Ghosts on a Plane

  Ghosts On A Plane

  M.L. Bullock

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2017, 2020 (as revised) Monica L. Bullock

  Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design

  http://jcalebdesign.com / jcalebdesign@gmail.com

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  Version 1.10 June, 2020

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64202-954-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64202-955-0

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the ghosts of Mt. Perry, Ohio.

  Thank you for the many sleepless nights, the sounds of footsteps, and especially the surprises.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Never Dead from M.L. Bullock

  Author Note

  The Seven Sisters Cottonwood Omnibus Edition

  Meet the Author

  Other Books By M.L. Bullock

  Other LMBPN Publishing Books

  1

  Bonnie Overton

  After a half-dozen false starts and stops, I arrived at the Courtney Fields Airport, ready to tackle and defeat my innate and life-limiting fear of flying. I tapped my fingers on my pleather steering wheel cover, waiting for the parking garage arm to rise and let me in. While I waited, I skimmed through my mental checklist of why I had settled on this airport rather than the busier and newer regional facility that was closer to my apartment.

  Because the safety rating here is higher.

  Because they have tighter security.

  Because they haven’t had a crash.

  God! Why am I thinking about plane crashes right now? This is exactly what my doctor warned me about.

  I dug around in my denim blue cargo bag for my anxiety medication. Should I go ahead and pop one now or stick to the plan and wait until I’ve boarded? Tamping down my nerves might be just what the doctor ordered, but with a sigh, I decided against it. Dropping the pill bottle into my bag again, I leaned back against my seat. I had to fly. I had no choice. I needed to take on my demons sober, not powered by Xanax-fueled bravado. I pep-talked myself in the rearview mirror. “You can do this, Bonnie.” I smiled at myself as if I meant it.

  Well, at least I didn’t look half-bad today. I had taken the time to put on makeup to play up my dark blue eyes and tidied my chocolate-brown hair this morning. I wore my tortoiseshell hair clip, an heirloom gift from my mom. It had belonged to my grandma before her, but it was mine now. How I miss you, Mom and Grandma Minnie! What would they say about my fear of flying?

  “Get it in gear, Bonnie! You come from a long line of women who aren’t afraid of anything!” That’s what Minnie would have said, and I would have listened to her. She’d been larger than life. When she died ten years ago, she’d left a big hole in our lives.

  Minnie would tell me to sit up straight and get on with it, but it wasn’t her talking to me now, only my imagination. I didn’t believe the ghosts of my lost loved ones could see me, hear me, or know I was about to embark on a significant journey. Minnie, who had been a woman of faith, wouldn’t have approved of my lack of belief in the afterlife. I still wore the crucifix pendant I inherited from her. I wanted to believe. Maybe it would help.

  I frowned at my reflection. I’d gotten a bit heavy-handed with the eye makeup today. I rubbed my eyeliner, trying to remove some of it. Definitely went too dark on the eyeshadow, but I couldn’t do anything about that now beyond patting it with a tissue.

  Smiling one more time at the mirror, I continued to wait for the automated entry bar. Maybe this is a sign? I should go home! What was the deal with this parking garage? I nudged the car up a bit, and the arm finally swung upward. Just in time too, because a Mercedes pulled in behind me. Boy, he was rocking those tunes. Who was that? Motley whoever? Easing my car up, I grabbed a ticket from the machine and found a parking spot, quickly getting out of the way of Mr. I-Like-It-Loud behind me.

  Geesh, for a small airport, this place had a ton of passengers. Keep moving, Bonnie. Don’t think about it too long, keep moving!

  I knew myself well enough to know that if I lingered too long outside the terminal, I’d change my mind about this trip, and that wasn’t an option. I was going home, even if it killed me. This flight was the last one for the weekend. I had to make this one, or I’d miss my chance to be with my sister and welcome my niece into the world. Amy had decided she’d name the baby Minnie, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Mom would approve too, I was sure.

  I had known this day would come eventually, but I hadn’t expected to get the call this morning. Then again, babies don’t follow schedules or use time clocks. Amy’s first child was knocking on the door of the world; my little sister was having contractions. I should have made this trip earlier in the week. This would be a short flight, only a couple hours of airtime, but a sense of urgency, or something, grew within me.

  I pulled my luggage out of the trunk and snatched the handle, but the darn thing wouldn’t budge. My brand-new suitcase refused to cooperate. The handle jammed, and no amount of tugging or swearing would force it to pull up.

  Great. My luggage doesn’t want to make this flight either.

  With an exasperated sigh, I carried the heavy load by the side handle and walked into the airport sweating and puffing. I’d never been one to go to the gym or think about fitness. I decided after this, if I lived, I might have to at least take up yoga. My upper body woefully lacked strength. A blast of air-conditioning greeted me, and I breathed in the chilly air. Goodness, this suitcase was heavy. I had overpacked, but I’d made it.

  I didn’t approve of Amy’s choice of home birth, but I’d had no say in the matter. What if something went wrong? Who on earth had a home birth nowadays? After watching those “having a baby” shows, I’d never endure childbirth without painkillers. But that was typical of my sister—always unconventional. Always brave, even when she didn’t have to be. Unlike me.

  I stood a little way from the counter and surveyed my surroundings. This airport was just like I remembered it from my many practice runs. I should know this place by heart now. I’d been here three times in just the last month, and it was at this point when I’d always gotten weak in the knees before. My plans to go home for fall vacation to help my sister prepare the nursery hadn’t worked out. She’d been so excited to share her news with me. I’d intended to go then, but in the end, I’d left the airport without reaching the counter. I had called Amy, making up a lame excuse about being sick and arriving too late to board the plane, none of which
she believed. Escaping to the safety of my sparse apartment, I sat in the dark and drank away my guilt. Mind you, I wasn’t an alcoholic, but over the past few months, I’d found a few glasses of wine helped me cope with the prospect of traveling. Or thinking about traveling.

  But I had not drunk a drop today. My mouth felt dry just thinking about it. Focus, Bonnie. I didn’t need wine anymore. I’d found an amazing therapist, Dr. Jill Kennedy. We’d connected, and I found myself trusting her after just one session.

  What a stroke of luck to have found her. Our therapy sessions had brought sanity and hope back into my life, and I would be eternally grateful to her for that. As I pondered my next move, I recalled one of our first conversations.

  “Those dreams—the dreams of plane crashes—are merely symbols, Bonnie. I know it feels real, and I believe you can smell the burning rubber and feel the heat from the fire, but let’s set that fear aside for a moment and look at this rationally. Symbology is a powerful thing. It’s a unique language that our subconscious understands. We have to interpret these symbols correctly to understand what our mind is telling us. Let’s start by talking about your relationships.”

  After months of sessions, my fear of flying had become a tamable beast. Then again, it was easy to avoid hopping a jet. I didn’t need to fly to go to the bookstore or the market or work. Thank goodness I did not have a debilitating fear of elevators. That would have totally screwed up my life. I lived on the third floor of a five-floor apartment building and worked on the fifth floor of the Kimberly-Blake building. No flying required. A daily bus trip and a brisk walk from the bus station to work and back to the apartment.

  But this fear of flying had kept me from Amy. Even worse, it had kept me from saying a proper goodbye to Mom. Plagued by intense nightmares about plane crashes and death, I hadn’t made the flight home after she died, and there was no way I could drive there. Rachel Island didn’t have a bridge, which seemed like a huge oversight to me. But it did have a small airport.

  I’d called Mom a week before she died. I’ll never forget that conversation. It was as if she knew; as if she had some premonition that she would leave us soon. In that last phone call, she expressly asked me to take care of Amy.

  “Be a big sister to her, a good sister. Take care of one another. And remember, I love you, Bonnie Jean.”

  I’d promised, of course, but how was I supposed to know Mom would die so soon and with so much unsaid between us? I hadn’t been there for her when Minnie died, or when Dad had decided to have his Golden Years mid-life crisis and leave her for his late friend’s much younger widow.

  After her death, the nightmares intensified, and the faces in my dream became clearer to me. There was a horrible old man with slick gray hair and pale lips, and a little girl with dark brown hair who held my hand and led me into a thick fog. I was no artist, but I tried to sketch the dream’s characters to prove to my doctor that they were real people, not symbols of repressed feelings about Mom’s death or Dad’s abandonment. Dr. Kennedy wasn’t impressed with my artwork but continued her quest to “uncover my unique dream symbology.” I got tired of arguing with her. Perhaps she was right.

  “What do you think those burning tires and flames mean, Bonnie? Who are those people? What do they represent?”

  I had no idea, and I believed my doctor didn’t either, even six months in. But Dr. Kennedy was convinced that all would be revealed if I made this journey to Rachel Island. Visiting my hometown would be good for me, and Amy was there, ready to start a family of her own. Could I live with myself if I let my sister down again? I’d had so many false starts. I’d missed Christmas and Easter. Three years—that’s how long it had been since I’d seen her face. I had almost forgotten what Amy looked like. Thank goodness for social media and Facetime.

  As I hovered at the back of the line at the ticket counter, I squeezed the small metal airplane in my pocket. I’d picked it up off the sidewalk outside my apartment building weeks ago. It probably belonged to the little boy who lived in 16 F, but I’d kept it as a sign that all would be well. I had every intention of returning the toy to the toddler upon my return. Bonnie Jean Overton didn’t steal from children. I’d give it back. If I returned.

  What are you doing, Bonnie? Stop sabotaging yourself with those negative thoughts!

  I rubbed my fingers over the metal like it was a lucky rabbit’s foot or something. Conjuring up everything I’d learned about flying, the law of lift, the science of engineering, and the requirements for a pilot’s certification, I settled my troubled mind again. I was not floating away in some haphazard air balloon with no specific destination. Quite the opposite. Everything about this flight was deliberate and organized. What I did today, taking this flight, was no different from what millions of other people did, flying safely across this country to around the world every day. There was nothing magical about it, and the airline industry left nothing to chance. I knew exactly how it all worked and where every closet, bathroom, and exit was located on this plane. Dr. Jill had been right: with knowledge came empowerment.

  You only have to do this once, Bonnie Jean. Just once and then it’s back home. Amy can bring the baby to see you when she’s older.

  That idea comforted me.

  “Good morning! Welcome to the Courtney Fields Airport. May I help you get to your destination?” Where had the perky airline hostess come from? Wearing carefully applied lipstick and red high heels, the attractive attendant smiled expectantly at me. “Are you on the final flight?”

  Final flight? That didn’t sound good. “I’m headed to Rachel Island. Has that plane arrived yet?”

  “Yes, about fifteen minutes ago. Boarding will start soon. Step to the counter, and I’ll check your bag. You have just the one?”

  “That’s right. This is my carry-on.” I clutched my denim cargo bag like a life preserver, but then again, it held all my flight survival goodies: Dramamine, eye mask, neck pillow, soothing essential oils. The blue-eyed attendant winked playfully at me. “I’ll take good care of you. I’m on this flight too.” She reached down for the handle of my luggage. Without an inkling of struggle, she popped the handle up and it slid out easily, as if it had never been jammed.

  “Wow, thanks. I couldn’t get the handle to work and had to lug it in.” I laughed nervously as I placed my ticket and driver’s license on the counter.

  “I have a way with these things since I handle so many. Let’s see, Bonnie Overton? Oh, yes, I’ve been expecting you. You have a window seat, don’t you?” She smiled again as she stared at her screen and got busy printing my boarding pass and luggage tags. Her faded gold name tag read Antoinette. I’d never met anyone with that name before, and I made a note of it because collecting names was kind of a hobby of mine. I’d write it down when I got on the plane.

  “No,” I answered, trying to focus on the boarding process and not the seven-hundred-ton deathtrap waiting for me on the tarmac, “I’m on the aisle.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid whoever made these reservations put you by the window. I don’t think I can change it now.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want a window seat.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure, Miss Overton. But after we board, if there’s a seat available on the aisle, you’re welcome to move.”

  With a sigh, I said, “I guess that’s all I can do. I have to make this flight.”

  With another friendly smile, or smirk, Antoinette handed me a boarding pass, and her pale fingers brushed mine momentarily. I couldn’t explain it, but her touch gave me the creeps. She didn’t appear to notice my discomfort. I clutched the counter as a wave of déjà vu rolled over me, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. Had I done this before? After wrapping the tag around the suitcase’s handle, she slung my ridiculously heavy suitcase onto the belt behind her as if it only weighed a few pounds instead of at least fifty.

  “That is it, Miss Overton. You are ready to roll.” She glanced up at the clock above her counter. “We will be boarding so
on.”

  “Great,” I said. The queasiness in my stomach continued. How in the world had I gotten stuck by the window? What a horrible idea! Antoinette appeared unconcerned and somewhat amused about it. I lingered at the counter, considering my options. Should I cause a stir? Ask for a manager? Nausea threatened to hit me even harder.

  “Do you need any further assistance, Miss Overton?”

  “Restroom?” I squeaked with my hand over my mouth. Oh Lord, don’t let me throw up in the terminal! She pointed a red fingernail toward the left side of the terminal.

  “Just over there. See you onboard, Miss Overton,” she said with another plastic smile. All I could think about was getting to the bathroom before I lost my breakfast.

  I barely made it.

  2

  Heath Blake

  I texted Rodney Thibodeaux, my late great-uncle’s lawyer, to inform him that the crates were loaded on the plane. It took only seconds to receive his terse reply.

  Excellent.

  I didn’t bother responding. The less conversation I had with Thibodeaux, the better. Rodney Thibodeaux had no human warmth in him or at least none that I could discern. Even though I had many character flaws, like lying and unfaithfulness in relationships and padding my résumé, if that would be considered a flaw, I liked warmth in a person. I liked the pretense of civility and friendliness, even if I intended to cut my competitor’s throat. When you’re in sales, you look for humanity in people, you connect with that humanity, and then you make the sale. People always wanted to know my secret for hitting all those sales bonuses and claiming the numero uno spot on the team year after year. That was it: finding and exploiting the target’s—I mean, the customer’s—humanity. Find it, and you’ve got the game. You’ll have a win.