Walk a Mile

by Sarah Madison

  The hair on the back of Jerry’s neck rose. There was something not right about this guy. The woman sitting next to him was making herself as small as possible, leaning away from the shared armrest. Whatever it was about him, she’d picked up on it, too, unlike the passenger on the other side of the woman. He was sleeping, his head resting between the seat and window, his mouth open in a faint snore.

  Jerry let his glance flick over the occupants of row fifteen without lingering and kept moving toward the lavatory. There was someone inside the cubicle; Jerry exchanged polite smiles with the young mother and the grubby toddler waiting in line.

  Good. More reason to hang back, waiting to see what would happen next. Not for the first time, he wished the telepathy worked both ways. It’d be nice to know what Flynn was thinking right now, and how they were going to contain this mess without anyone getting hurt.

  From his position in the aisle, Jerry could see neither 15-A nor Flynn, though he would notice if either of them stood up. He rested one hand overhead and tried to hide his impatience. The indicator finally switched from “occupied” to “vacant,” and the door opened. The older man who came out squeezed past the mother and child, and jostled his way past Jerry, too, in order to head back to the front of the plane. Jerry watched anxiously, concerned the old man would be in the way if something came down. For all he knew, the guy in 15-A was waiting for just such an opportunity.

  The mother herded her child into the lavatory, turning as she shut the door so they both would fit in the narrow space. A flight attendant, carrying a blanket to a passenger at the rear of the plane, waited for the old man to sit down before making her way toward Jerry. She paused beside him. “There’s another toilet farther back if you’d prefer.”

  Her smile was bright and perky. Her nametag read “Susan.” Jerry debated whether to alert her to the onboard threat and decided against it. The risk that she would be unable to conceal her knowledge enough to act naturally was too great. They didn’t want to tip off 15-A before he was ready to make his move. Flynn would know when that was. Jerry just needed to wait for his signal.

  “Thanks,” Jerry said to Susan. “I can wait.”

  She smiled, barely concealing her shrug. Jerry watched her go. What he would do if she came back when the toilet was available, he wasn’t sure. He’d think of something.

  Fortunately, the mother and child took a long time, which gave Jerry time to think. 15-A had to be intent on suicide as well as mass murder; no one would release sarin on a plane unless they planned to die as well. Mentally, Jerry began ticking off the character traits they would likely find on his profile: a social misfit, recently lost his job or his girlfriend or both, a history of depression or drug and alcohol abuse, a strong narcissistic streak and anger that the world could not recognize his worth. With it, the certainty he would not survive the attack but secure in the knowledge his name would live on in infamy. Dying was of no consequence. He had likely rehearsed his plan in such detail he could execute it without hesitation. With a cold deliberation that seemed almost detached.

  Too bad he wasn’t counting on Flynn. Well, who would expect a telepath to thwart your plans? Jerry smiled. 15-A was in for a big surprise. He rubbed sweaty palms against his thighs and took a deep, calming breath to steady himself. He and Flynn had this covered.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan making her way back up the aisle. 15-A stood up. Flynn rose as well. Jerry waited until Flynn was standing in the aisle before he cut in front of Susan and blocked her access to the front of the plane. He opened his jacket and flashed his badge; her pupils dilated with alarm and she stopped as though he’d pulled out a gun. He made a small gesture with his fingers, meant to make her wait, but convey the need for silence as well.

  Jerry returned his attention to the tableau unfolding in the aisle. Flynn was making his way casually toward Jerry; he yawned, taking his time. 15-A hesitated; Jerry could see he had stepped into the aisle but was thinking of sitting down again. Just then, the door to the toilet opened and the toddler came out into the aisle. Picking up on the tension, the child immediately started to wail.

  15-A snapped like a wire stretched beyond its tensile strength. Whipping off his sunglasses, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a glass vial. Holding it high over his head for everyone to see, he shouted, “Everybody stay where you are!”

  People glanced up and turned around in their seats, startled and immediately alarmed. 15-A looked around sharply, making sure no one was trying to rush him. Several people had were halfway out of their seats to see what was going on; Jerry knew they were remembering United Flight 93.

  15-A moved his hand in a broad semicircle so everyone could see the vial tucked in his palm. “I have sarin!” he announced. “If anyone moves, I break the vial. Someone make that kid shut up!”

  His last directive was aimed at the young mother. He shot her a wild-eyed glance as he snarled his demand. She fell to her knees and folded her child in her arms, trying to hush the cries.

  Someone screamed, which only agitated 15-A further. He whirled in the direction of the woman who had cried out. “Shut up!” He pointed the vial at her, his eyes bulging as he yelled. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.

  “Everyone stay calm.” Flynn put out his hands in a placating manner, but whether it was intended for 15-A or the passengers, Jerry couldn’t tell. He heard the stress in Flynn’s voice. Jerry sensed the flight attendant standing just behind his shoulder. Behind the two of them, someone was chanting “Oh my God” over and over again. The growing panic of the passengers was like the change in pressure before a summer storm. It radiated in the narrow space of the aircraft. There was another tension as well, the coiled muscles and grim determination of several people prepared to act. If Jerry could feel it, then it had to be suffocating Flynn.

  Flynn! Focus on me!

  He was too late. He saw Flynn press the heel of his hand against his eye, and knew if he were close enough, he could have seen the uncontrollable tic developing there. Flynn stood rigidly, obviously trying to shield himself. He was one step away from a complete meltdown—like that first night when he’d touched the artifact, and Jerry had mistakenly tried to take him to the ER.

  The young woman in their row who had been reading suddenly stood up, her head ducked low like a bull about to charge.

  Her action caught the attention of 15-A. “Nobody move!” He lifted the vial over his head again, threatening to hurl it down so he could crush it underfoot. All eyes were drawn to the bottle in his hand. Inside, a milky fluid jostled with the movement.

  Jerry stared along with everyone else. Hell’s bells. That wasn’t sarin.

  What a fucking idiot. A sense of indignant fury swept over Jerry, and he strode forward while 15-A had his back turned to look at the young woman behind Flynn.

  “Give me that,” he snapped, letting his irritation show. He grasped the terrorist by the wrist and twisted his arm sideways and down, snatching the vial out of his hand when the fingers opened involuntarily.

  15-A startled like a spooky horse, nostrils flaring and pupils wide. He made a feeble attempt to wrest the vial back from Jerry, but Jerry was livid now.

  “Sarin? Sarin? This isn’t sarin, you loser.” He spared a quick glance at the vial, which contained a cloudy white substance suspended in a solution. When he shook it in front of 15-A’s face, it reminded him a bit of a snow globe. Tiny flakes floated in a miniature snowstorm and slowly sank to the bottom of the vial again. “You call this sarin? Sarin, my ass. Let me guess, you made it yourself, right?”

  Jerry pressed in with a sneer as he questioned 15-A; his anger intimidated the man. Deprived of his weapon, 15-A wilted, looking less like a potential terrorist and more like a delusional wing nut. The other passengers began to murmur in an ugly fashion, fear changing to fury in a slow boil.

  Flynn stood stock still in the aisle, obviously paralyzed by the emotions roiling around him. He looked as distressed as 15-A,
and Jerry knew he was only moments away from a full-blown panic attack.

  Oh, shit. This wasn’t good. Jerry shot a sharp glance at Flynn. Snap out of it, John!

  Flynn jerked as though he’d been slapped, his face reddening as he moved forward. He pulled his badge out of the inner pocket of his coat and held it up in front of him in a slow half circle so everyone could see it. “Everyone remain in your seats and stay calm.”

  Several people were in the aisles now, their hostility a palpable force now that the suspect was subdued.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?” A large, red-faced man from first class tried to brush past the female passenger and Flynn, intent on giving 15-A a piece of his mind, or worse.

  “Hey, watch it!” The young woman bristled, already primed for a fight. She pushed First Class into Flynn.

  Jerry almost left 15-A to intervene. Almost. His breath caught when he saw the contact jolt through Flynn. Every instinct told him to protect his partner. Flynn was obviously staggering under the combined weight of the adrenaline rush of everyone onboard. The reactions of the passengers could easily get out of hand now. He saw the black fury in Flynn’s face harden into an iron-will resolve to maintain control.

  “Take your seat, mister. You too, miss.” When Flynn spoke in that tone, people listened. The passengers didn’t look happy about it, but they obeyed. Jerry redirected his attention to his prisoner.

  “I need plastic restraints—get them now!” Jerry barked his command at the flight attendant beside him. He turned back to 15-A. “You. FBI. Turn around. Hands on the overhead bin.” He took 15-A by the collar and spun him to face the seats.

  Flustered, the flight attendant turned toward the rear of the plane and headed for a compartment near the lavatory. As she hurried to comply with Jerry’s request, she spoke loudly to the passengers.

  “Everyone, please stay in your seats. The situation is under control.” She quickly returned with the restraints, her hands shaking as she handed them over.

  Jerry refrained from handling 15-A too roughly lest the other passengers join in. Anger coursed through his veins, however, thumping into his muscles, causing a tremor in his hands. Flynn stood in the aisle with an air of authority that kept people in their seats, but he made no move to help Jerry. He probably couldn’t just yet. Up in first class, the other flight attendant was on the intercom, presumably speaking with the flight crew. He spared no more than a quick glance to make sure Flynn was okay. His full focus had to be on the prisoner.

  15-A cringed a little at the antagonism of the passengers around him. He made no effort to resist as Jerry frisked him. 15-A stank with sour sweat. Jerry almost hated touching him.

  Finally, Flynn moved in to flank the prisoner from the other side.

  You okay? Jerry continued to pat down 15-A and removed a set of keys from his pockets. Without his sunglasses, 15-A flinched in the light, blinking red-rimmed eyes like a laboratory rat.

  Flynn held out his hand for the keys, his expression a rigid mask. Right. Still struggling for control. Jerry pictured himself giving Flynn a small pat on the shoulder, knowing he would pick up on the image. To his dismay, Flynn flinched and jerked back.

  Jerry left him alone and concentrated on safely securing the prisoner’s hands with the plastic cuffs. He pushed 15-A down in his seat with his hands behind him. Jerry tightened the seatbelt around the would-be terrorist, not caring that he probably was uncomfortable.

  “This is the pilot.” The voice over the intercom was stern, like the voice of God. “All passengers are to take their seats immediately. Do not interfere with the federal agents onboard. Passengers are to remain seated with their seatbelts fastened until we land. Anyone who disobeys this directive will be subject to fines and criminal charges.”

  It’s okay. Jerry was quick to reassure Flynn, whose face was dark with thunderclouds of anger. We got the bastard and no one got hurt. You did it. You’re a fucking hero, man.

  The walls closed down on Flynn’s expression with an almost audible clang of steel on concrete. For once, Jerry was glad the telepathy wasn’t a two-way street.

  Chapter 2

  FLYNN WAS angry.

  Jerry could tell that without the benefit of any telepathy, thank you very much. They had been held up at the airport for hours, giving statements. The plane and the passengers had been searched for other potential terrorists or weapons. He and Flynn had walked through the events on the plane individually with the investigators, then together, going over the same story again and again. Jerry could feel Flynn’s growing fury. Jerry was fairly pissed himself. They were federal agents, for fuck’s sake. Airport security, the TSA, and the local police had been treating them more like suspects than colleagues.

  The airport authorities were clearly incensed that Jerry and Flynn had caught someone they hadn’t picked up in their screenings. Was this really about a turf war? That alone was enough to make Jerry angry, but the seething rage that radiated from Flynn seemed excessive for just a lack of respect.

  In one of the long intervals during which they waited, presumably while other witnesses were being questioned and the contents of the vial were being analyzed, Jerry had tried to sound Flynn out about what was stuck in his craw, but Flynn had been as communicative as a stone and about as friendly as a bear with a hurt paw. With a heavy sigh, Jerry had given up.

  Still, the anger had smoldered. Like a fire that had been half-smothered with sand but was still creeping through the underbrush, Jerry could feel it burning in Flynn. It was getting close to two a.m., and though Jerry’s internal clock was still on West Coast time, it had been a long time since they’d eaten any real food. He was tired. He didn’t get what Flynn was so pissed about. Shielding his confusion from Flynn seemed like a waste of energy. Ditto with his annoyance at Flynn’s attitude.

  Can you just, please, keep your mouth shut so we’ll get through this faster?

  The look Flynn focused on him would have turned a lesser man’s legs to Jell-O. Good thing Jerry was sitting down. Flynn, on the other hand, was pacing the small, windowless room like the proverbial tiger in the zoo. Jerry’s stomach growled. If this went on much longer, he was going to break down and ask for a soft drink and some peanut butter crackers. His stomach said it was well past dinnertime, inadequate meal on the plane or not.

  At this rate, it didn’t look like they’d get to their hotel for hours. The beginnings of a tension headache started at the base of his skull and crawled over the top of his head, periodically stabbing at his left eye just for shits and giggles. He wanted food, some ibuprofen, a hot shower, and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. In that order.

  What about some hot sex? The perverse little imp in his brain reminded him how much he’d been looking forward to taking a quasi vacation with Flynn. He swatted the thought automatically. Sex wasn’t on the agenda tonight.

  The door opened and an older man in a dark suit entered the room. He looked as tired as Jerry felt. His gray hair was thinning, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He carried a manila folder tucked under one arm and held a cardboard tray of coffee cups from one of the chain shops within the airport. He also had a paper bag in the other hand, presumably containing pastries. Jerry straightened in his seat and tried not to look too much like a spaniel on spotting someone opening the cabinet where the dog biscuits were kept.

  “Agents,” the balding man said by way of greeting. He placed the tray of coffee and the paper bag on the table and pushed them toward Jerry. He loosened his tie as he spoke. “I’m Special Agent Ellis. You boys have had a long day, haven’t you?”

  Oh, thank God, the home team has arrived. You don’t mind if I play into his hands and take his offerings, do you? You can pretend to hold out longer if it makes you happy. Jerry reached for the paper bag, smiling to himself as he heard Flynn snort behind him. He didn’t bother hiding his smug reaction at having gotten a response out of Flynn. “Yes, a long day. Thank God, you brought coffee. You’re a lifesaver.”


  The bag contained several different kinds of pastries and croissants. Selecting a bagel, Jerry pulled out the packets of sugar, creamer, and cream cheese, and busily arranged his impromptu picnic on a paper napkin in front of him. The coffee smelled heavenly, even if airport coffee wasn’t his favorite. Caffeine this late at night and with the time change was a mistake, he knew it, but somehow he didn’t think he’d be sleeping much anyway.

  He dumped several packets of sugar into his coffee and topped it off with the creamer. In the second cup, he removed the lid and poured a dollop of cream into it. He pushed it toward Flynn before returning his attention to spreading cream cheese on his bagel.

  Ellis watched him with a questioning expression as Jerry took the first bite. He refrained from moaning with pleasure; he wasn’t sure how Ellis would take that. “I know you gentlemen are tired, but if you wouldn’t mind going over your statement one more time with me…?” Ellis removed the folder from beneath his arm and opened it.

  “Why?”

  Jerry stopped chewing at the gritty quality to Flynn’s voice. Uh-oh.

  “Excuse me?” Ellis turned a frowning look on Flynn.

  “I said why? We’ve been over our story a dozen times. It hasn’t changed. It won’t change.” Flynn was in Doberman-mode again: lean, dark, and deadly, daring Ellis to cross the line into his yard.

  “Well, that’s just it.” Ellis shut the folder and tossed it onto the table, coming forward to lean his hands on the back of an empty chair. “Most people do change their stories. They remember something new, or they want to add their impressions, or their memories have been altered by what they’ve heard other people say. A few people around here find it a bit odd that your stories have been so consistent.”