Flight 19

by Grant Finnegan

  It was pushing 11.00pm on a rather quiet Thursday night in one of LA’s harsher neighborhoods, Westmont. He was officially off duty, though, as many highway patrol officers do these days, he still had his Smith & Wesson pistol only inches away from his right hand. It was fully loaded and ready for use, securely fastened in the shoulder holster buried underneath his leather jacket. Standing against the wall next to the small parking lot behind the Westmont McDonald’s restaurant, he’d drawn no attention to himself.

  In any case, standing as he was in an area of LA known more for its murder count than its livability, no one was likely to approach him and ask what the hell he was doing. He was just a couple of blocks away from South Vermont Avenue, known even to the Los Angeles Times as “Death Alley.”

  He’d been watching the man for nearly two weeks, whenever he could. Some days he was still on duty, but most of the time he was off. He’d been telling Emily he was doing some overtime, which of course was a lie. He was just coming down here and watching the guy who ended his father’s life go about his business as if he’d never murdered anyone in cold blood, let alone a cop.

  A history of family violence, coupled with drug problems before he turned 12, then what his lawyer cited were mental-health issues akin to bipolar, had seen the guy walk away from his trial for the murder of Andrew Roberts with nothing but a slap on the hand.

  Counseling and community work were part of the deal, but that would last less than two years. What his lawyer would never find out was that the guy had fabricated just about all the reasons that helped him get off the murder charge, save for the drug abuse.

  It was as if he’d taken the O.J. Simpson night-school course on how to get away with the ultimate act of anti-human behavior.

  Todd had decided this would be the day he avenged his father’s death. He would watch and hope the guy (who he’d recently nicknamed Tuesday, as in “See you next—”) repeated a nasty habit he’d caught him in during the week. Rather than trudge back into the McDonald’s for a piss, Tuesday would casually make his way to the back of the parking lot, near a small shed, and relieve himself of his large drink there.

  Todd’s plan was simple. When Tuesday arrived at the shed, he’d slip around the back and come out the other side.

  The area was in almost total darkness, with no light coming directly from the lamps in the parking lot, only dim reflections casting shadows. Todd would pull his gun and empty the single chamber into the side of the punk’s temple.

  Simple.

  Todd had just checked his watch again. 11.13pm. His left leg was getting a little sore, a gridiron injury from his late teens nagging at his knee, so he adjusted his stance. As he looked back to the parking lot, near-empty save for the two cars Tuesday and his fellow gang members were sitting in at the front near Imperial Avenue, his heart skipped a beat.

  Tuesday was on the move.

  Old habits die hard, Todd thought, and this one would see him die tonight. Todd moved forward, stepping lightly to ensure no one, especially Tuesday, would hear him coming.

  As he arrived at the back of the shed, he reached in and pulled the Smith & Wesson silently from his holster. He could hear the sounds of someone grumbling to himself on the other side, followed by the trickle of water hitting the wall of the shed. Then a tremendous fart. Jesus, Todd thought. He’d never heard one louder. Maybe it was the burgers, Todd thought, and then he smiled—it would be the last time the guy broke wind. Might as well go out with a bang.

  Todd reached the side of the shed and took a long, drawn-out breath. He glanced over at the guys in the cars, in their own little world. He said to himself, more in his head, than out loud, “For you, Dad.”

  Todd stepped out and swung his arm in a seamless arc. His gun finger sat twitching, ready for Tuesday to turn around. When he did, he’d get the bullet Todd had been aching to give him for some time.

  Tuesday turned, and when he saw the barrel of the gun, he froze. As if in slow motion, his mouth opened, though nothing came out. His body froze stiff as he began to fall back toward his puddle of piss.

  Todd and Tuesday gasped at the same time. “Fuck.”

  It wasn’t Tuesday.

  It was some other asshole, one of Tuesday’s friends. A guy who looked, walked, and took lazy leaks in the parking lot just like Tuesday did.

  In the seconds that unfolded next, Todd turned and watched all the guys in the cars turn to see what was happening over by the shed.

  Someone had spotted Todd and his gun, and that was enough for them all to suddenly want to be somewhere else.

  They piled into their two beat-up sedans, and as the guy flailing around in a puddle of his piss began to beg for his life, the two cars tore out of the parking lot in a hurry.

  As the second cars bounced off the driveway and into Imperial Highway, Todd caught sight of the passenger in the back, on the side closest to him.

  He was smiling and holding up something for Todd to see.

  Tuesday. He was giving Todd the finger.

  Sean stood at Tim’s front door; his hand was suspended in midair as if he were about to give the front door another heavy blow with his fist. “Whoa, young man,” Tim said with a dash of attitude. He was not feeling the love for his daughter’s husband at that very moment. Sean had knocked on the door as if he were a cop having a bad day, and Tim did not appreciate it.

  “We need to talk,” Sean said.

  Tim let him in and followed him up to the kitchen, where Sean sat down precisely where Tim had been for the last couple of hours. Sean ignored the warmth of the seat. Tim walked around and stood on the opposite side of the island bench, and after resting both hands on the edge of the seat, looked Sean straight in the eye and said, “What can I do you for, Sean?”

  Sean pulled his car keys from his jeans, then his cell phone. He put them on the bench nearby and then gave Tim a look he’d never seen from his son-in-law before.

  Something was up the guy’s ass, that was for sure, Tim quipped to himself.

  Sean looked around the room before resting his gaze on Tim once more.

  “Tell me everything,” he hissed.

  Tim looked at him incredulously, the sides of his lips curling into a snarl.

  “What in God’s damn name are you talking about, son?” Tim was nearly shouting.

  Sean took the verbal punch pretty well; he was only getting started.

  “Okay, why don’t you take your pick,” he said with conviction. On his right hand, he started counting. “One: what you and Ben were involved in, in those secret government projects. Or two: why plane disappearances going back to the 1920s are connected to previous generations of your bloody family.”

  Tim was surprised at the venom in Sean’s words.

  And he had more to say.

  Sean rose from the barstool quickly, nearly knocking it over. “Three: were Ben and his family murdered for what he knew?” And then he threw in one more that surprised Tim, whose head was already spinning.

  “And four: tell me why it is—” He looked around the kitchen as if looking for a photo of his wife and kids to point to, and then found it sitting on a shelf near the fridge. “Are we being fucking followed?”

  The grandfather bit his lower lip—the giveaway sign that he was lost for words—and as he gave up on the staring contest with his son-in-law, took a long breath and sighed as if the world was slowly coming to rest on his shoulders.

  He knew he was in a corner he could not escape.

  The only person he could ever talk to about things like this was Ben. And he was gone. Tim looked back to Sean, who had not taken his eyes off him the whole time.

  “Come.” Tim motioned to his son-in-law. “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” Sean asked.

  “To the workshop,” Tim whispered.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Pacific International called a news conference at its global headquarters in Trenton, New Jersey, a week later. It would have made the Guinness Boo
k of Records for the number of news reporters attending a press conference, if anyone were keeping score.

  Since Flight 19 had mysteriously and unceremoniously reappeared in 2024, the airline had gone through hell. Its share price tanked as passenger numbers dropped to an all-time low. Industry experts had all but written the airline off, saying no one but the insane seemed to patronize the airline, boarding empty cabins on steadily shrinking flight schedules.

  It was quite evident to anyone who cared that the 79-year-old airline was heading toward bankruptcy.

  Sue Douglass, the senior vice-president for public relations at Pacific International Airlines, had what most people in her field would argue was the toughest job currently in North America, and she was the one chosen to face the enormous crowd of overexcited reporters.

  Some of the world’s best-known journalists were jostling to get as close to the front of the auditorium as they could. It was pure madness. Some would later call it a mosh pit of fools, for the news conference was over in precisely 105.1 seconds.

  Sue Douglass had lived through the toughest few months of her decade with the airline, once considered worthy of being in the world’s top ten.

  She’d had her fair share of victories and performance-based yearly bonuses. But that was before Flight 19.

  In the past few weeks, the internet had been rife with the sickening rumor that the prevailing, cold-as-ice view among Pacific International staff, openly circulated in the corridors of its headquarters, was that it would have been better if Flight 19 had never come back.

  The board of the struggling airline had vehemently disavowed the rumors, which survivors and their family members had described as beyond callous.

  As Mrs. Douglass walked the short distance from the access door on the small stage to the podium, she could feel the sweat trickle down from the nape of her neck underneath her expensive Yves Saint Laurent suit, heading for her back.

  She cursed herself for leaving her jacket on, then realized that without it, the sweat patches underneath her armpits would be visible not only to the hundreds of reporters in the room, but to the millions of people worldwide watching the news conference.

  As she looked around at the massive crowd of reporters, the clock on the back wall hit 4.00pm. As if on cue, the reporters fell silent, save for one moron who had failed to mute his phone, which began ringing with MC Hammer’s cult classic, ‘Can’t touch this.’

  Some reporters around him laughed, and another hissed, “Shut that thing up.”

  Sue smiled. She liked that song. She took a sip of her water and followed it with a deep breath, before taking one last look at her notes and then raising her head and getting on with it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the world’s press,” she said, looking around and wondering how much a person could sweat, “I have an official announcement from the board of directors of Pacific International Airlines.”

  She scratched the side of her face, wishing she had a gym towel within arm’s reach, to wipe the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She pressed on.

  “It has become public knowledge that we have had expressions of interest for the purchase of the A380,” Sue looked around the room, “which disappeared for five years, and then reappeared a few months ago. The one the world has dubbed the ‘Ghost Plane,’ or Flight 19 to most others.”

  The rumor mill across the world in the past week had been working so feverishly that none of the reporters in the room reacted. This was not news.

  What many of them had been placing bets on was who had succeeded in buying the plane.

  Later on, the world’s press would find out other offers had been three times more than Darcy’s. But they were refused.

  And this was mainly thanks to three of the five board members having the backbone and integrity of decent human beings—unlike the two who dissented.

  Sue looked at her notes again. It appeared that for whatever reason, she was in no hurry to wrap up the conference anytime soon.

  “Who’s bought it?” an impatient reporter shouted from the mosh pit.

  Sue shot him a dirty look. She had lost all respect for the press after Flight 19 had come back. She thought they were cold-hearted assholes.

  “After much deliberation, the board of directors of Pacific International Airlines has approved the sale of the A380.” Sue looked around the room as if checking that everyone was listening. They were, for God’s sake.

  “The decision was made for reasons other than financial ones, and the board hopes this act of good faith will reflect favorably on the company.”

  An awkward pause filled the room, and every single reporter might have asked themselves the same question.

  How much longer was this woman going to fucking drag this on?

  They were, in fact, thinking what you would have expected, and about six of them, in almost perfect chorus, repeated the lone reporter’s earlier question.

  “Who bought it?”

  Ignoring them, she turned to her assistant, who was standing awkwardly at the access door.

  As her assistant opened the door, she turned back to the room. “This is the person,” she said, raising her arm toward the access door, “to whom we have agreed to sell the A380.”

  The pause was unrehearsed, but gold all the same.

  As the man stepped into the room, dressed immaculately in a brand-new suit he’d only had fitted earlier that day, dozens of the reporters muttered profanities quietly to themselves as the surprise rose throughout the room.

  Michael E. Darcy strode across to the podium as if he owned the whole airline. He placed both his hands on each side of the lectern before a small grin rose to his lips.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—” Darcy looked at home in front of the large crowd, though did not feel it. “And all those watching throughout the world.”

  He scanned the room and looked over to Sue, who appeared relieved she’d passed the baton to someone else.

  “I am the new owner of the A380 currently sitting idle at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California.” Reporters began throwing questions at him as if they were water-filled balloons, but Darcy deflected them with dismissive waves of his hands.

  “And I have an announcement to make.” This made the reporters fall silent once again, as if they were under Michael’s spell.

  Darcy looked down to the podium to regain his train of thought, and when he found it, he looked up and said, “This is to all the passengers who were on that flight with me all those months ago.”

  Now the room was in complete and utter silence.

  Darcy took one last look around the auditorium. This was the last thing he planned to say. He was in no mood to answer bullshit questions, especially on something this controversial.

  “I am inviting each one of you,” he said, and smiled, “to come back on-board with me.”

  He waited a few seconds before peering out into the crowd of surprised faces and adding, “in the hope we find whatever stole the last five years of our life.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “So you did it.” Ross looked over to Melanie, and his surprised expression said it all.

  They were sitting on one of the sofas in his bungalow, watching the Pacific International news conference live on CNN. There wasn’t a channel in the United States that wasn’t covering the story. Tony sat on the other couch, riveted to the TV.

  He had no idea what Ross was talking about, though in the ensuing conversation, he would realize what Ross had meant. Melanie had put in $100 million of her own money so that Michael E. Darcy could buy the A380.

  It then dawned on Tony that he would have to decide if he was going to get back on-board the plane that had changed his life forever.

  Tony knew that if Ross was going to do it, it was almost a sure bet he would want him alongside in the cockpit.

  “It was an easy decision.” Melanie smiled.

  Jesus, Tony thought, she’s the calmest person I’ve ever met.

  She�
�s just put $100 million toward a plane that’s worth nothing.

  Was this Darcy guy serious? Tony looked back to the TV and saw him standing behind the podium; they had replayed his part of the news conference over and over.

  When he looked at Darcy once again, with the same thoughts swirling around his head, he knew one thing was for sure. It was all about the razor-sharp look in Michael E. Darcy’s eyes.

  That man was dead serious.

  “Please tell me you are joking.”

  Lee navigated her Jeep down Gravois Road, Gravois Park, St. Louis, trying her best to resist the urge to hit the brakes in the middle of Route 66 and shake her friend back into reality.

  They’d just had an afternoon of traipsing around the Busch Family Estate, at Grantwood Village, one of Lee’s favorite local places to visit. The palatial mansion built in the early 1900s, to someone with a fetish for historic architecture, was as good as it gets.

  The hourly news update on the radio had just talked about the Pacific International press conference, and in the middle of the report played the audio of Darcy’s words.

  The plane that had disappeared for five long years was heading into the skies once more.

  Back into the air—thanks to an ex-billionaire who was on the original flight, hoping in some bizarre fashion that they would find their way back in time to when they first disappeared. And like a real madman, Lee thought, he was inviting people who had suffered enough —the passengers and crew of Flight 19—to come along with him.

  Was the guy out of his damned mind? Lee asked herself.

  Tammy, on the other hand, couldn’t get Darcy’s words out of her head.

  Just like many of the passengers.

  Many of them were still lost. They felt like they did not belong anywhere.

  Their bodies had returned to 2024, but their minds, hearts, and souls were still back in 2019.