Angel Flight

by R. D. Kardon

  “Hello, there.” His mother-in-law never said his name. Em said it was nothing personal, and to ignore it, but it still bothered him. “We’re at the hospital. Would you like to know what’s going on?”

  Is she fucking kidding me? “Of course, Elise. Tell me. Please.”

  “Well, Heather is in a room with her daddy and Sissy.” Elise’s baby talk was particularly annoying when Danny wanted information.

  He couldn’t be patient with her right now. “Yes. And? How’s Heather? How’s the baby?”

  “Oh, she’s fine. She’s fine. They both are so far. Look, I don’t know if they can wait to do the surgery for Bruce to get here. That’s what Heather wanted me to tell you. She can’t reach Bruce. Can you try?”

  “I have. I will. Can you please put Em on the phone?”

  “Em? You want to talk to Em?” Sometimes he truly wondered if the woman was all there.

  “Yes. My wife. Please.” Elise didn’t respond, but he heard the click of her high heels. She always wore them, no matter what she was doing or where she was. Grocery store. Baseball game. Back yard. And, apparently, the hospital.

  “Honey?” Em. Finally.

  “Hey girl. What’s going on?” He tried to sound light and encouraging, but concern seeped into his voice.

  “Danny.” That was all she said before she started to cry.

  “Emily, baby, everything will be fine. I’m off reserve, the next flight to Exeter leaves in a little over an hour. Four hours and I’ll be home. Hang in there.”

  Em sniffed loudly and then coughed. “I’m trying. Danny, I wish you were here. They’re prepping her for surgery.”

  “They will do what they need to do. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I am. I miss you like crazy. Please promise me you’ll be here soon.”

  Tears worked their way to the corners of his eyes. He blinked them back, but one fell toward his ear. Danny wiped it away, checked himself, and continued to inch forward in the security line.

  “Sure baby. I’m on my way.”

  His pager buzzed in his pocket seconds after he heard a voice mail announcement on his mobile. Danny ignored them both. He had to get to the gate to have any chance of claiming the jump seat.

  Once through security, he checked his phone and pager. Tris had called. She’d know where Bruce was.

  Then his pager buzzed again. Tris’s mobile number with “9-1-1” after it popped up. He leaned against one of the standing terminal diagrams. The tram to the gate was pulling in. He’d lose reception once he got inside, so he let it go by and pressed her number on the keypad.

  “Danny.” She sounded out of breath when she answered.

  “Hey, listen, I don’t have much . . .”

  She cut him off. “I’m in Bangor. Mike got shot on the trip from Iqaluit. And our passenger. Mike’s in the hospital.” Her voice trailed off.

  Did she say shot?

  “He what? What the hell happened? Where are you?”

  Danny flashed back to a time when he’d have boarded a plane to wherever Tris was to meet her, be with her, calm her. “Heather’s in early labor. I’m about to grab the jump seat back to Exeter. Look, I need to talk to Bruce.”

  “Wait. Danny. About Bruce. Look . . .”

  “Oh, no. Was he shot too?”

  The sound of heaving breaths was all he heard for a few seconds. Finally, she blurted out, “No. But he almost . . . in the cockpit . . . Danny, I can’t.”

  “Tris. Hey, calm down. Talk to me.” It sounded like she was in the middle of a train station.

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll move,” Tris said to someone other than him. “It’s the police, Danny. I’ve got to go talk to them now.”

  “Where’s Bruce? He’s having a baby. I’ve gotta talk to him.”

  There was more commotion in the background. Someone yelled, “Over here with that. No, no, over here.”

  Fatigue coated her words. “You can’t talk to him. No one can. He’s on his way to the hospital. To the psychiatric ward.”

  Fifty-One

  Holed up in the airport administration building adjacent to the Executive Terminal, Tris was being questioned by two Bangor detectives. She wished these cops were like the ones she saw on TV, who moved swiftly through interrogations, with snappy segues and offers of coffee and sandwiches. But they were regular cops. People like her. Flawed, bored, always self-conscious, sometimes self-critical.

  Tris wanted to know about Mike. Warren. Christine called him Warren. His wife called him Warren.

  Who, exactly, was Mike?

  “Let’s back up a bit.” One detective was bald, the other had a comb-over. This was from Comb-over. “When did you first realize there was a pre-existing relationship between your passenger and Mr. Marshall?”

  When indeed. When had Mike first told her about his wife? Kick. Kick from Massachusetts. Or so he’d said. Tris had no idea what was true and what wasn’t.

  “Today. In Iqaluit.”

  “How much did you know about their, uh, prior relationship?” This one from Baldy. They’d already asked her if she knew about any of the twelve individual times that Warren Marshall had stalked his ex-wife, violating her restraining order.

  Stalking. A restraining order. Just like Danny said.

  “What did I know?” she practically spat the words. “He told me his ex-wife was dead. That she cheated on him, that she left him, that she died. That’s what I knew before today. Before I learned that he lied.” Tris curled both hands into fists, fingernails pressed firmly into her palms.

  Baldy considered a file in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room besides breathing was the rustle of papers. They were fastened into a legal-sized folder at least an inch thick. He fanned the pages, and Tris saw flashes of photographs. She prayed they didn’t ask her to look at photos of Christine and Mike together.

  If she’d known—if she’d only known—she’d have told Woody, and Mike would have been out the door of Westin Charter.

  But she had known. Danny told her.

  Baldy spoke. “Sounds like he took the breakup of their marriage hard. Did you know about the law enforcement involvement?” His eyes narrowed and for a second he looked like he was going to reach across the table and grab her throat. Right out of a TV script. In fact, he was only reaching for his bottle of water.

  Tris raised her arms in frustration. “I knew none of it. None. He told me she’d died.” The last words were barely audible. Her head bobbed and she willed her eyes to stay open. She struggled not to simply curl up in the metal chair, like Orion. He could fold himself into a ball, and fall asleep anywhere, any time. Except dinner time. She was so hungry, she’d probably eat his cat food if they served it to her.

  “Ma’am, do you have any idea how the gun got aboard? Did you put it there?”

  “Me? No. That’s crazy. I have no idea. Don’t you know?”

  The officers stared at her. She half expected them to blind her with a light bulb and order her to confess.

  “Look, can you—can we do this later? Tomorrow? I’ve got to get to the hospital and check on my crew.”

  Her crew. Bruce. Mike.

  One of the uniformed officers had said he’d drive her to the hospital. She had to make sure Bruce was all right. Did he know his child was coming?

  She should call Diana. Or Danny. No, not Danny. He’d be at the hospital. With Em.

  Who was there to talk to? Who would believe this story? This was not a crew room yarn, one of those “back in the day” conversations. People, real people, crew members, passengers were harmed on her watch.

  “Please. Let me check on my crew, get some food, get some sleep. I’m sure I’ll be a better witness in the morning.” That wasn’t protocol, she figured, and neither Baldy nor Comb-over seemed inclined to give her a break.

  Then the door opened from outside, and a third officer came in. Also middle-aged, with a red rash rising over the tight collar of his shirt, he leaned in and whispered to the dete
ctives. Comb-over and Baldy nodded.

  Finally, Comb-over told Tris, “You’re free to go now, ma’am. We’re sorry to have kept you. We’ll pick this up with you tomorrow. Thank you.”

  Confused and relieved, Tris got up, nodded to the triumvirate of police officers and headed out to the reception area to claim her stuff and get to the hospital.

  Tris was almost out the door when Comb-over, whose name was MacAllister, she finally remembered, caught up with her.

  “Miss Miles?”

  “Yes?”

  “One more question, if you don’t mind. When did you first see the gun?”

  Did she see the gun? Bruce had been flying the plane. Mike got up to use the lav. She’d heard the first two shots. Then a third.

  When she finally spoke, the words came out slowly, deliberately, as though she’d only just learned how to say them.

  “I first saw the gun after Warren Marshall was shot. She was holding it. Christine. My passengers? Are they alive?”

  “Dr. Edgemon has passed. I’m so sorry.”

  Tris took a deep breath. “And Mike . . . uh, Warren Marshall?”

  Comb-over nodded with a hint of a smile. “Last we heard he was in surgery.”

  Mike was alive. His ex-wife was dead. For real this time.

  Fifty-Two

  The scent of antiseptic mixed with urine assaulted Tris the moment the squad car pulled up to the entrance of the Emergency Room at Eastern Maine Medical Center. Shouting, crying, the rat-a-tat-tat of impatience, and the low moan of someone in real pain filled her ears as the automatic doors opened.

  Tris avoided looking anywhere that she’d see her reflection and followed the uniformed officer to the lab to give them a urine sample. Her tongue slid over her teeth. Between interviews with the police and NTSB officials, calls to and from Exeter with Woody, trying to reach Diana, and leaving desperate messages for Dr. C, she’d had no time to brush her teeth.

  It was twenty minutes until an officious nurse joined them to oversee the procedure. The transaction complete, Tris asked about Bruce. She would be able to see him soon, she was told.

  “If you go sit in the waiting room,” the nurse said. “We’ll call you.”

  First, she trudged to the ladies’ room. The image she saw looking back at her in the cloudy rectangular mirror that hung over a series of tiny sinks was worse than she expected. Her greasy hair clung together in clumps, exposing sections of her scalp. Her plans to wash it last night were forgotten after her last talk with Mike. She’d expected to be home by now, not spending the day being interrogated by law enforcement, or at a hospital a thousand miles away.

  Paper towels coaxed from the wall dispenser helped Tris give herself an improvised sponge bath. She twisted her hair into a tight ponytail and scraped the bottom of her purse for a rubber band to tie it with. Her fingers brushed the keychain. Its heart shape now mocked her.

  Luckily, she’d kept her paper coffee cup from the hours of police questioning. Habit. Pilots on a trip saved anything they could put to use later. She filled it with water after brushing and rinsed the toothpaste out of her mouth. Frothy residue rimmed the top of the cup, so she threw it out.

  In a corner of the waiting room, toward the exit, Tris observed the parade of wounded and frightened people in and out. Busy day at the ER.

  And there, all alone, with a series of extraordinary events to process, she wished she could reach over and hold Mike’s hand.

  W. Michael Marshall. Warren Michael Marshall. He’d mentioned his full name a couple of times, mostly as a joke. Pilots didn’t have names like Warren. Just single syllable studly ones like Mike. Bron.

  Bruce.

  “Burkey? Bruce Burkey?” A plump nurse stood before the gallery of sick and exasperated, yelling Bruce’s name.

  Tris waved and caught the nurse’s eye. She grabbed her overnight bag, hefted her purse onto her shoulder, and fell in behind the purple scrubs.

  The nurse took Tris to an out-of-the way reception area so they could speak privately. “He’s in the psych ward right now. But he can have visitors. He’s asked for you. Are you family?”

  “No. A co-worker—wait, a friend. A good friend.”

  After a pause, then a nod, Tris followed her into Bruce’s room. It had six beds, all separated by drawn curtains. When she slid in the indicated opening, Bruce lay facing away from her.

  “Hey, Bruce.” She stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Tris. Hi. I have a son.” His affect was flat.

  “Congratulations. How do you feel?”

  He snorted. “Well, I’m here, he’s there, so not great. But he’s fine. He’s perfect, Heather says.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Bruce finally smiled. “My son’s name is Jacob. Jacob Bruce Burkey.”

  Tris moved to him and touched his shoulder. “That’s awesome. How’s Heather?”

  Bruce sat up. “She’s really tired, but she’s fine. How’s Mike?”

  She took his hand. “He was shot twice. The last I heard, he was alive. Our passenger is gone. Christine.”

  Neither pilot spoke for a while, their silence punctuated by beeping monitors and the low soothing voices of nurses.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Bruce said. “His ex-wife, eh? Damn. He said she was dead. I had no idea. Did you?”

  “Nope.”

  Bruce looked his mentor up and down. “You look like shit. Uh, Captain.” He gave her a half-assed salute with a flick of his wrist. They both grinned.

  “Don’t I know it? And look at you, lying around.” A little laughter.

  Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So, what’s with all this? Do you know why I’m still here? I need to get home. To meet my son. And see Heather.”

  “Please don’t worry, Bruce. I talked to Danny. He's on his way to Exeter, to the hospital. He and Em will be with Heather. And your mother-in-law.” His expression soured at the mention of Elise, and she laughed. “Look, it’s a good thing. Heather needs her mom.”

  “I guess.” He paused, and then drew a couple of breaths, as though he were steeling himself. “Hey, Tris. Look, I have to tell you. I may have said some things to—to others . . . thought some things, damn it, done some things that I regret. You were right to pull my upgrade. Since Lemaster—”

  “Bruce. Don’t think about that now.”

  He came alive. “No, I have to apologize, Tris. The things I said—may have said—and did. Mike. The whole Chief Pilot thing. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

  Circumstances had brought them well past whatever Bruce had done, or how he may have harmed her. “Bruce, please. Come on. You know as well as I do that the crew that shovels together—”

  “Stays together.” He finished her sentence. “Tris, you’ve been nothing but fair to me. And I’m grateful.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes. Tris’s mind wandered. Phyll had booked her a hotel room for a few nights, and an open airline ticket for her flight back home to Exeter. The Royal was a crime scene. It wouldn’t fly for a while. What crime, exactly, and against whom, no one knew yet.

  Bruce said his working diagnosis, “whatever that means,” was PTSD.

  Of course it was.

  “Have you seen Mike?” he asked.

  Tris took a deep breath. “That’s my next stop.”

  The two pilots hugged, and Tris went directly to the nurse’s station. A male nurse wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs sat at a computer terminal.

  “Sir,” she began.

  “One second,” he cut her off, and continued typing. When he finished, he looked up. “Yes. May I help you?”

  “Yes. Warren Marshall. What room is he in?” she asked.

  He nodded, clutched the computer’s mouse, clicked a few times, and looked up. “He’s here. What is your relationship to him?”

  Good question. Tris laughed, which, by the nurse’s expression, he clearly misunderstood.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  Tris shook her head. “No. He
was my passenger. You know, on that flight.”

  “Ah, yes. Ma’am, what is your name?”

  “Miles. Tris—uh, Patricia Miles.”

  His expression tightened. “Ma’am, Mr. Marshall mentioned your name to us before he went into surgery. He specifically asked that you not be permitted to see him.”

  NEWS 14 APRIL 2000 – 9:15 EDT

  Iqaluit Therapist Dead on

  Life-Saving Medical Flight

  BY NUNATSIAQ NEWS

  IQALUIT—Christine Marie Edgemon, 42, a local psychologist specializing in grief counseling, and wife of Erik Hudson, the Director of Project Management at Tetrix Inc.’s Nunavut facility, died on a flight from Frobisher Bay Airport in Iqaluit to Bangor Maine on Wednesday from a gunshot wound. A pilot on the flight, Warren Michael Marshall, who is also her ex-husband, sustained two gunshot wounds.

  Edgemon died of injuries inflicted by a single gunshot wound to the head. Marshall is in critical condition at Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor.

  “Dr. Edgemon brought the gun that eventually killed her onto the flight. We are investigating her intentions—we don’t know yet if she intended to take her own life, her ex-husband’s life, both or neither,” said Detective Chief Inspector Robert Gann of the Bangor Police Department. “Edgemon was reportedly depressed over her illness. And Marshall had not recovered emotionally from the dissolution of their marriage two years before. We also don’t know whether Edgemon and/or Marshall planned to be together on this flight.” When pressed for further details, DCI Gann said the matter was still “under investigation.”

  Dr. Edgemon suffered from Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s Disease. The flight, commonly referred to in the aviation community as an “angel” flight, was arranged by Hudson’s employer, Tetrix, Inc., to transport Edgemon to the United States to obtain an experimental treatment for her disease that was unavailable to her in Iqaluit. Hudson was waiting for his wife to arrive at Exeter International Airport, the “angel” flight’s final destination.

  The “angel” flight pilots made an emergency landing into Bangor International Airport when they realized a gun had been fired. The names of the two pilots have not yet been released.