Falling(4)

When he didn’t reply, she looked back.

He seemed surprised by her reaction. He had probably imagined she would scream. Maybe drop the cup. Start to cry, who knows. Some kind of drama he surely expected. When a woman, at home, in her own kitchen, turns to find a man she’s known for a mere handful of minutes pointing a gun at her, a big reaction would seem natural. Carrie had felt her eyes widen reflexively, like her brain needed to take in more of the scene to confirm that this was actually happening.

He narrowed his eyes, as if to say, Really?

Carrie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears while a cool numbness trickled down from the top of her spine to the back of her knees. Her whole body, her whole existence, felt reduced to nothing but a buzzing sensation.

But that was for her to know. She ignored the gun and focused on him instead, and gave him nothing.

Puckering and cooing, baby Elise threw her teething ring back to the floor with a squeal. Sam took a step toward the baby. Carrie felt her nostrils flare involuntarily.

“Sam,” Carrie said calmly, slowly. “I don’t know what you want. But it’s yours. Anything. I will do anything. Just please”—her voice cracked—“please don’t hurt my children.”

The front door opened and closed with a slam. Panic seized her throat and Carrie drew breath to yell. Sam cocked the gun.

“Mom, did Dad leave?” Scott called from the other room. “His car’s not here, can I keep playing?”

“Tell him to come in here,” Sam said.

Carrie bit her bottom lip.

“Mom?” Scott repeated with childish impatience.

“In here,” Carrie said, and closed her eyes. “Come here real quick, Scott.”

“Mom, can I stay outside? You said I could go—” Scott froze when he saw the gun. He looked at his mom and back at the weapon and back at his mom.

“Scott,” Carrie said, and motioned for him. The boy never took his eyes off the firearm as he crossed the kitchen to her, where she deliberately tucked him in behind her.

“Your children may be just fine,” Sam said. “Or they may not. But that’s not up to me.”

Carrie’s nostrils flared again. “Who is it up to?”

Sam smiled.



* * *



Bill could feel people watching him.

It was the uniform. It had that effect. He stood a little taller.

Bill was many things but the consensus seemed to be that he was first and foremost nice. Teachers and coaches growing up, girls he dated, his friends’ parents. Everyone knew Bill as the nice guy. Not that he minded. He was nice. But when he put on the uniform, something changed. Nice wasn’t the default description. It still made the list. But it wasn’t the only word on it.

Passengers’ heads popped up as he bypassed the never-ending line for security at Los Angeles International Airport, but it only took a peek at that hat and tie to dissolve indignation into curiosity. People didn’t dress like that anymore. It harkened back to a time when air travel was a rare privilege, a major event. Purposefully unchanged, the uniform kept a certain antiquated mystique alive. It elicited respect. Trust. It proclaimed a sense of duty.

Bill approached the lone TSA agent seated at a small podium set discreetly off to the side of passenger security. Scanning the barcode on the back of his badge, the machine beeped and the computer went to work.

“Morning,” Bill said, handing the woman his passport.

“It’s still morning?” she said, studying the information printed next to his picture. Comparing it to the information on his badge, she slid the passport under a blue light, holograms and hidden print appearing in the document’s blank space. Glancing up, she verified that the face in front of her matched the one on the IDs.

“I guess it’s not technically morning,” Bill said. “Just morning for me.”

“Well, it’s my Friday. So the day needs to hurry up.”

Bill’s badge photo and information popped up on the computer screen. After triple-checking all three forms of identification, she handed back the passport.

“Safe flight, Mr. Hoffman.”

Leaving the crew security checkpoint, he walked past the passengers tugging their shoes back on and returning liquids and laptops to their carry-on bags. On his last trip, Bill flew with a flight attendant who refused to retire simply because she didn’t want to give up her crew security clearance. She turned up her nose at the thought of having to travel like a mere mortal; waiting in line, liquid restrictions, limited to two carry-ons—which would be searched every single time, not just occasionally at random. Watching a man in his socks being patted down, Bill had to admit she had a point.

Claiming privacy at an unoccupied gate, Bill dialed home as promised. Watching a catering truck outside on the tarmac down below dodge about while rampers in neon vests loaded and unloaded bags from the cargo hold, he listened to the other end of the line ring over and over. An aircraft taxied out to the runway and in the distance, another took off.

He and Carrie didn’t fight often. Which was why when they did they were so bad at it. She had every right to be upset. Today was Scott’s Little League season opener and Bill had promised him he would be there. He made sure he didn’t have a trip on his line for the day of the game and the two days before and after. But when the chief pilot calls to ask you to fly a trip as a personal favor, you don’t say no. You can’t say no. Bill was the third-most senior pilot flying. When he was a new hire, no one was sure the company was even going to make it. Startup airlines almost never do. But he stuck it out nonetheless. And now, nearly twenty-five years later, the airline was a total success with both passengers and shareholders. Coastal was his baby. So when your boss says the operation needs you? You say yes. No isn’t even an option.