Cost of Life (3 page)

The Pegasus employee staffing Gate F-10 that morning was LaTonya Dawkins, a six-foot-two, three-hundred-pound, six-months-pregnant, twenty-three-year-old, God-fearing native Atlantan. When the addled passengers pressed her on why their flight to Cozumel hadn't yet boarded, LaTonya replied that there were rough winds over the Caribbean—which wasn't a lie per se since the Caribbean was a vast sea and there had to be rough winds there somewhere—but when Captain Walder in full uniform rushed past them with his doughnut bag in hand through the gate and onto the airplane, some in the crowd turned on LaTonya.

An overfed couple from outside Macon suggested that her blatant lying entitled them to a full reimbursement or at least an upgrade to business class.

A flock of sorority sisters gave LaTonya the stink eye.

A septuagenarian in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt called her a lying coon bitch.

Their bickering provided a certain brutish thug with an excellent opportunity to sidle into the gate area unnoticed. He sat his gargantuan bulk beside the old man and, with the enthusiasm of a mourner, quietly relayed the unfortunate reasons for his and Captain Walder's tardiness.

Up at the podium LaTonya, unfazed by the threats and the glares and certainly unfazed by some old man's racism, called into the PA for all unescorted children and those in need of extra assistance to line up first. She and her fellow gate agent, a smoke-eyed teen called Phillip, next spent a few minutes doing their jobs. They examined passports, compared them with tickets, scanned tickets, and welcomed the miscellaneous unescorted children and sundry handful in need of extra assistance, which today included a set of semi-catatonic folks drooping in their wheelchairs. At least they had caregivers and LaTonya wouldn't have to leave her post. No, she wanted to be there so that when the time came for the overfed couple, the sorority sisters, and the septuagenarian to board, she could “have trouble” processing their tickets.

Once all the early boarders had passed the gate, LaTonya picked up the PA again from its cradle on the wall and spoke dulcetly into it: “We are now ready to welcome any passengers seated in business class. Any passengers seated in Rows One, Two, Three, or Four, you are now welcome to board Flight Eight Sixteen with service to Cozumel.”

And although the thug couldn't understand more than ten phrases in English, one of the phrases he did know was
business class.
He had arrived in the gate area shortly after Larry and now, ticket in hand, was ready to join the queue. The old man, however, clasped him by the wrist and shook his head. The length of the old man's fingers barely crossed half the circumference of the thug's meaty arm, and the strength with which he held him could barely have bothered either of the nearby eight-year-old brats still scuffling over ownership of the plastic dump truck, but the old man's hold on the thug—now as always—had never been about physical strength.

The two passionate fellows exchanged passionless words, lest they attract undue attention. To those in the vicinity, like the chubby adolescent with the faux-diamond stud, their pleasant bickering sounded either Swedish or German. Still, the boy, whose name was Davey Wood, was getting a bad vibe from them and herded his younger brothers, Kip and Kenneth, closer to the gate, all the while wondering if it was true that airplane pilots were now armed.

“We are ready for all passengers seated in Rows Five through Fifteen. Rows Five through Fifteen, you are welcome to board Flight Eight Sixteen with service to Cozumel.”

The old man brought the thug's clasped wrist to his lips and planted a soft, paternal kiss onto his knuckles. Neither man even glanced in the direction of the line, where two gentle giants with barcode tattoos imprinted on their bovine necks stood at the head. Phillip reviewed their passports, processed their tickets, and thanked them to their breastbones. As they passed, he did manage to catch a glimpse of their tattoos and felt a pang of envy. One of the reasons he was working this job was to save up for a tattoo of an eagle with its wings outstretched across his back. He also wanted a Rolls-Royce with eighteen-inch rims and speakers with a 50Hz–21kHz frequency response—but that was for when he was twenty-four or twenty-five. Phillip had priorities.

LaTonya, meanwhile, could not have cared less about the two tattooed giants or anything else at the moment because lo and behold, here came the rheumy-eyed racist in his tropical clothes. His passport identified him as Erskine Faulks, his ticket assigned him to Seat 11C, but none of that mattered because LaTonya was about to rattle his narrow-minded world with some wide-hipped justice.

She pretended to scan his ticket one–two–three times before telling him politely: “I'm so sorry, Mr. Faulks, but there seems to be a problem.”

“What are you talking about?” His eyes widened in their bony sockets. “They just printed it out downstairs.”

“I understand, Mr. Faulks, but this is an international flight and unless I'm able to scan your ticket, I can't let you board.” Not
we can't let you board
but
I can't let you board.
Was the pronoun switch conscious? LaTonya didn't tip her hand, not with a wink or even the glimmer of a grin. “I am sorry.”

She expected him to huff and snarl and make a scene, perhaps sputter out a few more antebellum phrases. She wanted him to embarrass himself. What she wasn't prepared for were his tears, which dribbled down his bony cheeks as if his ancient eyes were melting.

“Please…” he sobbed, “my granddaughter is getting married tonight…she's such a good girl…she bought me this ticket…please…try it again…”

LaTonya girded herself. She would not feel sorry for this skeletal Klansman, no sir. But now the woman behind him was passing a handkerchief and Phillip was practically swooning with sympathy—and with all this drama, nobody saw the thug casually disconnect the podium's phone cord, spool it around his right hand, and tuck it into his pocket, just in case the police phoned ahead to stop the plane—good luck with that now.

Gritting her teeth, LaTonya scanned Erskine Faulks's ticket. She would be a good Christian and not stoop to his pettiness. She was going to allow him to board eventually anyway.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Faulks,” she said.

The old man wiped his tears across his pipe-like forearms, muttered the word “Negress,” and continued on his way, though not before floating the soiled handkerchief back to the kindhearted woman behind him, Rhonda Coxcomb, who must have heard what he'd said because she immediately left the line to toss the rag into a rubbish bin. And so it was Rhonda's bull-bald husband, Drake, who was now next in line. He passed his documents to LaTonya, who noted that, according to his passport, Drake Coxcomb was a retired cop. She suddenly felt the strange and sudden impulse to hug him. Her father and brother were cops. She chalked up her emotional rush to pregnancy-induced hormones and sent the man on his way.

Still, he waited at the gate for his wife.

“We are now ready for all remaining passengers. All remaining passengers, you are now welcome to board Flight Eight Sixteen with service to Cozumel.”

Slowly, gradually, the rest of the 174 men, women, and children were corralled on board the Airbus A321. LaTonya was too busy dealing with her cloudburst of emotions to give anyone else a hard time.

The old man was the last to board.

“I could not do what you do,” he told her. “You have the patience of a saint. Whatever compensation you receive from your employer is not enough.”

LaTonya was barely keeping it together before this and now she could feel thick tears budding at the corners of her eyes. Damn it, she would have to check her makeup in the ladies' room. But his reminder that, despite a few bad eggs, humankind on the whole was good, was worth a smear of eyeliner. The old man fumbled for his ticket and passport and when they fluttered to the carpeted floor, both LaTonya and Phillip bent to help him retrieve them. Working in tandem, they scanned his ticket and with complete sincerity welcomed him aboard as he passed through the jetway.

They watched him go.

So did the thug. He sat alone in his seat. He thought about the cord in his pocket. The most foolproof way he knew to kill a man with a cord like this was to approach him from behind, lasso the cord around his neck, yank him off-balance and to the floor facedown, and then, while pressing one foot against the man's upper back, pull up on the cord until the windpipe was crushed. Sure, there were swifter ways to strangle a victim—keeping him upright, for example—but the thug was a proponent of overwhelming force. He already missed his .44 Desert Eagle. To pass through security, he had to leave it in Larry Walder's car. That large gun had served him well.

He did regret having to use it that morning on the policewoman. The first shot, the one that shattered her headlight, hadn't been a miss. He did it to get her to turn around. He was a man of honor. He wasn't about to shoot a lady in the back.

Now, here, without his gun, he felt a bit naked. Ah well. Maybe the police wouldn't find the body in time. Maybe the plane would be able to taxi away from the gate without interruption and he wouldn't have to stall the police—as the old man had suggested—and instead he would be able to return to the Audi and regather his weapon.

Either way, he'd know in the next few minutes.

The thug got up and stood by the terminal's wall of windows. The airplane backed off from the jetway.

What a clear, rose-rimmed morning.

The thug smiled.

In a reflection on the glass, superimposed over his own reflection, a small battalion of men in uniforms rushed toward the gate.

The thug's smile faded. Ah well.

Among the airport security officers was a curly-haired sapling named Morris Kincaid. Morris Kincaid was Pegasus Airlines' on-duty manager and he went straight for LaTonya, poking one of his well-manicured index fingers within inches of her face while haranguing her for not answering the phone. The thug briefly considered lassoing the phone cord around the tiny man's rage-crimson neck, but no, no, for the sake of his countrymen and the mission, he refrained.

Instead, he held up his bare hands and proclaimed for all to hear: “Hello! I shot the police! Take me now to the jail.”

This was what those in law enforcement referred to as probable cause. The seven officers launched themselves at the big man: three to hold the big man down, one to cuff the big man's wrists, two to search the big man for weapons and/or contraband, and one to supervise, which was only fair as he, Lieutenant Elvis Dundee, was their shift supervisor.

It was Lieutenant Dundee who made the call to ground Flight 816. Despite the thug's enthusiastic confession, Captain Larry Walder remained a person of interest and needed to be brought in for questioning. Grounding Flight 816 proved easier said than done, though, as the airplane had reached an altitude of ten thousand feet and climbing, which prompted Lucy Snow, chief purser, to perform her duty of informing the passengers of some very good news via the PA:

“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time you may activate your electronic devices. In a few minutes, we will begin our complimentary beverage service. In the meantime, we invite you to sit back and enjoy our in-flight media, which includes popular Hollywood movies, TV shows, and albums in both English and Spanish. A guide to our media offerings can be found in the back of the in-flight magazine. Once we reach our cruising altitude, the captain will turn off the seat belt sign, but until then, we ask that you remain in your seats. Thank you again for flying Pegasus Airlines!”

She then repeated the announcement word-for-word in Spanish. Heck, after all these years, she could have recited it in Pig Latin. Sometimes when she lay down at night, she could hear the words of the speech echoing among the shadows of her room. Once, to win a free shot of Cuervo Gold off a co-worker, she rattled off the speech in under ten seconds; to win the second shot, she recited it backward—in under ten seconds. And yet she was still single. What a cold, cold world this was.

In the business-class cabin, Maryann and Deja took their positions on either side of their beverage cart, although half of the first row was zonked out on sleeping pills. The other half of the aisle had an empty window seat; beside it sat the old man, all kindness and gentility. He hid his mangled left hand in his sleeve.

“Good morning!” he said. His dark eyes twinkled with good humor. “When you have a chance, I would love a cup of black coffee.”

On the other side of the curtain, in economy class, Addison was strutting toward 29C. And why had this passenger pressed the call button? Addison never knew what to expect when it came to requests. Would they require a blanket? Would they need help with the overhead fan? She made her way past rows and rows of people who were connected by the wires in their headphones to the screens on the backs of the seats in front of them; not a one flagged her down, so involved were they in whatever programming they'd selected.

Before reaching 29C, Addison paused to check on the memorable occupants of Row 22. These were the barely conscious duo who had required wheelchairs and the cute male aides who had accompanied them. Addison had a thing for cute male aides. Only sensitive and patient men became aides. Bonus points for the matching tattoos on their necks. Sure, they had tried to hide them with concealer, but Addison had years of experience helping her mother powder away bruises. Having a wife-beater for a father tended to make one an expert in certain matters. Addison flashed the aides her perfect smile and asked if they needed anything, but they both shook their heads. Neither of them was plugged into a screen. They just sat there in rapt tranquility like proper gentlemen should.

Twenty-Nine-C turned out to be pimple-pocked Davey Wood.

“Can I have a glass of water?” he asked.

“So he can take his fat pills!” teased Kenneth.

“Yeah, your fat pills!” teased Kip.

Davey blushed so red that his acne glowed like embers.

“I'll be right back with your water,” Addison promised and made a mental note to get Francisco to deal with the kids before they got too rowdy. If anyone could settle down a pair of Grade A brats like these, it was Francisco.

Shortly thereafter, the plane reached its cruising altitude. The anxious fliers, like Murray Bannerman in Seat 22C, allowed themselves to relax—a bit—comforted by the fact that most airplane fatalities occurred during takeoff. Sure, they were still trapped in this steel coffin and suspended several dozen thousand feet above the planet, but statistically speaking, the worst was over. The enthusiastic fliers, like Leticia Morgan in Seat 23C, ruminated with wonder and awe at the fact that they were, at this very moment, soaring above the clouds like something out of Greek mythology. What a god man had become!

It was time for the captain to make his opening remarks. Larry activated the intercom, and whatever complimentary media the passengers were listening to cut out, only to be replaced by a popping, followed by a clicking, followed by the sound of their captain taking a deep, dry swallow.

“I…sorry about that…ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain and it…I mean…it is my pleasure to…”

He stopped—and the reason he stopped was because the next words ready to leap from his mouth were to inform them just how fucked up their day was about to become. There were 174 passengers on this plane, men and women with families of their own, children whose lives had barely begun, and here he was prioritizing his own kin over theirs. How was this anything other than selfish? He tried to swallow, tried to generate enough moisture to speak, but his throat had gone all Sahara on him.

“Skipper,” muttered Reese, “you OK there?”

These men with the barcode tattoos were kidnappers and killers. What would happen once Larry landed the plane? Did the lives of Marie and Sean really outweigh the lives of 174 innocents?

Yes.

Yes, they simply did. And that was that.

Larry turned off the intercom. “Reese, I need you to remain calm.”

“Hey, chief, I hate to break it to you, but the last thing you want to tell a guy you want to remain calm is to remain calm. What's going on? All our readings look five by five. Altitude, engines, fuel, speed, yaw, navigation…although shouldn't we be over the ocean by now?”

Reese checked his navigation display, then stared at his captain with genuine confusion. This was Larry Walder. The man was a veteran pilot. Everybody liked Larry and, more so, everybody trusted him.

And yet, where was the fucking ocean?

“Captain, I'm going to be straight with you: You're scaring the shit out of my balls. Now tell me what the holy hell is going on or so help me, I'll…”

After 9/11, the US government voted to allow commercial airline pilots to carry handguns; however, some of the countries to which these commercial airlines regularly flew did not see eye-to-eye with the United States on this point of law. The compromise that Pegasus enacted for its international flights was simple: Stow the captain's and first officer's handguns in the footlockers under their seats.

This was what Larry had filched from Reese's footlocker and this was what Larry now with his right hand pointed at Reese's face, this fully loaded semi-automatic Glock 17.

“I need you to remain calm,” said Larry. “Please.”