Out of Air: suspense thriller about business ethics & legal corruption

Postscript

CHAPTER 1

GOOD MORNING MR. SQUIGGLY, SANG THE NURSE IN a sweet, gentle voice that rolled around his bed pillows like morning fog. He watched her from beneath the cover of his partially closed eyelids and wondered if she and the doctor would be pleased with their findings.

Only four ounces? she tsk’d while discarding the contents of the urine jar he’d left on the washroom basin. It was the best her patient could give under the circumstances. The nurse felt that a morning boost of optimism might improve his spirits.

Nothing like a little sunlight! she said, growing louder and more chipper while opening the shutters a smidgen, just enough to allow hints of yellow to waft about the room, matching the citric fragrance of her shampoo.

Scott Quiggly savored the polite scent with each shallow breath. He smiled to himself, unoffended by the nurse’s use of an old nickname, Squiggly.

You’ll have to drink more water hun, otherwise the doctor won’t let you go home, warned the nurse. She checked his IV and placed the TV remote in his hand, softly patting it to signal her exit and the entry of another incoming visitor.

Morning Scott, announced Dr. Foxx in a tone patients often dread. The doctor made direct eye contact with the nurse and waited for her response. No words were needed to simultaneously request the patient’s bladder output.

Just a few ounces, doctor, still hematuric, she replied firmly with professional somber.

Slightly tinged or smoky brown?

A bit smoky. Shall I label for lab? she asked with subtle suggestion, forgetting she’d already flushed it.

No. Thank you, nurse. Let me see what else we’re up to this morning, he said, dismissing the nurse in hospital code, a language she interpreted well. She closed the door quietly behind her, relieved that her error remained unexposed.

Now alone with his patient, Dr. Foxx offered, Smoky is better than dark, while palming the bedcover flat to claim a small patch of real estate near his patient. While taking his seat, the doctor heard a murmured question, faintly audible.

Yes, the doctor replied. Nurse Pee Nazi is gone.

How’d it go? in a voice with more decibels than the last.

Like we talked, said the doctor. The procedure was very invasive. It tricks the body into overdrive to fight infection. You’ll start to wish it were only a train wreck. But on the bright side, your other lung is performing well. That’s a good sign.

When can I go home?

Probably a few days. Let’s make sure you can eat, drink, pass the breathing test, and process. The doctor paused, stood up, and then leaned down to whisper, Take a healthy dump. The doctor softly squeezed his patient’s shoulder before exiting, leaving the door open to welcome intensive care breakfast delivery.

The patient closed his eyes, hoping it would muffle the hallway noise and the growing intensity of sunlight. He imagined his former hypnotherapy sessions where subconscious healing helped mask the pain in his traumatized body. Sometimes this exercise took him to familiar places, albeit not all enjoyable.

Good morning, Mr. Squiggly, brought back undesirable memories. Schoolyard bullies once paired his small size with the convenient first initial and last name. Lil Squiggly became a childhood anthem. It hurt. Squiggly could’ve easily been the name of a sports team mascot. The locker room taunts were much meaner, more phallic.

Luckily for Scott Quiggly, his high school years were easier, thanks to athleticism and a boost in testosterone, shared equally with his twin brother Thomas. Their dual penchant for sports was one part curse, two parts blessing. Players’ jerseys required differentiation, so S. Quiggly became the butt of jokes for announcers, players, and fans alike. At least Scott and Tom could give the boots on the field a reason to mind their own squiggles—nothing like a good beating to shut ’em up.

Yep. They were a pair. The Navy commissioned the USS New Jersey during the Korean War. Scott was a machinist while Tom a gunner’s mate. Although they were twins, their jobs were a picture in contrast. Scott worked in the dirt, oil, and noise of the battleship’s innards. Tom’s duty landed him in ordinance and launch control, occasionally above deck.

Post military, Tom went on to a good job in the design lab at Boeing. Scott took to working the manufacturing sector; first in food processing and then construction goods, where the union had more sway to influence a better wage.

Scott and Tom enjoyed good lives, with lovely wives and families. They never grew apart like other brothers and sisters. Being twins mandated a lifetime of closeness. Tom’s voice was the last thing Scott heard before going into surgery.

Scott began to convulse erratically. He willed himself to a kinder, more peaceful place. Slowly the body began to relax. His pulse slowed to something tolerable.

The doctor’s last words weren’t an order per se—more so a recommendation, a prescription for departure. Getting out would be nice, so would a good ’ole fashioned dump.

With his eyes still closed, Scott Quiggly dreamed of going home to Tessie.

CHAPTER 2

Several Years Later

THERE IT WAS, ALONE UNDER A CHAIR. EVERY FEW minutes while nibbling breakfast near gate 25, he’d peek up from the morning paper to see if someone had reunited themselves to the stranded package. It looked harmless enough, but the airport’s annoyingly repetitive public address was clear, If you find any unattended baggage, please contact airport security. Still, the message demanded action.

Peck O’Brien never shunned a duty. He possessed attack-dog courage and Boy Scout manners. Relentless attention to detail was a skill Peck had honed over thirty-plus years of company service. The experience sculpted him into the man he’d become: sturdy, lean, and loyal and an industry patriot with a defined sense of morals and ethics. Thus, when he saw the gold-buckled, black leather briefcase beneath the food court seat, he had no choice.

Hello, airport security? There’s an unattended briefcase near gate 25…. Yes. I will wait.

Within two minutes, three uniformed security guards arrived to the skyway courtesy phone where Peck placed the call and waited as ordered. The squawk from their radios clashed with the airport loudspeakers. One guard was reporting Peck’s physical description, Six feet. Brown hair. One-ninety. Approximately fifty. Wearing black slacks, black shoes, white polo shirt, and a tan jacket.

Hey. If you don’t need me, I’ve got a plane to catch, Peck voiced to the security guard as the other two guards methodically cordoned off the food court seating area. The neon orange caution tape flickered in the vortex of air created by the steady flow of passenger traffic. Travelers rubber-necked while whisking past the crime scene, thankful that the event wasn’t theirs.

"Looks like today’s plans are busted, Peck mumbled in a barely audible grimace. Civic duty my ass."

The guard’s hand reached up and gently patted Peck’s shoulder and then traveled to the base of Peck’s elbow. Peck stiffened with moderate displeasure, testing the guard’s intentions. The grip tightened up to the threshold of discomfort and pain. Taxpayer money was used for training after all.

Please come with me sir, said the short, dark-featured man with brown teeth and a thick accent.

Can I make a call? I’m missing my flight, he pleaded.

Just come with me sir. This will only take a few moments, the guard responded politely, yet with an insistence reserved for persons of interest. Two more golf carts arrived with six seriously equipped airport soldiers: holstered glocks, body vests, bomb gear, and M16s strapped, locked, and loaded. These guys were ready for action—real warriors.

And all Peck wanted was a quick bite before boarding. The price of freedom?—inflationary.

Four hours later, Peck’s ears twitched in agitation from the pygmy-sized TSA agent’s post-detention analysis, Sir, you shouldn’t have picked it up.

Peck hoped the assault to his senses would fade after an in-flight cocktail.

I’m sorry, sir. 12:40 p.m. is the next available flight to San Diego. Gate 26. Do you have any bags to check in? asked the frowning Southwest clerk, suspicious of Peck’s new security detail.

Nope. My luggage got a head start. Thank you. Gate 26 you said? Peck turned and darted toward the TSA checkpoint, hoping not to see anyone familiar. He remembered the morning ticket crew being more efficient and enthusiastic and longed to be reunited with his golf clubs that were no doubt enjoying the San Diego sunshine without him.

Just following protocol, said the officer while escorting Peck through the terminal. Barricades vanished. Airport life was normal, it seemed, for everyone except Peck.

Nearing gate 26, the smell of stale fast food reheated fresh memories of a ruined calendar.

A full day had been planned: nine holes of executive golf and lunch with George Thompson, an insurance consultant from Cobb & Co., an agency that specialized in civil liability protection. The afternoon was reserved for depositions.

Peck was screaming inside. Terrific. Scratch Thompson. Golf was the trip’s highlight, but it was not to be. Instead it turned out to be just another expensive day with ambulance-chasing lawyers.

In line, Peck was thinking of the tinder that fueled the flames. It all began with a Houston television advertisement, If you or a loved one is sick or at risk of becoming sick from exposure to gypsum drywall compounds, you might be eligible for compensation. The first nine claims were filed within one week. Six months later, over eight hundred separate cases were filed throughout the great state of Texas. Ninety-eight percent of the claims were funneled through finder’s fee attorneys and tort claim specialists like Wolfe, Steinberg, and Brennan, also known as The Wolfe Pack.

Resigned to finish the day with alternate plans, Peck took a spot in his favorite section of the plane: row 27, a window seat with a perfect view of the main wings’ trailing edge. From there he could watch the ailerons and flaps work in concert during take-off and landing. Also, a few feet south of the aircraft’s center of gravity is less bouncy during turbulence.

Peck’s next unknown worry was the dreaded Who’s going to sit next to me? With the airline’s unassigned tickets, a person could buy three seats all for themselves and still suffer this dilemma. He hoped the person would be quiet and slender—under twenty-two inches, shoulder to shoulder, would be perfect.

Passengers continued shuffle-stepping past row 27. Peck checked his sunglasses to gauge if they were dark enough to preview oncomers without making eye contact. Unqualified passengers, not fitting the width requirement, kept stopping at his row and then moving on. He sat staring at each person intently, hoping for a change in luck. One decent passenger draw seemed fair.

Then came the announcement no one on a plane likes to hear, It’s a completely sold-out flight. Please stow away your overhead luggage in the first available bin.

The never-ending anxiety of the day made Peck’s mouth dry. He would not be able to wait for beverage service. As he searched through his laptop bag for a few sticks of gum, a female passenger comfortably slid into the neighboring seat.

With the cabin door sealed, the captain began the customary welcome speech, It’s sunny and warm in San Diego with mild, ten-knot westerly winds. We should be landing a few minutes ahead of schedule, but until then please remain in your seats with your safety buckles fastened. Sheila, the lead flight attendant took over from there, finishing with, Please turn off all electronic devices; that means anything that uses a battery charger. Place your seatbacks and tray tables in their upright and locked position.

How’s your day? the woman asked as if Peck hadn’t noticed her arrival. He feigned acknowledgment, still numb from the morning’s events and hoped departure and Jack Daniels would soothe his senses.

Tough times then? she persisted.

Not tough at all, if detention and interrogation are your thing, Peck quipped with a wry smile. His eyes squinted from the sunlight’s glare through the 737’s opposite side windows.

The plane taxied to runway position. Dual-jet engines spooled with increased revolutions until the mounting thrust broke the tires’ bond from the tarmac, beginning with a gentle roll and building enough speed for liftoff. At 135 knots, Peck found relaxation in that moment when the aircraft bolted skyward. Now where’s that drink? Peck said to himself.

You look like you could use a drink. Especially after being …what did you say? Irrigated?

No. I was interrogated, by airport security, after reporting an unattended briefcase in the food court.

Where was this briefcase, exactly?

Underneath a chair.

Why were you interrogated? Sorry for misunderstanding. Her accent was an exotic blend of Jamaican and Russian.

Beats me. I thought I was doing the right thing. I guess I’d do it again, but it makes me appreciate why others don’t get involved.

I understand you, she said while reaching down beneath the seat in the front to grab an electronic notepad from her handbag. The movement caused her blazer sleeve to creep up her forearm, revealing a military themed tattoo. It appeared to be an eagle’s claw clasping a Ka-Bar styled commando knife. The precision blade glimmered with a drip of red blood at its tip.

That’s an amazing tattoo, Peck offered. What does it signify?

Signify? she asked with confusion.

Yes. Uhhh. Represent?

Oh. It’s just a, how do you say it, a hobby. With that she offered her hand and a name, Petra. My name is Petra. And you are?

Peck. Peck O’Brien. Nice to meet you. Your accent. I can’t quite peg it. Where are you from?

Oakland, same as you Mr. O’Brien. She replied with a pleasing smile and restrained laugh.

A little time elapsed. Enough for the Jack and Coke to have its desired effect. Petra ordered bottled spring water. She asked for it by brand, Jana, but the flight attendant suggested Evita or Perrier. Petra chose the Evita.

Salute? Petra suggested. They tapped plastic cups, logo-to-logo, and returned polite smiles and head nods, making eye contact long enough for