Angel Flight Page 5

  White Oleander lay partially open on her couch. She’d finished it before she left for Pinedale. The Green Mile, the first Stephen King novel she’d ever bought, had been pulled off of her bookshelf and was in the “ready” position on the coffee table.

  Tris kicked off her shoes, changed into sweats and went to the kitchen. The refrigerator door resisted her pull and when she yanked it open, it caught her leg. She yelped and hopped up and down in front of the open fridge. She grabbed for a Diet Coke, and a whole row of the red and white cans rolled onto the kitchen floor. One clipped her big toe before coming to rest against the trashcan.

  Tris swore, put the escaped cans back inside the fridge, and grabbed one she hoped wouldn’t blow up in her face. She popped the top slowly, tipped it over and watched the dark liquid fizz and pop as it slid into a glass of ice. Tris placed the beverage on a coaster and curled up with the book in her big leather recliner. Tiny holes and scratches dotted what was once a pristine brown. That was Orion’s doing. Still rubbing her toe, she smiled down at the longhaired Tuxedo, who was now snoring.

  What was she so stressed about? At that very moment, safe in her own home with her cat snoozing a few feet away, there was nothing to protect, nothing to win or lose. Yet earlier that day, leaving Pinedale, she’d found herself entranced by the bill of lading for the freight on her aircraft, looking for—what? A sign that something wasn’t right?

  It’s the captain who sets the tone of every flight. Was Bruce more twitchy than usual today because she’d hummed off-key? Did he pick up on her discomfort?

  She cracked open The Green Mile. Reading usually calmed her, but after fifteen minutes, she dropped the book, reached for her now-sweating glass and tapped her fingernail against it. Would Dr. C answer the phone if she called? A glance over at the answering machine revealed a steady light. No new messages. She paced to the kitchen and back.

  Dr. C had once suggested that Tris take anti-anxiety medication. She’d laughed out loud. That would ground her for sure. She couldn’t even claim their pricey therapy sessions on her insurance for fear of leaving a paper trail, much less take any prescribed meds. The last time she had gotten her First Class Medical renewed, Tris had broached the subject of therapy with the AME, a harried man who certified pilots as safe to fly as a side business to his thriving occupational injury practice.

  “Well, if you said you were in therapy, the regulations tell us we’d have to investigate further, and possibly defer your medical.” He didn’t face Tris, and sounded almost like he was talking to himself. “Yeah, that starts a whole big process. We have to get records, maybe talk to the therapist. Don’t want a poorly-adjusted pilot up front with lives at stake, do we?”

  Tris wanted to ask whether a troubled pilot wouldn’t be better served by a few hours with a shrink than putting on a brave face and toughing it out in the cockpit. But she wisely kept her mouth shut.

  Pilots didn’t go to doctors for any ailment short of broken bones or chest pains. Once reported, there was a record. Records led to questions. And questions sometimes ended careers.

  She had once asked if Dr. C believed she was a danger in the cockpit. To hell with the FAA, if she couldn’t fly, she wouldn’t fly. That was Dr. C’s opportunity to laugh. Then she shifted back into therapist mode and asked, “Do you think you are?”

  She didn’t then. She didn’t now.

  What am I so anxious about?

  Breathe deeply. Relax. Pet the cat.

  After doing all three, Tris returned to planning. First thing, organize her own training. Make sure she could qualify as Chief Pilot before the angel flight. Then, check in with Bruce. His training was going well. Today’s annoyances were all inconsequential. And, even after his upgrade, when they flew together, she’d still be pilot-in-command. She’d manage the work environment for both of them, hopefully doing a better job of it than she’d done the last couple of trips.

  Bruce’s knowledge, flying and adherence to company procedures were impressive. It was time to step up his training by letting him fly from the left seat. It was the only way to truly give him the full experience of command. He was ready.

  Her mobile phone buzzed. The caller ID came up “Unknown.”

  “Hello?”

  “Tris?”

  “Diana? Hey, thanks for calling me back.” Diana had taught Tris how to fly back in the day, became her mentor, and remained one of her best friends. A training captain for a freight carrier in Brussels, Belgium, she and Tris could talk about their careers in a way neither could with their male peers. As Tris transitioned out of Tetrix, Diana had done her best to be available, despite the time difference and the demanding flight schedule that took her into some of the most difficult to navigate overseas airports.

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going,” Tris replied. “I wanted to tell you the good news. Looks like Woody wants to move me up to Chief Pilot. And fast.”

  “That’s great.” Diana sounded distracted. “Look, I’m calling in between legs here. You’re excited about this right? You sound a little tentative.”

  “I am, and I can’t put my finger on why,” Tris said. “Woody has really put the hammer down and told me he wants it done asap. Before the angel flight in April.”

  Someone spoke to Diana in the background, and she answered, “merci.” Tris always gave Diana leeway if she couldn’t talk, but she really wanted her friend’s advice.

  Tris continued, “What if I can’t, Di? What if I can’t . . .”

  Diana jumped on her comment. “That’s ridiculous, Tris. It’s been years since your bad training experience at Clear Sky. Forget it. This promotion is perfect for you. You’ve earned it, and you deserve it. And the timing—I mean, wouldn’t you love to do that medical flight for those assholes at Tetrix as Chief Pilot?”

  “Oh, it’s crossed my mind,” Tris chuckled. “The more I think about it, the more I want it. And not just to shove it at Tetrix. You’re right. I’ve earned it.”

  Another voice said something to Diana, and she replied, “Okay. Be right there. So, Tris, I’m coming to Exeter on Tuesday. I was hoping to stay with you for a day or two.”

  “Sure. The airplane’s down for maintenance next week, so no problem. You taking vacation?”

  “Uh, no. I’m on leave, actually. Look, I’ll explain when I see you. I’ll call you when I figure out what flight I’ll be jump seating on.”

  There were several seconds of dead air, which Tris attributed to the international connection. Diana was probably using a calling card from a pay phone in who-knows-where.

  “Di? You still there?”

  “I’m here. Look, Tris, I gotta go. We’ll pick this up in person—Tuesday, okay?”

  “Great. Bye.”

  “Ciao.”

  Back when Diana was training her, they would talk for hours about their careers, their personal lives. Diana always had the right words. Tris sank into the leather chair, which now seemed built specially to fit her, and smiled for the first time all day.

  IQALUIT, NUNAVUT

  CANADA

  April 11, 2000

  CHRISTINE

  Erik, I know what you’re thinking. That I agreed to go, to get the treatment.

  But on that phone conversation with the doctor, you talked, I nodded.

  The hope in your voice broke my heart.

  If we participate in this clinical trial, I’d just be a guinea pig for some new drug that may or may not slow the progression of the disease. And for the privilege of being a test subject, they’d set me up with one of those computers the patients in the US are using. So, when I can no longer speak, raise my arms, or even type, I can select letters with my eyes. The words I’d create would then be “mechanically generated,” which is code for “spoken in the voice of a cyborg.”

  And the treatment is in Exeter, of all places.

  I felt as though my life ended in Exeter once before. I can’t bear the thought of returning to have it happen again, fo
r real.

  Who knows whether the treatment would have any effect at all? “No guarantees,” they say all the time. And I might not even get the medication—only a placebo. And then I’d have to watch this disease continue its unabated destruction in Exeter.

  No Erik. I simply cannot die there.

  Twelve

  Danny wasn’t at Heather and Bruce’s party when Tris arrived. Since Danny’s wife Em was Heather’s sister, she’d assumed they’d be there early. After she hugged Bruce and gave Heather a kiss, the couple went off, hand in hand, to greet other guests.

  Tris didn’t recognize anyone else, so she grabbed a beer and moseyed around the place, smiling at the other guests. A large “Happy Anniversary” banner was draped over the kitchen island, its lowest point almost touching the top of a three-tiered server filled with mini quiches.

  When the front door finally opened for Danny and Em, both looked agitated, but they quickly smiled and greeted Heather and Bruce. After they dropped their coats off, Danny and Em migrated to the kitchen. Danny sat on a bar stool at the island. Em stood next to him, but each looked in a different direction.

  “Damn these shoes,” Danny said under his breath, “I can barely walk in them. I can’t believe you made me wear them.” He lifted one foot and his face twisted in pain.

  Tris had been leaning in a doorway behind them but was close enough to hear. As she headed towards the couple, the air thickened with the familiar mix of jealousy and loss that always seemed to surround them.

  “Hey, guys.”

  Em’s hand grasped Danny’s as if remotely activated. “Oh, hi,” she said. Tris could almost hear the air leaking out of Em’s deflating smile and caught Em’s eye roll. It made her a little sad. She’d always hoped they’d be friends.

  Danny wasn’t her destiny. Many times, Tris wished he were—prayed to wake up one morning and realize he was “the one.” He’d tried so hard, and for so long.

  Unfortunately for Danny, he would always be the person who had called her that horrible night, who told her Bron had died in an accident while driving to his crash pad. He related the horrific details, unaware that Tris had put Bron at that deadly intersection.

  Loyal, loving Danny supported Tris when the burden of her guilt and grief seemed too much to bear. He’d stood by her during the nightmare year at Tetrix, when every trip, every workday was a minefield of harassment, verbal abuse, and disdain. And when he approached her finally, respectfully, for love and companionship, she pushed him away.

  Tris had hurt him, badly. But their friendship survived. She loved Danny, just not like Em did. He deserved way better than Tris could give.

  “Hey, Tris.” Danny finally looked up from his Blackberry.

  “Hey, stranger. How’s life on reserve at Legacy?”

  “Can’t complain. Well, of course I can. But I won’t. It sucks. But it’s not forever. As soon as I can hold a line and get off reserve it will be easier.”

  “Livin’ the dream, eh?” Every pilot’s private joke.

  “That I am, Flygirl.”

  Tris blanched at the use of Bron’s old nickname for her. She’d asked Danny to stop calling her that.

  Danny quickly caught himself. “Sorry, Tris. I didn’t think.”

  She waved it off and he asked about the fire at Lemaster. Everyone wanted to hear details from someone who’d been there.

  Em had been talking to a woman Tris didn’t know. She turned her attention back to her husband, playfully grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her. Em marked her man with a kiss and whispered in his ear before turning to Tris.

  “Well, I’m going to scope out the desserts. Good to see you,” she said, her cold tone leaving no doubt that it was anything but. Danny flipped his eyebrows up quickly, in an “I’m so sorry” way.

  “I know. Don’t worry about it.” Tris accepted Danny’s unspoken apology for his wife’s abrupt exit.

  Despite everything she’d done to him, Danny was still her best friend, as he had been Bron’s. They’d grieved Bron’s loss together. Their connection had tightened after his death, and despite their private jokes and the bond she and Danny had forged by the many hours flying together at Clear Sky, there was a persistent sadness between them. Danny was the last living connection to her days with Bron, the only person still in her life who had borne witness to their relationship.

  Tris needed Danny. But she had absolutely no right to.

  They continued their conversation in the living room when a rush of cold air flew in from the open front door. A bearded, red-haired man wearing jeans and a green and black flannel shirt approached the two pilots. His blue eyes fixed on Tris like a spotlight.

  Mike Marshall.

  Thirteen

  “Hey man.” Mike spoke to Danny, but his eyes never left Tris. “How are my friends over at the old shop?”

  Danny grasped Mike’s extended hand and smiled warmly. “Good. They miss you. Still talk about the one that got away.”

  Mike looked at his feet. “Yeah.”

  Tris surreptitiously tugged her loose sweatshirt down. Her new V-neck sweater, the one that hugged her curves, lay at home on her bed. It was just Danny, Em, Bruce and Heather, she’d reasoned as she slid the oversized top on over baggy jeans. There was nothing she could do about it now, so she released her hair from behind her ears and tried to fluff it.

  “Mike Marshall, meet Tris Miles. Tris used to be at Clear Sky, you know. Now she’s over at Westin.”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, we’ve met. How are you?”

  Danny’s gaze bounced back and forth between them.

  “The ‘Disaster at Lemaster’,” Tris said, as she met Mike’s eye. “Mike was the pilot Woody sent to help us fly home. Mike, how do you know this crowd?”

  “I’m Heather’s cousin. Bruce didn’t tell you? Ah, you know, that day was so crazy I’m not surprised he didn’t think to mention it. So, Clear Sky, eh? When were you there?”

  “Me? ’95 to ’97. I was this guy’s new-hire training partner when he did his captain upgrade training.” She motioned to Danny, who was now intently watching Em. She’d migrated to the dessert table and was popping individual cheesecake bites into her mouth like beer nuts.

  “Sorry, guys. Gonna go check on the wife.” Danny left the two of them alone.

  “So, you like working for Woody? I’ve known him for years. Used to instruct for him,” Mike said, his expression thoughtful.

  “Yeah, me too. And then I started the charter company with him.”

  “And you’re his Royal captain.” Tris was pleased that he looked her in the eye instead of zeroing in on her breasts like most men did.

  “Captain for now. Woody’s been delegating his Chief Pilot responsibilities to me. We’ll make it official within the next month or so. He wants to expand the company, get another airplane, make Bruce a captain. Progress.” She looked around for Bruce but didn’t see him.

  “So, you’re growing? That’s great.”

  “We’ll see. What’s the old saying about new airplanes? ‘I’ll believe it when I see it on the ramp.’” Both pilots laughed and shared a knowing gaze.

  “How about you? Are you just flying contract trips, or do you have a full-time gig?” When Mike and Danny were talking, it sounded like Mike had been at Legacy. But that didn’t make sense. If Mike had gotten a job at Legacy, he’d still be working there, not freelancing.

  Mike glanced at some photos of Bruce and Heather hanging on the wall and didn’t answer right away. Then he stepped closer to Tris. “I’m in between gigs right now. Looking for something new, and local.”

  The tingling sensation that ran through her body was so strong, she was afraid she’d cry out if he touched her. Sexual energy surrounded them, thwarting her internal censor’s usual point-counterpoint, and inspiring her to put voice to thought. “We’ll need a new co-pilot on the Royal once I get Bruce upgraded. You interested?” After all, she’d gotten to know Bron when they flew together.

  He
pursed his lips together in a slight smile and thrust his thumbs in his pockets. And then she realized her mistake. “Oh wait, sorry. That’s not going to be the right fit for you, with all of your experience.” Embarrassed, Tris looked down at her salt-stained work boots. Why hadn’t she worn her new Uggs?

  If Mike was affronted by her suggestion that he fly as a co-pilot, he didn’t show it. He smiled and responded without a hint of arrogance, “Yeah, I’ve got a few thousand hours in that Royal you fly. I’m hoping to hire on as a captain somewhere.”

  Tris nodded. “Of course. Good luck. And thanks again for helping us get out of Lemaster that day. What a cluster.”

  “Hey, can I get you another drink?” Mike lightly touched her shoulder and gestured toward the kitchen. He’d barely made contact, but the generated heat zinged through her down to her toes.

  “Another beer would be great. I’ll snag us some seats.”

  She soon found a spot at one end of the crowded couch.

  Mike squeezed in next to Tris and handed her an MGD. Their thighs touched, and Tris relaxed into the contact. The couch was made for maybe five people to sit comfortably, and now there were six of them scrunched together. The guy at the end had his butt hanging off the cushions.

  A sharp peal of laughter rose over the din in the room as their small talk hit a lull. It crackled past like a flash of lightning, leaving her a bit breathless. Mike took a sip of his beer and smiled at her.

  A man pulled a chair up next to Mike and began talking. Mike briefly introduced Tris, and then turned back to converse. Suddenly unsure of herself, Tris leaned back against the rear couch cushions and sank almost a foot behind Mike. All she could see in front of her was a row of shoulders, and she didn’t have enough leverage to push herself through them.