Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  We all ignored him. Staci Kelly was far more dangerous.

  She kicked Alessandro with one spiky heel.

  He grunted, absorbing the impact.

  "You like that, you little pussy?" Staci Kelly cackled with glee before she jabbed her toe at Tucker.

  He stepped out of range.

  That enraged her enough to plant both feet on the ground, press against Alessandro, and rear up to kick at Tucker with both feet at the same time. "Fuck off! I own you! I own all of you!"

  Mr. and Mrs. Money. Hobbies: flaunting cash, beating up bystanders, recreating the good olde days when slavery was legal ...

  "You're fired, Alex!"

  Alessandro's mouth worked. He didn't answer.

  "You'll never work again. Not in this town, not anywhere in America. Hell, I'll follow you to Italy and curse anyone who tries to help you. As for your art—"

  Even half-hidden behind her, I saw him recoil.

  She felt it, too. Her red lips stretched into a Joker-like smirk. "Ah, yes. Your art. Your oil painting. Also known as the stupidest thing in the world."

  "Leonardo da Vinci and Monet would beg to differ," said Tucker.

  She whipped her head to glare at him. The whites showed around her irises, and her pupils were enormous. "They're dead. They can't beg."

  Her body relaxed visibly. It cheered her up, contemplating those dead men, and Alessandro lifted his chin.

  "Don't let go of her!" I told him.

  Fury twisted the cords in her neck. "What do you know about it?"

  "Not much," I admitted. I was willing to entertain her as long as it took for them to come back with more zip ties—please don't have run out of zip ties—and if she was yapping, Tucker wouldn't tangle with her, and I wouldn't have to jump all three of them. "Mostly I work at the hospital. No time for anything else."

  "If you did buy art, would you buy an oil painting?" Contempt treacled out of her voice, slow and dangerously sweet.

  "Maybe," I said, before honesty forced me to add, "Probably not. But I'm a student renting—"

  "See? Why would you paint giant murals with oil when no one gives a shit about any kind of painting, let alone oil painting, let alone portraits of poor people. Everyone hates poor people!"

  Something clicked in my head. Staci Kelly must've grown up poor. "Not everyone," I said.

  "Really." She focused on me again. "You remember that Syrian refugee kid who drowned?"

  I nodded. Who could forget the three-year-old boy who had washed up on shore, face down in the sand, in his red T-shirt, blue shorts, and tiny shoes?

  "Alan Kurdi," said Tucker. "His brother and mother drowned, too."

  "This idiot painted him! He painted a picture of him alive! He said it was important to remember him in life!"

  Tucker shot back, "It is important. The Human Rights Watch worker who shared his photo has asked people to take it down now, to let him rest."

  "Well, then, let him rest! Don't make oil paintings of him! Who the fuck is going to hang that on his wall?"

  "I might know someone," said Trina, who had remained silent at the curtain until now. She moved behind the last row of seats, speaking directly to Alessandro. "We should talk."

  His eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

  And in that unguarded moment, Staci Kelly head butted Alessandro.

  Crunch.

  Blood gushed out of his nose. He choked, his hands reaching to staunch it before he remembered to clamp down on Staci Kelly, but she'd already flown straight at Tucker.

  "I got 42 problems—" she howled at him.

  He stepped back and let her momentum carry her forward as he guided the back of her shoulder to her right. She plowed into Trina's empty seat, caught herself on the seat cushion, and started to lever herself back up, still howling.

  Tucker backed up, shielding me from her and urging me away by using his back and butt. "Get out of here, Hope."

  "I'm not leaving you with that monster!"

  "Alessandro—" he said.

  "No!" I shouted. The Italian guy was mopping up his nose. We couldn't count on him. Granted, Tucker had just performed some fight move that I didn't fully understand and couldn’t duplicate. I still wouldn't go. "I'm not leaving you. I'm never leaving you."

  He smiled. His cheeks bunched up from behind. I ran forward, because Staci Kelly specialized in ganking guys who were distracted by happy thoughts.

  Staci Kelly swung her arms in the air like she was going to strangle him, but when he raised his own arm to block her, her heel shot up to nail him in the belly. Just like her horrible husband.

  I snatched him around the waist first. "Get down!"

  I was trying to yank him away from her, but he was heavier than me, and he wouldn't move.

  Her heel bashed me in the forearms.

  I gasped, but I didn't let go. It was like the legend of Tam Lin, where he gets kidnapped by the faery queen for centuries, and in order to save him, the heroine has to hold on to him no matter what. When he gets transformed into a slashing bear and then a red hot piece of iron, she hangs on.

  Staci Kelly guffawed at the tears in my eyes. "Did that hurt? I hope I broke your wrist. I hope you'll never be a doctor again, you stupid slag."

  Alessandro lunged at her from behind.

  She spotted him at the last second and drew her hands into fists, but it was too late. He winched each arm behind her, and Magda finally bolted out of economy class with a zip tie.

  28

  "I'm going to sue you," said Staci Kelly. She sounded almost calm now, with her wrists bound behind her and her ankles loosely bound.

  No one spoke. Don't feed the trolls.

  The airplane shook. Tucker twitched in front of me. He was ready for her to stop, drop, and fight, but I worried about her poisonous tongue. Like another fairy tale, she spewed toads and vipers every time she spoke.

  "I'm going to take you for everything you've got. Which isn't a lot. I'm guessing you've got about 42 cents."

  Tucker probably had negative money. I smiled anyway. The Wicked Witch of the West had been contained.

  "We tried to save your husband's life, and you attacked us," said Tucker. "Would you like something to help you calm down?"

  "I'm not taking anything from you, Dr. Frankenstein."

  Oh, good. She knew Victor Frankenstein was the bad guy, even though the movies blamed his "monster."

  "I'm going to sit here," she continued, "in my chair, which I paid for, and contact my lawyer." Technically, she was in Joel's seat, but what the heck. It all came from the same porny bank account.

  "We're going to find you a different place," said Linda, in a sweet voice. She’d rushed after Magda so fast that she’d left the curtain open to economy class. Over a hundred witnesses feasted their eyes on us.

  "What are you talking about? This here is my place. I paid for it. Hell, we paid for both seats, me and Joel's. I'll hang out here as long as I want. We could've bought this whole plane. You owe me!"

  None of that followed, but I no longer expected it to. She was either on drugs, or had a serious personality disorder, or most likely, both. Time for us to go and tend to our latest wounds.

  Alessandro kept touching his nose, even though it meant daubing blood on his own hands. My wrists, shoulders, and arms ached, especially if I made fists or tensed my arms, in addition to my concussion and back ache. I suspected Tucker didn't feel great after my bear hug and Joel's bite/stomach kick combo.

  Only Trina had slipped back into her seat and was ignoring us. I wondered what she'd wanted to tell us before, but we could always ask her later.

  "We can't have any disturbance in this area," said Linda. She was a master at doublespeak. She should become a politician after this. Tucker could cut open Joel's chest in the cheap seats, but God forbid that Staci Kelly break a man's nose in executive class. She would have to be expelled. Where, I had no idea, since the flight was sold out.

  Then Linda turned to us. "Doc
tors, would you permit me to exchange your seats? You could both stay here, and Ms. Kelly could move to row 33."

  A smile bloomed across Tucker's face. "I should like nothing better."

  "Pascale will bring you your things, when time permits," she said.

  "Perfect." Tucker looked like he was already sipping port and enjoying the complimentary slippers.

  What about Herc? I pressed my lips together before I said, "The other man in 33A might not want—"

  "I'll ask his permission as well," she said smoothly. "Come on, now, Ms. Kelly."

  "I'm wearing high heels!"

  "I can take those off, if you're having difficulty ambulating," said Linda. We all moved out of her way. There was enough room for me and Tucker to hide behind the last seat and let them pass.

  "Are you joking? These are Louboutins! They cost more than you'd make in a week!"

  "Then you can walk in them," said Linda.

  I wasn't sure how Staci Kelly could walk with ankle ties and high heels, while the airplane did the hokey pokey, but if anyone could manage, she would. With extra ass twitching.

  Staci Kelly stood up. She loomed over Tucker and Linda in her heeled boots. The only person who matched her height was Trina, who'd replaced her sunglasses and her headphones, and who wasn’t offering a seat swap.

  "That's it," said Magda, in her gravelly voice. "Come this way, Mrs. Kelly." She and Linda beckoned Staci forward while Pascale stood behind. "We'll guide you to your new seat."

  Staci inched into the aisle, testing her feet and how much she could move the ankle ties. It looked like only a few centimetres. She would take ten years to walk to the back of the plane.

  "Maybe you could use a walker," I said. "Do you have the kind you can sit on? Or even a wheelchair?"

  "Hell, no." Staci Kelly dropped like a dead weight.

  Magda cried out and stretched to catch her, too late.

  Linda shied out of the way.

  Staci Kelly sat her butt on the floor, feet planted. "I paid for business class, and I ain't going anywhere."

  "You're creating a disturbance," said Linda, between her teeth. She grasped Staci Kelly's ankles.

  "Hell, yeah, I am, Linda. A disturbance. Is that what you call it when your boyfriend spanks you at SN8k?"

  Linda flushed. This was the first time I'd seen full-on slut-shaming. Doctors are too overworked to become slatterns. Some would call me one, because of my two boyfriends, but the actual amount of time I can get it on with either one of them? Way limited.

  "That's neither here nor there," I said, adopting a crisp enunciation for more authority as Linda pressed her lips together and vanished behind the curtain.

  "So what's here or there, Jane the Virgin?"

  Sigh. Women couldn't win. Either we were virgin-shamed, slut-shamed, or in my case, both. I wished we could gag her too.

  "That's enough insulting people," said Tucker. "We can't have this kind of talk on an airplane when everyone is already upset. I'm sure you need some counselling, but—"

  "I don't want counselling. I want you all in jail!"

  "You want vengeance," Tucker said. "You want us to suffer because you lost your husband. I understand that. Some people cry. Others get angry. It's normal. It's okay."

  "It's not okay. What are you, some sort of head shrinker? I'm going to sue you until your balls shrink up like Raisinettes! I could buy and sell you with my lunch money!"

  They say that a crisis makes you more of who you are. She was the ugliest person I'd ever known. Even her husband, bellowing and bashing everyone in a two foot radius—you knew he was constantly radioactive and could deal accordingly. Staci Kelly played Beauty and the Breasts, luring you in with compliments until she could splinter your nose and shatter your dreams.

  I wanted to pin this murder on her.

  I wanted it so badly that I could envision her hair ratted and reeking of cigarettes, her body swathed in orange coveralls, her teeth loose in her gums.

  I had the terrible feeling that I was staring at the killer, but I would never catch her.

  I passed my hand over my face. I said to Staci, "That's enough."

  She stopped. The look on her face seared me for an instant before I steeled myself. I'd faced much nastier people than her, and I'd lived every time so far. I said, "Who cares about money? Money doesn't mean quality. It just means money."

  She cackled, and I wondered how I'd ever found her attractive. "That's what poor people say."

  "They're right," I told her. "Dr. Tucker and I are poor. We're students. But we would have saved your husband's life. That's worth more than money. Isn't it?"

  "He died anyway," she shot at us.

  It didn't hurt as much the second time. "But we tried. We got his heart beating again. We did our utmost for him."

  Linda reappeared with three hefty white men from economy class. I was relieved not to see Herc dragged into this, although I wondered how he was doing. Linda said, "I'll need one of you on her legs and—"

  "They're not touching me," said Staci Kelly.

  "—one of you on her arms—"

  "Not one of you is touching me. You have to pay to touch me!"

  "—one of you to act as backup, in case she incapacitates one of us."

  "No problem," said one of the men, with a French accent.

  Staci Kelly immediately cursed him out, thrashing and kicking, but the Frenchman grabbed her ankles and hauled her closer to the curtain, where they had more room to maneuver. No matter how she wriggled, her screams grew fainter as he and a second man with enormous biceps carted her to the back of the plane. The third man tipped an imaginary cap at us.

  Tucker and I raised our eyebrows at each other and slid into our new seats. My heart batted like a rabbit's.

  The only problem was, I'd landed in Staci Kelly's seat. The cushion was still warm from her skin. I didn't want anything from her.

  And not that I'm superstitious, but Tucker had taken over the chair of a dead man.

  29

  "You okay?" I murmured. I nuzzled the blond fuzz on Tucker's earlobe with my nose. I wanted to lick it, but not after we'd both been baptized in Joel J's blood.

  "Yeah. You?"

  "Surviving this death flight." I was glad I'd climbed on board, though. What if Tucker had flown by himself? He would have managed, but two doctors were better than one.

  Tucker cased the cabin, lingering on Alessandro in the seat behind him, before he whispered in my ear, "It's funny that she picked that term. They used death flights to make people 'disappear' during The Dirty War in Argentina."

  I paused. "She didn't make 'death flight' up?"

  "No. Well, if she did, it was a coincidence."

  I hated coincidences. It reminded me of Ian Fleming's line, "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action."

  Still, the chances of Staci Kelly being involved in Argentina's Dirty War were remote. Wasn't that during the '70s? She wouldn't have been born yet. Just because I was paranoid didn't mean everything was enemy action.

  Only most things.

  I'd only heard of people "disappearing" in Chile, but no doubt dictators shared villainous tips. Come to think of it, Joel J and Staci Kelly would have egged on each others' immorality. It would only have been a matter of time before Alessandro was corrupted, if he hadn't been already. I felt him staring at us from between the crack in the seats. There was more leg room in business class, but your neighbours' eyes could still bore into your shoulder blades.

  "It happened to my friend's great uncle," said Tucker. "They told prisoners they were releasing them. Sometimes, they made them dance for joy. 'Look. You're going to be free. Dance!' They told their families the prisoners were going away. Then they loaded them up in a plane, said they were sedating them for the flight, and injected them with Pentothal. Once they were up in the air, over the ocean, they dropped the prisoners out of the plane."

  To their death. Death flights. "But ... why?"

  T
ucker tucked my head against his chest. "Sometimes there is no why."

  I breathed him in, closing my eyes. Even that made my brain spin a few times before it stabilized. I linked my arms around him, surreptitiously checking my wrists, which seemed bruised but not broken.

  I heard the iPhone camera shutter sound and lifted my head. I couldn't keep my eyes closed while someone was taking a picture of us. Too vulnerable. Too much in the spotlight, like that lion pacing in a Costa Rican zoo, unable to shield itself from our relentless eyes.

  Then I realized it wasn't a picture of us. Alessandro was taking pictures of his own nose.

  Alessandro met my eyes in the crack between our seats. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome." He was out of a job, and both Joel and Staci Kelly had smacked him, but his brain, heart, and lungs were intact, he got to stay in business class, and Trina had asked about his art. Definitely a step up.

  "Do you want me to try and fix your nose?" I asked him.

  Tucker loosened his embrace, although he kept an arm draped around me.

  Alessandro touched his nose and frowned. "What would you do? Break it again, like in a cowboy movie?"

  "Only if it's crooked. If it's already in the centre, then just like any other fracture, we let it heal in place." Sometimes we put a splint on it, which looks really funny.

  He lifted his hand away so I could examine him. I unbuckled my belt so I could stand up and look down on it. Tucker shifted out of the way when I crouched to get the "worm's eye" view of him from below, between the seats, while the plane cast me from side to side. Then I said, "It's a bit off to the left."

  "She's right handed." He grimaced and touched the blood starting to trickle from his left nostril again. "Maybe her head hits that way too."

  I smiled, more to try and bond than because it was actually funny. "It hurts to put it back in, though. It's better if we inject freezing. Sometimes we put you to sleep."

  "And then what?"

  "Well." I tried to remember the time I watched a plastic surgeon do it. Tucker leaned forward, desperate to put in his twenty cents' worth, but he managed to hold back while I said, "I could stick the blade of a scalpel up your nose to reduce the septum along with the outer bones." It makes a huge crunch. "We should pre-pack both your nostrils with cotton because it bleeds so much afterward."