The mom’s gaze drops to my stomach—the bulge is hidden by the big sweatshirt I’m wearing, but a hint of a smile crosses her features. When her eyes rise to mine there is nostalgia in her gaze as if her memories of walking to ease the strains on her pregnant body are fond.
“Bye Blue,” Daisy says, leaning over to kiss his snout. He closes his eyes and then licks her cheek as she backs away. Daisy laughs and we continue down the aisle, headed right for the killer. He must be ex-military; there is something about the way his sweatshirt fits, the way his jeans hug him. The words all-American come to mind. He’s like a USA poster boy.
As I pass his empty seat I glance over. There are two women in his aisle, leaning on each other, asleep. There are no magazines or other diversions on his seat. No headphones either…
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on Blue and me as we move toward him. “Hi,” I say, smiling.
His brown eyes narrow. “Hello.” The man’s voice is deep, his accent American.
We stare at each other for another long moment. Then the bathroom door opens, releasing an elderly man into the cramped space with us. We all shuffle around, making room for him to leave. “You can go ahead,” All-American says.
“You were here first,” I point out.
He works his chiseled jaw for a second as though he is about to argue with me but then steps into the tiny space. Blue sits next to me and I place a hand on the top of his head. “What do you think, boy?” I ask in a whisper. Blue, as usual, has no verbal response. “Could be an air marshal,” I point out. Blue leans against my side. Could be a terrorist…a white supremacist. The guy is not an incel…if he’s celibate, it is voluntary.
But why would a terrorist be on a flight to Fiji? We are over the Pacific for the entire flight. Sure, theoretically a terrorist could turn the plane around and use it as a weapon for a target on the West Coast, but wouldn’t they have done that closer to land? And haven’t enhanced security and hardened cockpit doors eliminated that risk?
Plus, he wouldn’t work alone. I scan the passengers again, just seeing the backs of their heads. “Doesn’t make sense,” I say. But something is making me and Blue uneasy. And we know how much trouble likes us.
The door opens and All-American steps out. Blue and I shift to make more room. He gives me one more hard, long look before heading back to his seat.
A flight attendant appears next to me. “Do you want me to hold his leash for you?” she asks. “So you can use the facilities.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I hand the leash over and she coos at Blue while I step into the lavatory.
When I come back out the flight attendant is down on one knee talking baby talk to Blue who is eating it up, his eyes at half mast as he accepts the generous pettings and love. “He’s amazing,” she says to me as she stands. Blue wiggles so that he is now sitting on her foot.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile, accepting the leash back.
“He’s a really special guy. What’s his name?”
“Blue, and I’m Tara.” The lie rolls right off my tongue. “What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks.”
Blue and I return to our seat and the flight drones on. I doze occasionally, waking up with that same sense of something being not quite right.
An hour before landing, Angel passes us. She talks with one of the first-class flight attendants—a tall redhead. The passenger across the aisle stirs from his nap. He shifts in his seat, grabbing the crutch next to him, then uses it to stand.
He has curly hair and dark skin with a wide nose. At about 5’9” with a narrow frame, Crutch Man is only a few inches taller than me, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a flag on it. Red, white, and blue but with only one star and seven stripes. I don’t recognize it.
He starts to stretch toward the ceiling with one arm, the other holding onto the crutch. I lean forward trying to see the passenger next to him, but my view is blocked by the divider between the seats. Why am I getting trouble vibes? My gaze falls back on the passenger…he seems not nervous…but something. Blue growls so low only I can hear, his attention also on our neighbor. I’m not the only one getting the sense something is up.
The fasten seat belt sign dings on. Crutch Man continues his stretches. Angel and the other flight attendant push a trolley in front of the restroom, blocking the path. The cockpit opens and the captain comes out—the woman I heard over the intercom has her dark hair up in a twist. Angel slips into the cockpit and the door closes behind her while the captain steps into the bathroom.
The flight attendant with bright red hair and broad shoulders stands guard by the trolley. The plane drones on.
Crutch Man finishes his stretches and starts toward the blocked bathroom. “Please have a seat,” Red says.
“I’d like to stand,” Crutch Man responds, his accent something I don’t recognize.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the captain is using the facilities, you’ll need to take your seat.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says.
The flight attendant raises one shapely brow—damn I wish I could do that. “Sir, you need to sit down.”
“And if I don’t?” Crutch Man asks.
Okay…
“Sir, it is a federal crime.”
The guy snorts. Snorts. Then his hand is on her neck, her back hits the trolley, and his face is in hers, snarling something I can’t hear. I don’t need to hear it, though. I get it.
Blue and I stand as one, our bodies locking into formation—him in the lead, me right behind. The bathroom door opens and the captain begins to emerge. Her eyes widen and mouth opens in surprise when she sees the altercation taking place right outside her door.
Crutch Man looks up—I can’t see his expression but Captain’s face pales when she does.
Blue closes the distance between them and growls low and close. Crutch Man’s head whips around, his attention turned to Blue. He kicks out. Blue dances back, avoiding the messy attempt. “Let her go.” I say it calm and quiet but loud enough for him to hear.
“Fuck off,” he says.
“Let her go immediately,” Captain says.
