Page 54 of Shared By the Pilots

Luke: I’m in Miami right now, getting Cuban shrimp at Benecio’s. It made me think of you.

Me: Send me a photo! I was thinking about that place the other day.

Luke: Listen. About the big fight we had. Maybe I overreacted because I was afraid Bernie was going to fire both of us.

Luke: What I’m trying to say is: I’m sorry.

My heart twisted as I read the text. It was what I had hoped to hear from him in the three weeks since the fight. I read it a second time, then a third, and it felt like applying cool aloe vera to a sunburn. I didn’twantto be mad at Luke. Even though things were going great with Adam, it felt like Luke and I had unresolved business.

But there was still something nagging in the back of my head.

Me: Do you believe me about what I saw? At Excelsior?

Luke: I believe you think you saw something.

Me: That’s not a real answer.

Luke: I’ve taken what you said to heart, Veronica. I’ve kept my eyes peeled on all my Excelsior flights, and for all loading and unloading. Yeah, some of the passengers seem suspicious, but I don’t think anything illegal is going on.

Me: Then I don’t have anything more to say to you at this time.

Luke: Damnit, Veronica. I’ve tried to gather evidence, but there isn’t any. In fact, the only thing I’ve found is evidence that DISPROVES your theory.

Me: Evidence? What evidence?

Luke: Alan Broussard and his associate were moving a suitcase off the plane. Carrying it between the two of them, like they usually do. Broussard dropped his side, and the plastic edge broke off. A chunk of something white rolled out.

Me: White? Like cocaine?

Luke: Smoke was coming off of the chunk. It was dry ice, Veronica. It evaporated in about thirty seconds. So unless they’ve found a way to cryogenically freeze people like in a sci-fi movie, I’m absolutely positive they’re not trafficking humans.

Luke: Does that satisfy your curiosity?

Me: What would they need dry ice for? Why use regular suitcases rather than special equipment? This doesn’t answer any of my questions. It just raises a whole bunch of new ones.

He started typing a response several times, as indicated by the three little dots, but he never sent anything. That was probably for the best.

Dry ice?I wondered.What is that about?

My imagination ran wild that night. I thought about organ harvesting, and pictured a huge black market for human organs. Sometimes they might transport the body parts on ice, and sometimes they might need to send a living person to keep the organs fresh. To my conspiratorial mind, that made sense in a really sick, twisted way.

Regardless, something is going on.

As time went on, I began losing hope that anything would come from my anonymous tip. There weren’t extra security agents at the airport. The FBI didn’t randomly show up and search the cargo of any Excelsior planes. Every time I flew one of their flights, I felt my frustration growing.

“I get it,” Adam said while we were at a bar one night. “You’re certain something illegal is happening, and you’ve gone through all the proper channels, but nothing is happening. It makes you feel powerless, and that sucks.”

“You sound like a therapist,” I muttered while staring into my glass of wine.

“Not a therapist. Just someone with good advice.” He patted my hand. “You’ve done your best. But at this point, there’s nothing more to do.” He slid off the barstool. “If the bartender comes back, order me another wine.”

As he walked to the bathroom, I thought about what he had said. About feeling powerless to stop something so blatantly obvious. Part of me knew he was right, that there wasn’t anything more I could do.

“But that’s not the case.” I pulled out a faded business card from my pocket. “There’s one more thing I can do.”

30

Veronica

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