Page 21 of Airborne
The ill received care while other workers handed out surgical masks. A little late now. Heather doubted the wet paper towels distributed hours ago to cover passengers’ and crew’s mouths prevented any contamination.
She responded to two FBI agents, also clothed in PPE, and asked for facial tissues. They were prepared to take Braden Taversty into custody. Blood flowed more freely from his nose and mouth, and Heather dabbed at his face with clean tissues. No matter what he’d done, he deserved humane treatment.
Heather extended Taversty’s wallet to an agent. “Looks like he has the virus.”
“Sir,” the agent said. “We’re getting you help. If you’re involved with the virus, we need to know.”
Taversty shook his head. Did he speak the truth, or could he be responsible? The agent summoned a CDC worker who supplied a stretcher.
From the looks of him, Taversty wouldn’t live to face a judge. The stretcher moved him toward the exit.
The agent turned to Heather. “He’ll remain at Jamaica Hospital in federal custody for suspected terrorism. Has he given you a statement?”
“Only his denial of having anything to do with the virus. He also said if he had info, he’d not offer it.”
“A definite person of interest.”
Heather nodded. No need to speak of Taversty’s Middle East connections and frighten anyone within hearing distance.
The agent sighed at the procession of those leaving the plane on narrow stretchers, the ill and otherwise. Frankie’s grandmother, then Roy were wheeled past, recognizable by visible articles of clothing. Heather held her breath. She was afraid to breathe in the stench of death and yet afraid not to hold on to life. After the unresponsive were pronounced dead, they’d undergo autopsies to determine the cause. The findings provided data for the forensic medical research team.
Grim. Incredibly grim.
The process of checking and recording vitals as well as questioning each person’s health history took much longer than she anticipated. Medical personnel entered data on tablets, eliminating the loss of any critical information.
Heather moved to a window and observed the frenzy of activity surrounding the aircraft. Bright lights flashed on multiple emergency vehicles. Peculiar to be looking at first responders from a victim’s perspective. Not a position she’d ever want to be in again.
After a separate team recorded vitals and inserted an IV, the patients were each placed in an isolation pod, a mobile transportation unit designed to keep the patient from exposing others to contagion, and driven to Jamaica Hospital.
Flight attendants and those traveling with the ill tagged personal items for each one who displayed virus symptoms and made sure the items accompanied them. Not a single item left the aircraft without being labeled and placed in a contamination bag. Workers instructed a couple accompanying a sick child to add a face shield to their surgical mask and wear two pairs of gloves.
NYPD vehicles and officers, ambulances, fire trucks, and a National Guard unit stood ready as first responders to protect those on the plane and outsiders from being exposed. Media parked beyond the police barricade, and cameras rolled while reporters held mics. Weren’t they afraid?
Thomas, the man who’d helped her with Braden Taversty, gazed out a window nearby. He reeked of vomit, but then again, so did she. “I’m hoping we’re released in the next twenty-four hours,” he said.
“You’d be wise to add days to your estimation,” Heather said. “None of us want to infect others.”
“You’re right. Wishful thinking on my part.” He gestured around the cabin. “Just hate what has happened to the passengers and flight crew. Except it beats lying on a stretcher with our faces covered.”
She watched the medical team. Rather frightening, and she’d witnessed atrocious crimes involving shoot-outs that left bullet-ridden bodies.
Thomas cleared his throat. “I’ve studied the healthy and the sick. None but the man you apprehended gave an indication of guilt.”
“Would the guilty person volunteer their name and motive?”
He chuckled, but the sound bore no mirth. “Guess not.”
A man called for help, and Thomas rushed to his aid. Him and others like him were unsung heroes. Unlikely any of them had boarded with the idea of making sacrifices to help keep people alive. She observed Thomas to see if he needed assistance. Odd, he didn’t appear as the nurse-type, but then who did?
Her thoughts trailed to Chad. In the beginning, they had adored each other. They fell in love and married within two years. She had a crazy work schedule, while he spent hours with his doctorate studies. Yet every spare minute found them talking, laughing, sharing. They stole moments for long walks in the park. They cooked together... planned for their future while they journeyed through their dreams.
She should have seen his commitment to healing would always take first place. Still she said yes.
Heather walked back to her seat. Dried blood covered Braden Taversty’s seat. What were the odds that she’d be on an aircraft attacked by a mysterious killer, and the virus’s description fits Chad’s specialty?
“You’re in my way, a liability. I can’t move ahead in my life saddled with a wife. Trust me on this one, Heather. I’ll do anything to make it happen.”
Her heart ached with the accusations bannering across her mind.... She hadn’t explored the similarities to that level. Her emotions further unraveled. If she ignored her doubts, she was withholding information to the bureau. Concealing potential evidence put her in line for a prison sentence without her baby. If she relinquished her thoughts, and Chad discovered she’d pointed a finger at him, she lost any illusions of reconciliation.
