The Baggage Handler Read online

  One chance.

  3

  The carousel creaked on. Still empty.

  Three chauffeur-hatted drivers remained at the terminal exit. One had to be for David; he just couldn’t read the cards from his place at the carousel.

  The stuck baggage sticker snuck out from under the heavy rubber flap and greeted him on its second agonizingly slow lap.

  Stress caught his chest in its viselike grip. His heart pounded inside its restrictive cage, a now-familiar lilting, unbalanced cadence. His ears rang and his jaw clenched, as it was doing more and more. He reached for another antacid.

  The heavy rubber flaps of the carousel lifted, and a black suitcase peeked out and leaped forward into the spotlight.

  Finally.

  David rubbed his hands together and leaned across the suitcase. Gold frequent flyer baggage tags, not his proud red alumni livery. He cursed under his breath.

  A second bag emerged and then a third. Each was black. Each badged as a priority. Neither belonged to David. The knots in his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth.

  Suitcases emerged into the light. Black, black, black, gray, black, black, silver. David could feel his blood pressure sizzle and spit as each one passed. The baggage sticker started its third lap. Stuck to the carousel. Just like him.

  A familiar black suitcase with a flash of red around the handle pried apart the carousel’s heavy flaps. David scanned the terrain as he swung the suitcase from the carousel. More planes had emptied their passengers into baggage claim, and his path to the exit was now blocked.

  He plowed his way through the throng. Only one suited driver was left. That has to be my guy.

  David thumbed through his phone again as he charged through the crowd. Still nothing from Sharon. How hard was it to promise it was over? The evidence on her phone flashed red in his memory. His cheeks flushed—

  Crash.

  David had tripped over an empty baggage cart. As his suitcase skidded across the polished floor, he staggered, arms windmilling, into a tour group. Their guide broke his fall, which started a round of staccato jabbering in some foreign language. Pain shot through his shin, and David added some choice adjectives from his own language as he picked himself up and brushed off his suit. The tour group stood back, their phones raised to capture their first taste of this new culture.

  The same young man in the Baggage Services uniform offered a simple smile. “I’m so sorry, sir.” He tipped his cap, and black, curly hair threatened to spring free. “We all should watch where we’re heading. May I help with your baggage?”

  David rubbed his throbbing shin and growled through clenched teeth. “You can help me by staying out of my way.”

  The young man reversed his cart with a flourish. “Happy to help in any way I can, sir!”

  David muttered under his breath about everything—and nothing. As he approached the exit, he lowered his shoulder to barge his way through the crowd, again ignoring protests against his charge. The name printed on the card of the remaining driver was now clear: Professor Ivor Wachokowsky. David’s chest thumped along on its unsteady drumbeat as he calculated his next move—a cheeky thought. He could be a professor for twenty minutes, just enough time to get out of the airport as fast as possible. He could tackle the case of mistaken identity closer to the city and his meeting. He affixed his brightest smile and beelined for the driver, who returned the smile before he resumed his visual search over David’s shoulder.

  It wasn’t going to work.

  David strode through the double doors of the terminal and into a thick curtain of humidity and heat. Long lines snaked their way toward the taxi stands. He reached for yet another antacid, his stomach churning and his mind ablaze. Sweat trickled down his back under his shirt and pooled at his belt line. If the cab’s air-conditioning wasn’t working, the ride would make the melting worse. Much worse. The limousine ride was supposed to help him arrive cool and collected. Nothing screamed desperation during a corporate presentation like someone sweating bullets.

  Why was there no car?

  Another dozen black bags dawdled past as Gillian tottered on tiptoes. A light-blue bag sailed by, defiant in its individuality. I wish I’d bought blue instead of black.

  Becky shouted over her shoulder from her hard-won place at the carousel. “What color is your bag, Gilly?”

  “Black.”

  “Of course. Only about a thousand black bags are coming off your plane.” Becky’s hand-on-hip pose threw Gillian back to years of childhood lectures about dolls or boys . . . or breathing. “That’s why I always travel with my pink luggage. You should think about getting some.”

  Gillian breathed deep. Guilt about not coming to see her sister had dripped into her emotional tank for two years, but the past five minutes had pulled the plug.

  “May I help with your baggage?” Gillian jumped at the voice that appeared at her shoulder. A young man in a navy-blue Baggage Services cap smiled at her.

  “My sister’s getting it at the moment.” Gillian couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. “But thanks for asking.”

  “If you need help with your baggage, just let me know.” The young man tipped his cap, black, curly hair springing free. He spun his cart and melted back into the crowd.

  Becky bellowed over her shoulder. “How will I know which one is yours?”

  “Red baggage tags.” Gillian’s voice bounced back to her from the emptying claim area.

  “I’ve got frequent flyer tags that make a huge difference. They saved me about an hour when we went to Maui.”

  Gillian’s phone beeped. A text from Rick. A chance to drop out of her sister’s orbit for a moment. Hi, gorgeous. Hope you had a good flight. The boys all got off to school okay, although James lost his gym bag. By now you’ll have had your ear chewed off by Becky. Lucky you’ve got two! Bail you out when we arrive. R xx.

  “I’ve got it!” Becky swung a black suitcase from the carousel and almost decapitated a young boy sitting next to his tiny backpack. She charged past Gillian, her phone stuck to her ear as she squeezed through the crowd toward the exit. “Come on. I’ve got to get my designs to the florist.”

  Gillian fell in behind her sister, eight years old again. And, like in her childhood, it wasn’t long before Becky’s long legs left Gillian behind. She pushed her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose and sped up as fast as her short legs would carry her. She dodged carts—and children who were escaping their parents’ clutches to make a break for freedom. A flash caught her eye; an animated billboard drooled over the latest Audi and promised the same reaction from Gillian’s friends if it were parked in her driveway. As if that would ever happen.

  Becky swung around and walked backward. “Hurry, Gilly!” she barked, and then she turned around to again charge away, her long gait cutting a swathe through the crowd.

  Gillian hefted her carryall onto her shoulder. Becky was almost at the exit, and Gillian raced after her, the old thoughts returning like unwelcome housemates. If only I had legs like hers.

  A gap at the carousel opened for Michael as the crowd thinned.

  A light-blue suitcase sailed past him in a sea of black baggage. Another anxious thought jumped unbidden into his mind—the curse of any traveler enduring the agonizing wait at an airport carousel. I hope my suitcase arrives. He couldn’t prove his athletic wares without his running spikes, and he couldn’t impress the faculty at the art school without his drawings.

  Michael had emerged from Dad’s car at the airport with the obligatory micromanaging lecture ringing in his ears: carry your training gear with you just in case. His seventeen years had taught him arguing with his father was pointless, so he had perfected the interested nod while mentally stepping away.

  The light-blue bag began a third lap of the carousel. Still no sign of Dad’s red baggage tags.

  As he had watched his father drive away, the slightest rebellion swelled within him, and he put his running spikes in his suitcase before checking it. But now,
as the wait stretched, that rebellion cast a long shadow over him, and the point he wanted to make pecked at his already frayed nerves. If his suitcase was lost, even for a while, he would miss out on the scholarship and once again hear about how he didn’t measure up. But worse, he’d lose his design portfolio forever if his suitcase were permanently lost. Why hadn’t he carried it with him?

  A black suitcase with a flash of red around the handle twisted and danced as it entered the belt. Thank goodness for that. Michael checked his phone. He still had time to get a cab and have a few minutes up his sleeve before the interview with Coach Crosswell. He excused his way through the thinning throng as he edged along the carousel toward his suitcase.

  The whirs and chirps of R2-D2 burst from his phone. A text. Dad. I’ve checked Google Maps, and you should have a good run to the university. Traffic looks good.

  Michael toyed with the need to respond and settled on the path of least resistance. With a sigh, he thumbed his reply—thanks—and then slung the suitcase off the carousel.

  A young man in navy-blue overalls and cap emblazoned with a Baggage Services logo appeared in front of him. “Morning, sir. Would you like help with your baggage?”

  Michael looked over first one shoulder and then the other. Sir? Who is this guy talking to? Oh well, it would be a shame not to take advantage of a fleeting feeling of importance.

  “That would be great. I’ll take a cart if you have one.”

  The young man stood aside to reveal a shiny silver cart. “It’s all yours, sir.” He hefted Michael’s suitcase onto the cart with effortless ease and spun it toward the exit. He bowed with a smile. “I’ve been dealing with baggage for many years.”

  Years? This guy looked thirty. If that.

  “Where can I get a cab?”

  The young man pointed to the far end of the terminal.

  “Thanks for your help.” Michael pushed the cart toward the wall of people outside the door, but it had other ideas. One of its four wheels was now keen to explore its own path, and Michael leaned hard to keep the cart heading toward the taxis, throwing apologies left and right as his erratic charge ran into the backs of legs and small children.

  The doors slid open, and Michael walked into an oven. He joined the back of a taxi queue full of sweaty, impatient travelers inching their way forward. R2-D2 whistled again in his pocket and he wrestled out his phone.

  Dad.

  Again.

  I’ve uploaded footage of your last five races and emailed Coach Crosswell. Don’t forget to mention it, Mikey.

  Mikey—a name he’d outgrown long ago but his father insisted on using, keeping him tethered at eight years of age. Michael inched forward in the heat. No “Good luck.” No best wishes. Just more orders.

  Another buzz. Michael wrestled with the idea of ignoring it but again knew it wasn’t worth it.

  Remember: the future belongs to those who believe in their dreams.

  If he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that from Dad while he was growing up, he could buy his own art gallery. A sly question slunk its way into his mind, a question he resented more and more.

  What if the dream isn’t yours?

  4

  David corralled his nerves and forced them into one knee, which bounced an erratic dance as he sat in the reception area of Sisyphus Financial’s top floor. He wriggled his shoulders to unstick the shirt from his back and wiped his brow with a damp handkerchief.

  Why was there no car?

  On his last trip, the company president had welcomed him, the company’s rising star, with open arms into his office for brunch and champagne. This time he’d received a polite but firm request from the receptionist to wait to be called, and she was doing everything she could to not look at him. His knee hammered away as the sweat dripped down his back and seeped into his suit. His body screamed at him to remove his jacket so it could access the cool crispness of the corporate air-conditioning, but the circles under his arms wouldn’t help him paint the calm and confident picture he needed.

  Why was there no car?

  Above David’s head, a TV screen pumped out 24/7 business news. “And in this ever-competitive market, unemployment numbers are up again by another 2 percent, which could spell devastating losses and provoke carnage across job markets.” The reporter delivered this serious pronouncement on the economy as if beaming in live from a war zone. “But it will increase corporate profits by at least 15 percent, so improved dividends for shareholders will be welcome news.”

  He couldn’t lose his job. He’d slugged out eighteen-hour days for months to keep it, to keep his family happy. Sure, he hadn’t been around much, but he had to provide for them. The voices that complained he was never around were the same ones asking for better furniture, better clothes, better toys . . .

  The nerves escaped David’s knee, and he fidgeted on a squeaky leather couch lubricated by his telltale sweat. He again ran through the introduction to the pitch that would save his career. He breathed deep in a desperate attempt to force away the tension.

  Julian Sporne, the regional director and David’s boss, stepped into the reception area with an extended hand. His crisp Armani shamed David’s creased and damp off-the-rack suit. “Morning, David. A good flight up?”

  David? What happened to Dave? David’s stomach lurched at the more formal greeting his boss offered. “Okay. I’ve done it enough times, as you know. Bit bumpy on the way down. New suit?”

  No familiarity showed in Julian’s eyes, and he offered none of the usual banter—just a stiffness, a distance from a guy who had hit the town as hard as David on each visit. David stared hard at him, analyzing him to find a reason.

  Julian wiped the greasiness from David’s handshake onto his pants. “You’re sweating a bit. Nervous?” Then he displayed a stone-faced expression, and another pause, pregnant with unasked questions and answers not volunteered, sat between them.

  David shot another look at the receptionist, who turned away. “Look, call me paranoid, but last time there was a car waiting for me at the airport. Not today.”

  Julian flicked a glance at the receptionist, who stared at her screen with even more intensity.

  Uh-oh.

  Julian looked over David’s shoulder at the stock market coverage on the TV. David moved his head into Julian’s eyeline. “Should I read anything into that?”

  “Let’s head into my office so you can get ready for your presentation.” Julian stepped back and held open the glass door as he gestured David through.

  David’s mind raced as he dragged his black suitcase toward Julian’s office. But Julian kept walking down the corridor, and David flung open Julian’s office door to an unfamiliar face.

  “Hey!” A young woman in a serious corporate power suit looked up from where Julian’s desk once stood. “May I help you?”

  Julian clamped a hand on David’s shoulder. “They’ve moved my office. I’m in the corner suite now. This way.”

  David followed Julian, this new development opening an escape hatch. Corner suite? A promotion for his boss was a good sign. The whole division must be doing well. Comfort settled over his anxiety like a fluffed quilt falling onto a bed.

  He stepped into Julian’s office and whistled as he took in the 90-degree view of the city, framed by huge windows. Rich leather furniture grazed under a collection of sports memorabilia plastered across one wall. To his right, a bittersweet aroma drifted across from a gleaming coffee machine.

  The young woman in the corporate power suit poked her head through the doorway. “They’ll be ready for the first presentation in twenty minutes, Mr. Sporne.” He nodded.

  As Julian sat down behind his desk, David eased into a leather guest chair and took in the scope of his boss’s new corporate digs. The tension in his shoulders eased and the sweat on his brow evaporated in the crisp air. He sat back, his hands laced behind his head. “This is great! I thought I was coming here to justify why my branch shouldn’t be closed. If you’ve got a
new corner suite, our division must be flying.”

  Julian steepled his fingers under his nose and took a moment before responding. “Yes, about that . . .”

  David stretched and rubbed his hands together. “This is great to see. While this year wasn’t our best, once the board sees some of the new initiatives I’ve got planned for next year—”

  “They’re not keen on new initiatives.” Julian stared over his fingertips at David, his voice an almost sinister monotone. “They’re keen on seeing why you should continue the current ones.”

  Continue? David tried a well-practiced approach with a proven track record. “Come on, Jules. We’re friends, aren’t we? How long have we known each other? Ten years?”

  If flattery was art, David was Picasso. But today Julian was no art lover. He nodded, his eyes like cold, dead fish.

  “And we’ve had some great nights out on the town.” David chuckled at the memory. “Do you remember the last trip six months ago? When we went to that bar—”

  Julian leaned forward on his elbows, now boss and not fellow drinker. “You’ve got to understand these decisions today aren’t being made around length of friendships. We’ve got to streamline our business to squeeze out some extra profits. What you need to do is provide some financials that show why we should keep your branch open.”

  One word snagged in David’s mind. We. He snatched at other options as the flattery—which always worked, always—fell flat, and Julian removed his trump card from the table.

  “David, I need to close ten branches across the country.”

  David lurched forward and gripped the arms of the chair. “Ten branches?”

  “I need to meet an expenses reduction target of 15 percent, so I need to cut back—”

  “Cut back?” David flushed and waved his hand around the room, his voice rising a notch. “Does closing ten branches cover the cost of your new office? The sports memorabilia? The coffee machine? How many branches is all that worth?”

  Julian didn’t rise to the bait. “There’s no need to be like that. You’ve got forty-five minutes to convince us your branch shouldn’t be one of those ten. If your presentation is good, you’ll survive. You have the same chance as the other branch managers presenting today.”