by R. D. Kardon
So, I stopped down by Pete’s place. He didn’t even flinch when I asked to borrow his .22. Why would he? I told him ours was jammed and no one around here—no one—is without a working handgun.
Remember living our high-end, judgmental, socially conscious lives in the liberal suburbs of Exeter? How morally reprehensible we found people who “needed” guns in one of the safest neighborhoods in the country? Right up until Warren crept back into our lives: skulking in the bushes, pretending to run into us at the grocery store. And then the phone calls, the hang-ups, the noises in the backyard in the middle of the night.
That fear became a part of my being. Just as Warren followed me around Exeter, my fear followed me here. How long was it, Erik, before I stopped expecting him to appear? How many times did I lie to our neighbors, to my own parents, about why we had so many locks on our front door?
And even now . . . I’m still afraid Warren will show up and poison this place too.
Thirty-Three
On an unseasonably warm night, Tris and Mike sat on her patio, each reading in the light of a spare standing lamp she’d brought outside. At around nine o’clock, both of their pagers went off, each with Woody’s mobile and the numbers 4-1-1. Tris returned the call first.
“Woody. Tris. You paged?”
Classical music played in the background, which meant Woody was at home. “Yes. Hey. Just a head’s up. I want to meet with you and Mike after you get back from Teterboro. I asked Phyll to bring in lunch.”
Given the expense, there had to be a good reason. “No problem. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m naming the new Chief Pilot. I want you both there.”
“I’ll be there. Bye.”
Tris told Mike that Woody had made a decision, and that he’d announce it in two days after her trip to the east coast. Mike called Woody himself a few minutes later and had the same conversation.
The two of them went straight to bed, but Tris couldn’t sleep. She always tossed and turned before really early wakeups, and Woody’s call didn’t help. Mike snored softly into her shoulder as she stared at the ceiling.
Tired from fitful sleep, darkness greeted Tris at the airport way too early the next morning. Woody hadn’t put a light near the dumpster where the employees parked, so she swung the driver’s door open. The low-watt interior light barely illuminated the area around the car.
She crept quietly toward the hangar door so she didn’t wake the usual suspects. Their breath rose in puffs from under piles of ripped, soiled blankets and newspapers.
It was 4:00 a.m. In a little while she’d be off to New Jersey and the craziness of Teterboro Airport. She hated that airport, so she’d let Bruce fly the leg out.
Lately, Bruce’s flying had been solid. With every trip, she questioned her decision to pull support for his upgrade. Turned out the evaluation had had worse consequences for her than for Bruce—his upgrade was still on track, with Mike doing his training, and she was out of favor with Woody. And then there was Burbank.
“Hey,” Bruce said, startling her. She had no idea he was there until he walked into the hangar from the office area.
“Hey. Where’d you park?”
“I didn’t. Heather’s car is in the shop, so I took a cab and left her mine.”
“Getting close, eh?” Tris said, referring to the baby.
“Yup. So,” Bruce said changing the subject, “who takes it out?”
“You can.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed into a slight scowl. But he nodded.
She was not in the mood for attitude. “Don’t you want to fly, Bruce?”
He turned on her so quickly she stepped back. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t think I can handle it?”
“Oh, come on Bruce. Knock it off.” She raised both her hands in surrender. “Look, we’re all on edge. Woody’s picking the Chief tomorrow and the angel flight is right around the corner. Let’s just calm down and get through this trip.”
The rampers assembled to pull the airplane out for fueling. Tris had the truck put on 150 pounds more than they needed and went to get the catering.
When she fished around in her cubby for messages, she found a thick fax. The cover sheet had a familiar logo—the Tetrix crane—and was addressed to “Captain Miles.” A handwritten note, scratched in Zorn’s familiar handwriting, said, “About your passenger. Husband dropped it off. BZ.”
The next page was a photocopy of a note from a pad inscribed, “FROM THE DESK OF ERIK HUDSON.” which read, “Hi Brian, here’s some more info about Christie for your flight. We’re so grateful. Thanks. EH.”
Tris thumbed through the stack and found a newspaper article from the Exeter Tribune dated just days before titled, “Exeter Native Prepares For Her Own Long Journey.”
The article included a photo of Christine sitting at a desk. Diplomas hung on the wall behind her, blond hair loose but pushed behind her ears, hands grasping the sides of the desk. Tris sensed tension, uncertainty.
Weeks ago, Tris had read the brief about ALS included in the file. Christine’s prognosis was grim. Tris wondered, not for the first time, if there was a return trip to Iqaluit scheduled. Christine had been diagnosed almost a year ago. The brief was clear: ALS patients had a two to five-year life expectancy.
Death is a project to be managed.
Tris understood completely. Just like Christine, her own father’s death had come out of nowhere. One day, he was sitting at dinner teasing his only child about the size of her hair bow. The next day, her mother sat at the same chipped Formica kitchen table, smoking, calling everyone they knew and choosing a casket. Their normally quiet house teemed with people for days—most of whom Tris had never seen before. She’d overheard discussions about cemetery plots and casseroles.
Project management.
The woman in the picture looked somber but determined. Exactly like Tris would expect someone managing the process of her own death to look.
Thirty-Four
Danny was asleep on the couch in the Legacy crew room when someone dug an elbow into his side.
“Huh? What?” He mumbled, still half asleep.
“Danny, get your ass off the couch. Pilots who are awake need to sit here.” Danny could barely see but recognized the voice as someone he was in new-hire training with.
“Mmm-hmm. Uh, gimme a second.”
He had no idea how long he’d slept. Danny was on ready reserve, which meant he had to be in the airport at 4:30 a.m., even though he had no trip to fly, so he could be crewed on short notice. At least the Legacy crew room’s couch didn’t smell like spilled coffee and late-night sex, like the one at Clear Sky. Back then, he’d hunt down the most comfortable chair somewhere in the terminal. Or curl up in a corner like a stray dog.
That’s exactly how he felt right now. Alone, hungry, tired and extremely uncomfortable. That couch was awfully soft. His back and shoulders were sore from sleeping in a weird position, and not being able to stretch out his six-foot frame. Napping out in the open like that, where any crew member could come in and see him, Danny didn’t even want to take his shoes off.
Still battling his way out of sleep, Danny thought he heard a name he recognized in a conversation taking place about five feet away, near the crew check-in desk.
He sat up, still groggy, and rubbed his eyes with closed fists.
They were discussing Mike Marshall.
“Yeah, I heard he went bat-shit crazy.”
“She had to get a restraining order.”
“Oh, yeah. He tried to kill her, I heard.”
“Nah, I don’t think it was that bad.”
One pilot took a sip of his coffee. “Please don’t ever let me get that pussy-whipped. If you see it, man, fucking shoot me.”
“Me, too.” The other pilot nodded. He was a captain Danny had flown with about a month ago. It was a good time to say hello.
“Hey, man,” Danny approached the Legacy captain and the two men shook hands.
“Ready reserve, eh?�
� The captain smiled. Danny glimpsed himself in the mirror: tie askew, bedhead, and one pant leg hung up on a sock. He didn’t even try to smooth himself out. Let the guys get a good laugh. He’d be able to ask a few more questions that way. Although pilots didn’t need much encouragement to gossip.
“Hey. I heard you guys talking about Mike Marshall. I remember him a little. We used to flight instruct in the same circles. Is he here?” Danny already knew the answer.
“Nah, he was here for almost a year. Good guy to fly with. I did a couple long-haul trips with him.”
Then the first officer chimed in. “Yeah. I remember him from new-hire training. There was something off about him.” Danny figured this guy was the type who needed to one-up people. Some of the guys at Legacy were like that.
“Like what?” Danny asked, as he finger-combed his hair.
“Oh, it had to do with his wife. She wanted out of the relationship, I guess. And he lost it.”
Danny shrugged, as though he wasn’t sure what the big deal was. Lots of guys got ridiculously upset when their relationships ended. Little-known fact about men. He could think of a time or two that he had taken a break-up harder than the woman did.
“No, no, this wasn’t like, ‘Oh man I really loved her, this sucks,’ kind of thing. I heard he went crazy.” The first officer seemed more interested in the sound of his own voice than in relaying any facts. If he actually had any.
But he had Danny’s full attention. “So, like how crazy?”
At this point, the captain shook his head, to discourage further conversation. “Hey, the guy’s still flying. Maybe best not to talk about this.”
The first officer rolled his eyes and turned away.
Danny agreed. There had to be more to the story, but the conversation was over for the time being. He’d hit up the captain for information a little later, when his know-it-all flying partner went out to pre-flight. Captains always had a few extra minutes to shoot the shit in the crew room.
Danny headed off to the men’s room to make himself presentable. He grabbed a razor from his overnight bag and tried to figure out how to cup enough water in his hands to keep his face moist and not cut it to shreds while he shaved.
In the middle of this operation, the captain walked in. He gave a curt nod as he passed by Danny to do his business, but eventually they ended up next to each other at the sinks.
“So,” Danny started casually, “what do you know about Mike Marshall? I ask because a friend of mine is dating him.”
The captain’s eyes widened, and his brows rose in a high arch. “Really? Oh, well, she might want to think about that. Anyway, I can’t really discuss it.” He turned to leave.
Danny pressed. “This is one of my best friends. If she’s in the trick bag with this guy I want to know about him.”
The captain stopped and looked around before he spoke again. “Look, please keep this confidential.” He checked the area one more time, as if he might have missed another adult-sized man in uniform there in the crew’s men’s room. “When I say Marshall lost it, I mean for real. I was on the union committee that reviewed his ‘situation.’ He showed up for work one day, checked in, did his pre-flight, walked on the plane and was met by local police. They said he violated a restraining order, got too close to his ex-wife, something like that. He got really agitated and started removing his clothes. And, man, I don’t mean he took his jacket off because it was hot. I mean he started with his shoes, then his socks, pants, fucking underwear, and on and on. His, uh, package was hanging out for all the world to see.”
Danny’s curiosity piqued. But even this bizarre story, well, everyone had a bad day. “And then what? I mean, did someone snap him out of it? Was he arrested?”
Even though no one had entered the men’s room, the captain hesitated. He rubbed his hands and shook his head slightly from side to side. It took a few seconds before a resigned look on his face indicated he’d say more.
He patted Danny on the shoulder, and gestured over to a corner of the room, between the last stall and the urinals. Standing there, he spoke in a hushed tone.
“He had to be removed from the plane. Buck-naked. They drag him off, and take him to the, uh, hospital. He stays there a day, then they release him.” The captain stopped and searched his surroundings again. The look on his face made it seem like he’d endure physical pain if he continued speaking, but continue he did, his head bowed as he looked directly down at the subway patterned black and white tile, edged in grout that was either gray in color or hadn’t been scrubbed in a very long time. “He’d showed up at her place every night for a month, violating the restraining order. She was scared to death of him. At least that’s what the police report said.”
Blood pumped so quickly to his heart Danny felt his arteries expand. He stood very still, at great effort. “And then?”
Now the captain shrugged. “Well, of course we all liked the guy and wanted to do right by him. I mean, under the union contract, technically there was no reason to fire him. Out of uniform, I guess.” He chuckled but stopped when Danny gave him a hard look. “Uh, I guess they could have invalidated his medical, and sure as shit he wouldn’t have gotten another one. We let him resign.”
The captain checked his watch. “Damn. I gotta go. Taking a full boat to Charleston. See ya,” he said, and he was gone.
Danny remained glued against the grimy tile wall. Tris had never mentioned this to him. Either she wanted to keep Mike’s secrets, or she had no idea.
And if she didn’t know, he had to tell her.
Now.
Thirty-Five
Tris was stuck in a three-way conversation none of the participants wanted to have; yet each wanted it over with.
“Let’s eat.” Woody said solemnly and pulled a chair around the small card table. Phyll had carried out a sandwich tray after the Royal returned from Teterboro. It was crowded in next to the flight-planning computer. The Bunn had been moved to the floor to make room.
Tris was still in her uniform. Mike wore a button-down shirt and jeans.
Mike stepped between Tris and Woody to grab a sandwich, and shot her a quick smile, which she did not return. She pushed potato salad around her plate next to a croissant stuffed with rubbery roast beef.
Woody took an enormous bite of his turkey club, chewed for what seemed like forever, and swallowed. “You’re both an integral part of what we’re building here,” he began, and took another bite. “We’re growing,” he said with his mouth full, then swallowed abruptly. “Jimbo and I are close to signing the deal for that second aircraft. You’re both smart pilots, hard workers, and there’s no way we could—no way we’d want to—do this business without either of you. And,” he nodded toward Tris, “you’re loyal—loyal to me, loyal to my business. I know that.”
The phone rang. Phyll was in the ladies’ room. Both men looked at Tris. Annoyed, but smiling, she picked up the phone.
“Hello. Westin Charter. May I help you?”
“Yes,” a man’s voice said. “I need to speak to Woody.”
She recognized the voice. Brian Zorn.
“Who?” Woody mouthed.
“And who may I say is calling?”
“This is Brian Zorn, the Chief Pilot at Tetrix, Inc. I need to talk to him about that angel flight he’s doing for us.”
Tris hesitated.
“Hello? Who is this? Is Woody there?” He asked again, impatiently. She could almost see him tapping his fingers on the desk.
She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Hi, Brian. It’s Tris Miles. Woody’s right here. Hold on.” She heard him say “Tris,” as though he’d hoped to chat with her, but Woody had already grabbed the cordless phone and taken it into his office.
Tris waited for her pulse to return to normal as Mike munched on a bag of Lays.
Woody returned, and without a word downed the rest of his turkey club in two bites. “Mmm, so, the angel flight launches in ten days. What’s the flight planning status?”
Tris was prepared. “Well, I called our international flight-planning service—we’re using Universal this time—and brought them on board as soon as I found out about the trip. Before you were hired.” She motioned to Mike.
Mike nodded. “Well, you’re all over it, then.” He smiled appreciatively, without a hint of scorn or rancor.
Woody took a long swig of coffee. “Sounds good.”
She filled them in on the details of the flight plan as Mike listened in silence, and Woody ate a brownie. Tris grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from a dessert tray but had no interest in eating it. The two pilots didn’t look at one another.
Woody polished off his coffee. “Okay. We’ve gotta get going on this. Tris, good job—you’re my senior captain. Congratulations, Mike. You’re the Chief Pilot of Westin Charter.”
The two men clasped hands, and then both ceremoniously extended theirs to Tris.
“Congratulations, Mike.” She pressed each hand hard enough to send the message that they hadn’t beaten her.
But they had.
“Mike, it’s your show. Tris, you continue to organize the passenger details. I’ll leave it to you both.” With that, Woody wiped his mouth, balled his napkin and threw it on his plate for someone else to clean up, and was gone.
Just like that, Tris was subordinate again—this time to someone she couldn’t ignore or dismiss. She now reported to a man who wanted to share his life with her.
Mike moved his chair next to Tris, lightly touching her thigh. “Bruce already pulled sample flight plans from Universal. He’s studied the charts, the itinerary. We have everything set other than the final passenger manifest. Tris, you’ll fly as captain, of course, but in the right seat as support for Bruce. I need to see him make command decisions.”
“Have you checked him out there yet on any of your flights?” Tris asked cautiously.
Mike rubbed his chin. “Nope.”
“That’s where he’s had issues, remember? Mike, you’ll want to test him in the left seat before we go to Canada.”
