s supposed to be observing me.”

  Tris picked up on Bruce’s disappointment right away. “Bruce, I’m pilot-in-command of this flight and a captain at Westin Charter. If you handle yourself as one, I’ll personally recommend to Woody that he upgrade you.”

  Bruce nodded, grabbed their overnight bags, and walked out to the ramp. The cold rush of air from the open door caused Mike to shudder. He opened his eyes, spotted her, and rolled into a sitting position on the couch.

  “Hey. What time is it?” Mike checked the wall clock. “Oh good. Plenty of time.”

  “How long have you been here? Did you sleep here all night?” Tris stood next to him, arms folded.

  “Nope. I got here a couple of hours ago. I stayed at the hotel after all.”

  “So, did you accomplish what you needed to?”

  Mike’s eyes went vacant. He stood, and robotically smoothed his clothes. “Nope. I never found her. It’s okay. I’ll see her soon.”

  Goosebumps rose on Tris’s arms in the overheated lounge. “Who?” she replied anxiously.

  The door to the building opened, and a tall blond woman slowly walked in. She shouldered a tote and leaned heavily on the handle of her roller bag. With every pa
ir of forward steps, her left foot landed at an odd angle, causing her to zigzag.

  “Hello?” The woman called.

  Mike’s mouth dropped open and his body bent backward, as if he’d been pushed. After a couple of seconds, recognition swept over Dr. Christine Edgemon. She raised a hand in front of her eyes, like someone blinded by what she saw.

  “Warren?” she asked, in the small, scared voice of a child.

  Mike straightened up. “Hello, Kick,” he said, his tone as neutral as his expression.

  Warren? Kick?

  “Is he the pilot today? Is he flying the plane? He can’t be here.” She took two awkward steps toward the exit.

  Tris shot a sidelong glance at Mike as she shepherded her passenger to the small room Bruce had used for flight planning. Christine lowered herself onto a plastic-covered metal chair and ran both hands through her hair.

  “Ma’am, let me introduce myself. I’m Captain Tris Miles. Mike, Captain Marshall, is an observer on this trip. Is that a problem?”

  Christine held her head in both hands and squeezed. “He can’t be here.”

  “Can you please tell me why?”

  Christine took a deep breath. “I need to call my husband. I need to call Erik. Is there a pay phone? My mobile phone. I . . . I don’t have . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “I can help you reach him. But first, can you tell me what’s wrong?” Tris reached for Christine’s shoulder, to reassure her.

  Christine recoiled, jabbing her thumb in Mike’s direction. “It’s him. He’s here.” Her voice shook with fear.

  Tris leaned around the door frame and glanced into the waiting area. Mike was crouched against the wall next to the polar bear. His mouth was frozen in an “O” shape, eyes fixed on the floor where his wallet now lay, surrounded by credit cards splayed near a few errant bills and some pennies.

  “Ma’am, what is it about Captain Marshall? Do you know him?”

  Christine whimpered. “Warren is here. Oh, God he’s here.”

  She called him Warren again.

  Recollection hardened inside Tris like ice.

  Calmly, deliberately, Tris said, “Ma’am, please just sit here and relax. I’ll be right back.”

  In the waiting area, Mike held something the size and shape of a credit card. She took it from him and turned it over in her hand.

  It was his pilot certificate.

  She’d reviewed it once before—at Lemaster, to make sure he was qualified to fly the Royal.

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DEPARTMENT OF TRANSPORTATION

  •

  FEDERAL AVIATION ADMINISTRATION

  IV NAME

  WARREN MICHAEL MARSHALL

  “Mike,” Tris spoke softly, pressing the sharp edge of the laminated card into her palm, willing her hand to stop shaking. “Do you know our passenger?”

  Mike’s chin hit his chest. “She’s my wife.”

  Neither had seen Christine limp up, slightly hunched, gripping her shoulder bag so tightly her knuckles were white.

  “Ex-wife,” she announced.

  The three stood motionless in the stifling room. Errant sounds of flight prep—computer paper spilling from the printer, a ringing phone, trucks traversing the ramp—were all drowned out by the internal alarm that blasted Tris from head to toe.

  He lied to me ran like a ticker tape in her brain.

  Mike hadn’t moved. The front desk phone rang on, but the clerk ignored it.

  “I can’t—I can’t stay here,” Christine whispered, and moved in rigid, jerky steps toward the exit, using the handle of her suitcase like a cane.

  Tris summoned the composed countenance she’d long cultivated and called on before in critical situations. And made a command decision.

  “Dr. Edgemon, wait. Let me take you to a private room,” Tris offered. Christine nodded, and within minutes, she was sitting in an empty office away from the waiting area.

  “Please try and relax. You’ll be safe here. No one will disturb you; I promise. Here,” she said pointing to a desk phone, “use this to call your husband. Just dial ‘1’ before the number. I’ll be right back.”

  Tris found Bruce in the flight-planning room. “We have some unexpected, uh, challenges on this trip. I’m going to need to call Woody, but in the meantime, can you please keep Mike—” She caught herself. “Mr. Marshall right where he is. Don’t let him on the airplane and do not, under any circumstance, let him get anywhere near Christine.”

  “Huh? Why? Tris, who is she?”

  “Mike’s former wife. Very much alive and our angel flight passenger.”

  Forty-Six

  Tris struggled to make Woody understand the mystifying circumstances that threatened the progress of the angel flight. She barely comprehended them herself.

  Make this about the mission. Focus on Christine.

  “Woody, there’s not much time. All of our flight planning hinges on us launching in the next half hour. The airplane is ready. I can get our passenger aboard as long as Mike,” the name caught in her throat, “uh, your Chief Pilot doesn’t come along.”

  She felt Woody shaking his head forcefully almost two thousand miles away. “Are you kidding? Leave him there? Fuck. How am I gonna get him home? Do you have any idea how much an airline ticket costs from there?”

  “I’m not comfortable carrying them both. She’s terrified of him.”

  “Tris, we have no choice. Our reputation depends on completing the angel flight. It’s your call, but Mike—Warren, whatever . . . Tell me, in your judgment, is he—how should I say?—a danger to her? To the aircraft? Right now?”

  Tris was grateful for the implicit understanding between her and Woody—as pilot-in-command, she had the final authority over the safe operation of the flight.

  “I don’t think so, no,” she said. While Tris wanted nothing more than to leave Mike right where he was, the company was obligated to get him back to Exeter.

  “I have an idea. We’ll keep Mike in the jump seat, away from her, and close the curtain behind him. It’s just a few feet of separation, but I think we can chance it. Arrange an airline ticket for him from Bangor.” After seconds passed, she prodded him. “Did you hear me?”

  Relief bracketed Woody’s words. “Yeah. Sounds like you’ve got it covered. He’s off the trip in Bangor. Get the airplane home safe, and we’ll sort the rest of the crap out when you get here.”

  Bruce entered the room with a what’s going on? look.

  Tris held up a finger.

  “Will do, Woody. We’re on our way. See you later today.” Tris snapped the flip phone closed.

  “What’s happening?” Bruce asked.

  “Here’s the plan. Mike’s no longer evaluating you, Bruce. But he’s still going to sit in the jump seat through Bangor, then he’s airlining to Exeter. We have to keep him away from our passenger.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “Not yet. Let’s get our passenger aboard first. I’ll handle him.”

  “Really? Isn’t he our boss anymore?” The way Bruce asked the question was so innocent, so devoid of guile, Tris grinned.

  “It’s our show now, Bruce. Yours and mine, like it’s been many times before. We’re in charge of this flight and responsible for getting our passenger to treatment.” Posture straight, hands on her hips, chin thrust forward, she considered Mike, still slumped against the wall. “And when we get there, I think we’re going to need a new Chief Pilot. Okay. Let’s put her on.”

  Together, Tris and Bruce walked Christine onto the Royal and got her settled.

  “Are you all right here, ma’am?” Tris asked, while Bruce went to find some pillows for her.

  Christine frantically surveyed the cabin. “Where is he? He’s not coming with us, is he?”

  “He’ll be sitting in between Bruce and me. We’ll close the curtain so you can’t see him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.” She pointed toward the cockpit. “Will that work for you, ma’am?”

&
nbsp; Christine’s expression morphed from frightened to thoughtful and settled at purposeful. She sat up, raised her shoulders, and tightened her grip on the shoulder bag.

  “That’s fine,” she replied. “That will do nicely.”

  Forty-Seven

  “What did I do? This makes no sense,” Mike protested, moving a step closer to Tris. “I’d never hurt Kick.”

  What did you do indeed—you lied to me, lied to Woody, stalked your ex-wife. And lied. You lied.

  Hurt and deceived, Tris fought the urge to run, to cry, to scream. But in this moment, she was not the woman he loved, or who might have loved him. She was commanding the angel flight.

  “Warren, that woman is scared to death of you. And this mission is about her. You’ll sit in the jump seat, with no operational authority over this flight. None. And you’ll avoid our passenger. Tell me you understand.”

  “But I . . .” Mike pleaded, looking at Tris. But like gazing directly into a blazing sun, her resolve forced him to look away. “There’s so much I want to say to you—”

  She cut him off. “Not now. Please. Just do as I say. This is what Woody wants, and what our passenger needs. You’re getting on a commercial flight in Bangor. We’ll sort this out another time.”

  Mike followed Tris out to the Royal. Christine was safely belted into the seat where Tris had put her, reading National Geographic. With no further discussion, Tris led Mike to the cockpit, squeezed past him and drew the cockpit curtain tightly behind them. Tris fastened her belt and shoulder harness and confirmed that Mike was secure in the Royal’s thin metal jump seat.

  Bruce was already strapped into the left seat. For a moment, she considered switching seats with him, taking total command of the flight. But Bruce had performed admirably. He deserved a shot to finish his upgrade, and Tris would give it to him.

  “Engine start checklist, please,” he called, officially starting the series of events that would take the troubled group home.