Death Flight Read online

  Tucker's first target was the counter agent, Marina. As she spoke on the phone, she shook her head at both of us, although her glance lingered on me.

  "It's not here," a short guy with intense brown eyes told Tucker. "I think it's at the west gate."

  "Yeah? What's going on, Neil?" said Tucker. Of course he knew his name.

  "All I know for sure is that they pre-boarded people from here. Loaded them on the bus and brought them over to the west gate. Maybe twenty minutes later, we got the warning that the terminal was shut down, and ten minutes after that, we heard sirens, same as you."

  "They've blocked off all of the west gates," said a woman with a German accent, setting off a free-for-all.

  "Because of the police!"

  "Isn't it an ambulance?"

  "I heard a helicopter," said a young woman with a Santa Claus hat atop her elbow-length, sleek black hair.

  In other words, no one knew what was going on. I glanced out the windows while they speculated. No obvious sirens or emergency vehicles. The first guy, Neil, was right: gate 68A was dead, no pun intended. We needed to get to the action.

  "We're doctors. We've got to help," said Tucker.

  "They've got paramedics," said Neil.

  Tucker ignored him. He cut to the front of Marina's line. I hung back while a few people whispered "Thank you" to me for singing to Mr. Yarborough.

  Marina looked from Tucker to me, biting her lip. "There's nothing you can do now. They said it's too late."

  "What happened?" Tucker demanded.

  She lowered her eyes and touched the knot of the red scarf around her neck. She didn't want to tell us, but we carried the M.D. card, and she was in such distress, the words broke out of her throat. "One of our support staff ... passed away. A baggage handler."

  "No!" called a woman behind us.

  I sucked in my breath. We'd worked so hard to save one man from a taser, and now another man had died on our watch.

  8

  Tucker paced in the terminal.

  Every so often, he'd check his phone, or pass by Marina's desk, but mostly, he paced.

  He reminded me of this lion I once saw at a tiny zoo in Costa Rica. The lions were held in a grassy area no bigger than your average living room, with no place to hide from gawking humans. While the lioness lay down and stared back at us, the male lion paced the perimeter of the territory. He could not rest. He could not eat or lie down with our probing eyes latched onto him. He couldn't escape, either. So he paced.

  I wanted to talk to Tucker the lion pacer. Mostly, I wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault. If they'd already declared the baggage handler dead, he must have died in a pretty spectacular way. At first, Ontario paramedics weren't able to declare people dead unless the mechanism was obvious, like a beheading. L.A. paramedics might have more leeway to declare at the scene, but chances were, it was far too late for us to help.

  The young, Santa-hatted woman cocked her head at Tucker and adjusted the cherry scarf around her neck. "What's wrong with him?"

  "He wants to save lives," I said.

  "But he wasn't even there. It was at the west gate, right? And he helped save that other guy."

  I shrugged. "Doctors feel guilty about everything."

  She pursed her Angelina Jolie lips. "I guess that's why I'm an actor instead." She tugged at the green minidress she was wearing over silver leggings and thigh high red boots. When she noticed me noticing, she said, "OMFG. ShapeR. Love it. Hate it. You know?"

  "Yep." Shapewear's not my thing, but my mom wears ShapeR when she goes out with my dad once a year, to keep her tummy looking toned and her butt high. "You look amazing, though."

  "Thanks." She flashed me a white-toothed smile. In L.A., even the average person on the bus was hot, so an actor was stunning. She looked like Santa reborn into a sexy young thing. "I wanted to look good for my ex. Plus, I heard Trina's on our flight. You know, the singer? I'd die to get in one of her videos. But this thing is killing me. I have to get it off before I'm stuck in it for five hours!"

  We both burst out laughing, and I remembered how much I used to like talking to strangers. It cheers me up. I stopped doing it since 14/11, but here in L.A., maybe I could let down my guard.

  Our laugh seemed to wake Tucker up. He marched to my side.

  "They still won't let us on the scene," he said. "Hi," he added to the Santa ShapeR girl.

  She shrugged and walked away with a little twinkling of her fingers.

  "Their own doctors are probably on the scene now," I told him.

  "Yeah, but they're not us! We might have been able to save him!"

  We're resident doctors, formerly known as interns, licensed in a foreign country, who were having sex in a different part of the airport when he died. "You can't save the world, Tucker."

  "You have," he said quietly. And then he started pacing again, along the window.

  Bam. I'd prayed that Tucker had mostly escaped PTSD. He'd insisted he was fine, and I'd wanted to believe it. He'd appeared relatively unscathed compared to my misanthropic, panicky, I-hate-the-world, I-can't-even-eat-meat-anymore kind of post-traumatic stress. Now I realized he'd overcompensated. Tucker had made it his mission to save every single person he met from any disease or discomfort.

  In other words, he was as deranged as I was, and much more likely to fail. We made an incendiary combination.

  I shadowed Tucker, pacing alongside him for a minute. I wanted to point out that he'd kill himself if he tried to save everyone. It's too late to rescue the baggage handler. Why torture yourself? They have doctors in Los Angeles too.

  Was he worried that the baggage handler had died under suspicious circumstances? It was statistically unlikely. We should take comfort in that.

  Yet I'd defied probability every other time I'd run down a murderer. If the poor baggage handler had been a victim, Tucker would never rest. My brain warped, imagining him as an actual lion, roaring with rage and leaping over suitcases until he'd dragged the killer away.

  I stopped trailing Tucker and traced an R on the white plaster wall. I missed Ryan. He is sane. He detests death and drama. We could hit it and then he'd play video games while I'd cry with happiness over a Virtue and Moir video or force him to read Sarah, Plain and Tall. Ryan wouldn't obsess over not saving someone on the other side of the airport. Still, I couldn't text Ryan right after consummating my relationship with Tucker, even if that made no sense to anyone else. Instead, I beamed my thoughts toward my engineer in Ottawa. I love you. I'm thinking of you. No matter what.

  Half an hour ticked by. In between pacing, Tucker scanned his phone and muttered things at me like "Someone took a picture. It looks like a body bag," or "Another ambulance showed up."

  Even though I cruised Twitter too, I didn't find much except people posting holiday pictures and GIF's.

  Tucker cheered up. "You should search for hashtags. #LAX is trending right now."

  #LAX mostly netted me complaints about the delay. The glass half-full types (literally) took pictures of themselves at the airport bar. Others moaned about family dinners they'd miss or the stockings they wouldn't fill. I also managed to hit a lot of ads.

  Tucker cracked a smile. "Do you want to scroll through my phone?"

  I took it, frowning. His was bigger and heavier than mine, but more importantly, he'd managed to filter out the junk.

  * * *

  #LAX runway dog (accompanied by a blurry photo of what did look like a dog on the runway, dwarfed by a plane)

  Trouble at #LAX. 1 fatality reported. Details to follow.

  Baggage handler reported dead at #LAX

  #LAX reports delays of 2-5 hours. #delayed #3bottlesdeep

  * * *

  "These are like newspaper headlines with no articles," I said.

  Tucker laughed. "Yeah, totally. It does give you an overview of what's going on, though, right? I've been checking Facebook and Instagram too, and the LAX official Twitter account, and the police account, and the news outlets
, but Twitter's the best of all of them."

  I raised my eyebrows. "It's not telling us anything we didn't already know. Except the dog."

  His grin widened. After a minute, I figured out it was because he was better at social media than me. Tucker's competitiveness was going to drive me berserk. Ryan never lorded his computer superiority over me, and I didn't brag about my medical prowess to him. We were a team.

  Tucker and I were a team, too, but he wanted to lead the team. The problem was, so did I.

  An old man's voice broke into my irritation. "Well, get me some more water, then!"

  I locked on to the disturbance. The demented man and his wife, the Yarboroughs, were arguing at the window, her in a hushed voice, him at high volume.

  "I gotta get out of here!" Mr. Yarborough stood up and jabbed his finger at the airplanes idling outside. "I got a plane to catch."

  His wife held up the water bottle and pointed toward the fountain, obviously trying to distract him.

  Tucker hustled to her side. Good. He was like a sheep dog. He needed to work, or he would go mad. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking if I wanted to accompany him to the water fountain.

  I shook my head. I'd watch our backpacks and make sure Mr. Yarborough behaved. The old man had sat down at the prospect of water, so he seemed mollified for the next 60 seconds, but his wife could use an extra babysitter.

  Two other people had joined us at gate 68A. One was a Pakistani-looking mother who'd sat down in the corner near a garbage can, with a scarlet poncho over her hunched shoulders, nursing her baby.

  The other was a fat woman clumsily patting a grey, shaggy dog wearing a blue jacket. This dog was as big as Roxy, the affectionate Rottweiler that Ryan is fostering, but much fluffier. It reminded me of Farley, the dog in the For Better or For Worse cartoons, who was basically like a stuffed animal blown up to dog size.

  Who were these newbies? Since Tucker was helping the Yarboroughs, I searched for a familiar yet knowledgeable face and landed on Neil, who was thumbing through his phone. "I thought you said they did the preboarding. Wouldn't these people preboard?"

  Neil nodded. "They came back after the sirens. I guess the bus brought 'em back."

  Curiouser and curiouser. "Did they just get here?"

  "Maybe ten minutes ago."

  Huh. I'd been too focused on Tucker the lion, who was now bounding back toward the Yarboroughs with not one, not two, but three bottles of water. When he handed me the third one, I didn't explain how I carry a steel water bottle to cut down on plastic; Neil was within earshot. "Thanks, Tucker. I heard the Yarboroughs were on the plane when the ... event occurred. Why don't we talk to them? They'll know what happened better than some randos on Twitter." Tucker was going to investigate this death anyway. We might as well fact-check properly.

  "You're right." Tucker hoisted both our backpacks from the chair, ignoring me as I swatted him away, whispering, "Don't lift!"

  He was already calling out to the Yarboroughs, "Crazy that we're stuck here."

  Mrs. Yarborough had sunk into a chair and pulled out her tablet while Mr. Yarborough guzzled his first bottle. She shook her head and glanced up from her screen. "You are absolutely right. Thank you for your help, Dr. Tucker."

  "My pleasure," said Tucker. "Have you met Dr. Hope Sze?"

  It felt eerily formal, like he was introducing me to his grandparents soon after we'd jumped each other. "Pleasure," I said.

  "Call me Lena," she replied.

  I still have trouble calling grown-ups by their first names, but I nodded. Tucker set our backpacks on the floor, and I smiled at him.

  "It was so brave of you to sing." She folded her tablet in its embossed black case. "I said to Harold afterward, 'Now, that is one brave girl!' You make the perfect pair. Are you doctors at the same hospital?"

  "Absolutely." Tucker switched on his nicest smile. "We're more worried about what happened on the runway just now. Did you see anything?"

  "Not too much."

  "Much!" echoed Mr. Yarborough.

  We paused to see if he'd add anything, but that seemed to be it.

  Mrs. Yarborough tried to touch her husband's shoulder. He twitched away from her, muttering under his breath. She explained, "He's angry because of the ruckus with the police and all the paperwork. We got on the bus and boarded the plane, and then we sat there for 30 minutes before they took us off again."

  "Gosh, that's terrible. What happened?" said Tucker.

  She frowned. "I'm not sure. Harold wanted his water bottle, so I was trying to persuade him that mine was as good as the one from Kim. Of course hers was a nice one, made out of glass, with a special blue plastic cover. I forget who makes them, but they're quite expensive."

  Good Lord. We have a medical term for overly detailed conversation: circumstantial speech. What did a water bottle have to do with a dead baggage handler? Tucker managed to look interested, though, so I imitated him, right down to the head tilt.

  "I was trying to figure out if I could get a new bottle online and have it shipped to Montreal. Then Kim could bring it right to the airport, and he'd be less upset."

  Tucker maintained his smile. "So you didn't see anything?"

  "No. Well ... " She glanced at the woman with the fluffy dog. "The animal caused quite a ruckus."

  "What happened?"

  "That woman lost control. It ran right onto the runway. She was screeching because it wouldn't come back to her. It was quite the scene." Mrs. Yarborough spoke with distaste, even though she had screamed during the taser incident. It was quite all right for her to yell when her husband was in danger, but not okay to "screech" when your dog might get run over by an airplane.

  Still, she'd confirmed that the dog had run out on the runway. That was something.

  "Can you give us any more detail?" Tucker said. "Did you see what happened to the baggage handler?"

  "I'm afraid not. Harold knocked my tablet on the floor, and I had to tend to it. I'm having trouble turning it on. I can't check my orders. See?" She showed us her tablet's screen, which lit up, but as soon as she changed the angle, the screen blanked out. "I have to talk to one of my people in Shanghai, if you'll excuse me." She pulled out her phone and dialed. "Ni hao. Yes, Clinton. The warehouse didn't answer my e-mail. Did you ... "

  Strange. She sounded completely in control. I wouldn't have pictured her freaking out if I hadn't heard her myself. It seemed like she was quite the businesswoman at work and a mess at home. I sympathized.

  Tucker moved on to the dog woman. She was sixty-plus years old, 200-plus pounds, and my height, with a greying brown bowl cut and wrinkled white skin. Her bulk was emphasized by a green cardigan with a Christmas tree stretched across her chest and an elf embroidered on each lumpy pocket. She won the ugly Christmas sweater contest this year. She carried three bags, one in her left hand and two ringed around the right, the same arm as her leash. If you counted her dog, that was four "personal items." She studiously avoided eye contact.

  The dog stared at me. It looked harmless, but I kept a few feet away. I have a healthy respect for dogs. I only trust Roxy.

  Tucker beamed. "Everything okay with you and your dog?"

  "Fine." The woman's lower lip jutted out. She was not attractive. I know that shouldn't matter, but she was a contrast to the tide of effortless youth and beauty of L.A.

  Tucker bent over the dog before I could stop him. "He seems like such a good boy. What's his name?"

  "Gideon." Her voice softened noticeably.

  "May I pet him?"

  "He doesn't like strangers."

  But Gideon was snuffling at Tucker's closed fist, then licking him, and Tucker was laughing. "I love dogs. Our family dog died two years ago, and I miss him every day. We have a new one, but it's not the same."

  I didn't know that. I stared at him.

  "You're a good boy, Gideon," Tucker cooed. Gideon wagged his tail. Tucker added, "I wish I had a treat for him. It must be tough, waiting with a dog."

&nb
sp; "I have liver treats," the woman said slowly. It was almost like she had a speech impediment. I had to listen more closely than usual. "I can't give him a lot, though. He might poop on the plane."

  "Can't have that!" said Tucker. "Did you already give him some?"

  Her head dipped toward her chest. "Well. I had to get him to come back."

  "Where did he go?" Tucker sounded curious as he held Gideon's head with both hands and enthusiastically rubbed the fur around his ears.

  The woman almost smiled, now that he was paying attention to her dog instead of her. "Well, he was ... exploring." She chewed her bottom lip and tugged on the leash, bringing Gideon closer to her. "I don't want to talk about it. I have anxiety."

  "That's tough," said Tucker. "That's why you have Gideon, right?"

  Although he was guessing, she nodded several times, as if he'd said something profound. "He's my ESA. I'd die without him."

  European Space Agency? That couldn't be right.

  "Emotional Support Animal," the woman explained.

  Ah. That pinged a memory in my brain. Emotional Support Animals had made the news—and provoked outrage on Facebook—when someone ignored the rules and tried to sneak a peacock on board the plane, but this was the first time I'd encountered one at an airport. I don't get out much. However, I did know that most ESA's were not the equivalent of highly trained guide dogs. They were basically pets that made people feel better, and the ESA designation can be an excuse not to pay to store your animal in the plane's cargo hold. As long as you get a doctor to sign off on your letter—saying, for example, that you have anxiety—you're good to go.

  Gideon stared at me before glancing at his owner. I got the feeling that he wasn't crazy about being in an airport, surrounded by strange people, smells, and noises. That made me edgy. He could probably feel it. I forced myself to relax and tune into the owner's complaints. "Even my brother told me, 'Gladys, don't bring 'im.' But I said, 'Lee, I have anxiety!'"

  Now I knew her name. And her brother's name, for whatever that was worth. I glanced at the poncho mother with the baby. Even post-partum and sleep-deprived, I bet she'd make a better witness than Gladys.