Death Flight Read online

  I inhaled, exhaled, and spoke to the sixtyish woman in front of me. "Hi, did you hear anything about a disturbance going on at this airport?"

  "A disturbance," she repeated slowly. She had a short pageboy haircut, a stocky build, and what sounded like a Russian accent. "I don't know what you are talking about."

  "Like, did you hear that something bad is happening here at LAX? This airport?"

  She shook her head and spoke to the woman in front of her, in their language, while shooting me disapproving looks.

  Crap. The wait dragged on even longer with every Russian head shake. I could ask the young, brown guy behind me, but he had his headphones on and his face down, and the last thing I needed was someone alerting the TSA that an Asian chick required extra security harassment. I'd already spotted one officer with what looked like a taser on his belt, talking on his radio.

  Where are you, Tucker?

  No answer. Well, the Finding Friends app showed him at the airport. That was a relief, although I'd have to recharge my phone. I was already down to 41 percent, and I had to show them my e-ticket before my battery died.

  That meant choosing between supervising Tucker's dot and making sure I had access to my e-ticket. Internally, I cursed all that was good and holy, including snowflakes and homemade hot chocolate. Then I turned off my phone and breeeeeeeeeathed while waiting in line for another five minutes.

  Make that ten.

  Jesus God. I know I don't believe in you, but if your birthday is coming up, how 'bout speeding this one up?

  I tried not to think about how I'd almost lost Tucker. First during the hostage taking, second from a post-op infection, and third when Montreal doctors had played cautious about reconstructive surgery, and Tucker jetted off to L.A. Full disclosure: he probably took off faster because I was juggling him and Ryan, so our reunion was not guaranteed sunshine and cotton candy.

  I finally bounded toward the agent, a Latina woman who seemed 27 years old, same as me, only she was trying to look older with her tight bun and navy uniform. I showed her my e-ticket and passport.

  She clicked on her keyboard. Her bright red acrylic nails matched both her lipstick and the scarf twisted around her neck. Then she paused and frowned.

  Uh oh.

  "What is it?" I said, through dry lips. "Is there a problem with the flight? Or the gate?"

  "No, it's ... " She held up a finger and spoke on the radio in a low voice. When she saw me trying to read her lips, she turned her back on me.

  I bounded up and down on my toes before I caught myself. Something was happening. The woman with Tucker had screamed for a reason, and the gate agent knew why.

  I wanted to snatch back my phone, which was resting on the counter, but even upside down, I could tell that Tucker hadn't messaged me back.

  I should have skipped out on my stem cell research rotation as soon as Tucker took off for L.A. I would have failed that block—I've missed too much work, because of all the killers I've run into—but who cared? Instead, I'd failed Tucker.

  I needed Tucker.

  The agent stopped murmuring into the radio and turned around with a fake smile before she tapped her keyboard again. "Don't worry. Everything should be cleared up by the time you go through security."

  "What happened?"

  A flush tinted her cheeks. She printed out my boarding pass and shoved it toward me. "Nothing to worry about. The police have it under control."

  "I was talking to my friend at the gate, and there was screaming."

  "It's under control," she repeated loudly. "Go to Gate 68A, and everything should be fine. They'll take you to the remote gate by bus."

  "What?"

  She sighed and glanced at the Disney World-worthy lineup gathering behind me. "Just go to Gate 68A."

  I didn't budge. "Was anyone hurt or killed?"

  "Of course not. I'm going to have to ask you to keep your voice down, ma'am."

  I understood the threat underlying her ultra-polite words. People have been tased at airports for belligerence. A man died at the Vancouver airport after he got tased and went into an arrhythmia.

  I snatched the boarding pass, my phone, and my passport and wound my interminable way through security. Since I only had my backpack with a laptop, some clothes, and an empty steel water bottle, it was maddening to watch other people protest taking off their jacket for the X-ray. One old couple, both in wheelchairs, had brought a bottle of medicinal oil that held up the entire line.

  "'Courage,'" I muttered through my teeth, recalling a Bethany Hamilton quote. She was a professional surfer who'd jumped back on the waves post op after a shark chewed away her left arm. "'Sacrifice, determination, commitment,'" I chanted as I finally cleared security and dashed past the duty-free goods, ignoring the strange look from a woman holding three boxes of perfume. "'Heart, talent, guts. That's what little girls are made of.'"

  Not that I was a little girl anymore, but I used to be one, and I was building myself back up into a woman to be reckoned with.

  The ticket agent had claimed everything was okay (Ohhhhh. Kay), but dread dragged my heart. Tucker and I kept missing each other, whether it was the hostage taking, my work, his health, or my other man. I had to find Tucker. I had to tell him that I loved him, in person, even if he laughed and flew away from me.

  "I love you," I whispered to myself. I was practicing, basically, in between repeating to myself, "'Courage, sacrifice, determination, commitment.'"

  Please don't sacrifice Tucker.

  Sacrifice the woman who was screaming instead.

  It's terrible, the arithmetic you do when someone you love is in danger. It means that you'd rather anyone else got hurt in their place.

  I was running again. Gasping. My backpack thumped against my lumbar spine.

  The woman's scream replayed in my mind on a continuous loop.

  Who screams like that? Nobody.

  And who ignores his cell phone? Not Tucker.

  What happened? What happened?

  Of course 68A was at the end of the corridor. I dodged people holding lattes, a beeping cart for passengers who couldn't walk, and a slow-moving Segway.

  Now I could see scads of people bunched up at gate 68A, including three wearing black uniforms. I bolted toward them with my arms in the air.

  4

  An officer who was about my height moved to block me. I'm only five foot two and a quarter, but he looked pretty ripped, and he had a police baton and a taser on his belt, so I wasn't going to mess with him. Except with words. "This is my gate."

  "We're clearing the area. Stay back, miss."

  At least he called me miss. I craned my neck. Hard to tell with the horde of people held ten feet from the nucleus of the disturbance, but I glimpsed Tucker's blond hair behind the throng. He was even easier to spot with the number 42 on both sides of his shirt.

  Tucker was alive. That was the first thing I drank in. He was alive, and breathing, and talking to an older, male cop.

  Thank you, Jesus, Yahweh, and Flying Spaghetti Monster for keeping him safe. I am not religious, except when it comes to survival. Then I'll take anything.

  "What happened?" I asked the officer beside me.

  He looked uncomfortable. His badge said "airport police," which wasn't the real LAPD, as far as I knew, but both possibilities made me swallow what little saliva I had left. Real cops have saved my life multiple times, but the real LAPD beat up Rodney King, and pseudo cops can be even more dangerous with more attitude and less training.

  My airport cop said, "One of the passengers created a disturbance. He had to be ... contained."

  Had Tucker fought with that passenger in order to "contain" him? Right after abdominal surgery, he shouldn't fight anyone. His sutures and staples could rupture.

  Tucker, you idiot. You beautiful idiot.

  I spoke fast. "My friend—the one in the 42 shirt—called me. A man came up, and a woman screamed."

  The airport cop ignored my play by play. He said, "St
ay here."

  The crowd shifted. I saw that Tucker had taken the time to gel his blond bangs straight up. Good. He'd stopped hair styling when he was super sick in hospital. This Tucker wasn't bleeding, he wasn't hyperventilating, and he'd gelled his hair. The Tucker triad of health.

  Then a man bellowed, "No!"

  That man was probably 78 years old and bent over like the letter C, but still plenty big. I'd say over five foot eight and 200 pounds. Not to be trifled with.

  The crowd scattered, only to snatch their phones and start filming.

  Tucker walked toward him with his hands in the air. "Mr. Yarborough, everything is fine."

  My cop strode toward the action, and I followed in his wake. There was no way I'd leave Tucker alone with a crazy old man, surrounded by pseudo cops with tasers.

  "Excuse me," I said to a tiny, white woman with even whiter hair. She wouldn't budge, even though she hadn't figured out how to work her camera yet.

  "I was here first," she said.

  "I'm a doctor," I snapped, and she stepped aside.

  The old guy backed up, away from the crowd and the two other cops. He was unshaven with tufty grey eyebrows. He looked like a tottery silverback gorilla, if gorillas wore suspenders.

  "We've talked about this, Mr. Yarborough," said Tucker. He was calm enough that the crowd, including the cops, hovered instead of jumping in. "You're fine right here. You can't go back into security."

  "They took my bottle!"

  "Your water bottle was full. They had to take it."

  "No!" The gorilla shoved through the crowd, stumbling at me.

  Tucker twisted toward me, his eyes widening with a mix of thrill and horror.

  Not exactly how I planned to make my L.A. debut with him, but tant pis. The rest of the crowd fell back. I didn't.

  Neither did the airport cops. A female cop widened her stance and placed her hand on her taser. "Stay right where you are, Mr. Yarborough."

  The male cops flanked her.

  That horrible scream seared the air once more. A broomstick-thin old woman flung her ring-laden hands toward the sky, as if her gnarled fingers could halt the flow of electricity. "No, please don't!"

  My cop shouted, "Stay back."

  "He just wants his water bottle. Please!" the old lady called.

  "Stay back!"

  "He has dementia. Please don't shoot him! Harold!"

  The other male cop said, "Stand back. Clear the scene."

  "Out of the way!" yelled my cop.

  This couldn't be happening.

  Female cops are less likely to shoot. This guy wasn't harming anyone. He was an old, white man, which is a less-fired-upon demographic. And the scene wasn't "contained." There were too many of us within firing distance.

  "No one has to be hurt. This is your last warning," said the female cop. She lifted the taser out of the holster and levelled it at him.

  This is happening.

  Tucker caught my eye. His thighs tensed. He was about to spring in between the old man and me.

  5

  If Tucker got tased—if she shot him with 50,000 Volts at 180 feet per second, so soon after the surgeons had sutured his bowels back together—anything could happen.

  I couldn't have her tase the old man or woman into ventricular fibrillation, either.

  Yet I didn't dare leap in front of them as a human shield.

  You're not supposed to die from a taser. It delivers an agonizing electric shock by shooting wires that hook on to your body. Your body completes the circuit. Your muscles lock up. You may wet or crap yourself.

  The pain is only supposed to last five seconds before you recover. The problem is, the old, the sick, and the drugged-out people are the least able to fight off a tase or two. Over a thousand Americans have died after a police taser.

  How could I stop the airport cop from tasing one of us, without endangering anybody?

  How could I halt a demented old man in his tracks?

  Begging and pleading and screaming wouldn't help. It might enrage any or all of them.

  I couldn't make any sudden movements, or they might tase me.

  I racked my brain. What did I know about dementia? Not a lot. They like familiar people and surroundings. They have better long term memory than short term memory. And ...

  I started to sing "Give Peace a Chance."

  Everyone stared at me.

  We don't know why, but demented patients remember music after they've forgotten their own names or how to comb their hair. Still, put on some Beatles, and they'll chime in on the chorus better than the average millennial.

  I prayed that Harold could remember "Give Peace a Chance."

  My voice cracked, but I didn't need to be fancy. I only needed to be recognizable to a demented man.

  The female officer's eyes flicked toward me.

  Come on. Don't you know this song? It's on constant replay at Christmas. They even did a remake with Sean Lennon.

  Harold Yarborough paused with his fists still bunched up, his mouth hanging open.

  I only knew the one line, pretty much, so I sang it again. Once a fellow med student had told me that I looked like Yoko Ono. Maybe it would help.

  I beseeched Tucker with my eyes, and he joined in.

  I felt my shoulders relax. My voice grew stronger, merged with his.

  Our gazes fused together. I hadn't laid eyes on Tucker in weeks. It was the first time we'd sung to each other, and I could feel the melody resonating in my chest before it floated through the airport bay.

  A few passengers turned their phones on us like we were a pop-up flash mob instead of two people trying to save an old man.

  Harold Yarborough's mouth opened.

  The female officer tensed, taser ready. Their radios crackled.

  Then Harold started to sing, too.

  He was slow. He was off tune. He fumbled the words and rhythm. But by God, he was singing. And no one was going to shoot this old, white man singing "Give Peace a Chance" on Christmas Eve, in front of a dozen cameras.

  The officer lowered her taser.

  We sang the line twice more, and then Tucker and I stopped. I was still breathing hard. My chest heaved.

  Harold kept singing, off-key and alone, before he paused, still confused, but the energy had shifted. He was puzzled, and the officers were wary but not angry.

  I exhaled, and for the first time since I landed in L.A., everything really was Oooooooooooh. Kay.

  Tension seeped out of my body. I could have laid down on the cool tile floor for an hour, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal.

  Except for one thing. My skin prickled. Tucker's eyes flamed at me from six feet away, eyebrows drawn together, mouth tight with concentration. Without him saying a word, I knew what he was thinking: You are brilliant, and I want to rip off your clothes.

  I allowed myself a tiny smile and a wink, because I was thinking the exact same thing.

  The rest of it was noise. The police officers gathered all of us in for a debriefing of sorts (Who are you? What were you doing? How dare you interfere? How do you spell your name? We need to ask you more questions. Spell your name again). But all I could see, and feel, was Tucker.

  Tucker's looks don't hit me in the stomach, the way Ryan's do, but his face is more friendly. Approachable. Guy next door. His mouth's a little big, in more ways than one. His upper lip is a bit thin, and now that he was post op, not only were his T-shirt and jeans on the baggy side, but his cheeks looked a bit gaunt, which hurt me.

  And yet when he smiled, nothing and no one else in the world mattered to me.

  Tucker and I have done many things, but at this moment, simply standing next to him was foreplay. Even though we were inches apart, the heat from his skin and the intensity of his gaze made me blush and struggle to focus on his words.

  "Mr. Yarborough wanted his water bottle," said Tucker. "He couldn't accept that the security officers had thrown it away. It had sentimental value because his daughter, Kim, had give
n it to him. When they called him to the desk, he tried to go back for his water bottle. He grew quite combative—"

  "I tried to stop him," said the old lady. Now that I could breathe again, she looked to be in her sixties or seventies. She was about five foot four, with excellent posture, wearing some sort of drapey black tunic and those enormous rings. Seriously, one ring looked like 24 carat gold, with a ruby bigger than one of my nostrils.

  "Yes, Mrs. Yarborough did her best. But he was ... quite insistent." Tucker looked at me as if he knew I could be insistent, and he was looking forward to me begging.

  I didn't realize I'd licked my lower lip until Tucker's eyes zoomed in on it, and I had to snap my mouth closed.

  "He knocked over luggage. He threw a bag at the counter," said the female officer.

  "Yes, but he didn't hit anyone!" said Mrs. Yarborough. "Please, officer. He wouldn't hurt a soul. We're trying to visit his daughter for Christmas in Montreal."

  "Kim," Mr. Yarborough put in.

  The officer shook her head. "The counter agent had to call for help. We had to clear the scene."

  "No one was hurt," said Mrs. Yarborough. "It was our bags he was throwing. If there are any damages, I'll pay for them. Please, officer."

  "I have to file the report."

  "By all means." Mrs. Yarborough cast anxious eyes on the female officer, who stepped into the corner to talk to yet another officer.

  I reached for Tucker's hand. I thought that was legit. Even the Beatles wanted to hold hands, to make another retro music allusion, and I couldn't stand not touching him.

  He grasped my fingers and squeezed. No hesitation, no pulling back, no self-consciousness that we were in front of a crowd who might still be filming us.

  This is what Tucker would be like in bed. Uncompromising.

  His grip loosened so that he could caress the edge of my hand with his fingertip. Such a small thing, but I sank my teeth into my bottom lip.

  " ... right, Doctor?"

  Doctor. That snapped me out of my sexual haze. Someone was either talking to me or Tucker. "Yes?"

  The older male police officer, the one with grey hair, gazed at me with deep suspicion. "You'll sign a report?"