Critical Conditions

Thirty-eight

I woke without my alarm the next morning, feeling an unfamiliar confidence that triumph and tragedy had finally traded places and that life was about to resume its usual precarious balance. I drove to Children’s early, met briefly with Merritt, dictated a discharge summary, and signed Merritt’s discharge order. Although I felt more hopeful about Merritt’s legal situation than I had since I’d seen the bloody clothes, I didn’t tell her about Andrew’s confession. The Boulder police had a lot of confirming to do. I would let Merritt’s Uncle Sam be the bearer of all those good tidings.

Sam arrived at the unit right when he said he would and squirreled Merritt out of the hospital through a side exit, successfully avoiding a crush of media that, to my dismay, had somehow been alerted to her pending discharge and who were intent on chronicling her journey to join her sister in Seattle. While I rushed back to my house to prepare for my flight to see Lauren, Sam drove his niece to the Trent home in Boulder and waited while she packed some things for her trip to rejoin her family.

Reluctantly, I had agreed to drive to the Denver airport with Sam and Merritt. Transporting patients to airports was an ethical quagmire I would rather not have waded into, but the discharge team had convinced me that Merritt needed chaperoning until she was safely in Seattle and I convinced myself that it would give me a good opportunity to observe Merritt and test out the wisdom of releasing her from the hospital.

With his wife gone, Sam was playing single parent to Simon, and Lucy had either volunteered or been cajoled by Sam into spending her day off accompanying Merritt the rest of the way to Washington. While Sam was getting Merritt home from the hospital, Lucy was watching Simon. Since she would need her car to get back from DIA after she completed her round trip that evening, Lucy and Simon were going to meet us at the airport.

Merritt and Lucy’s flight to Washington was scheduled to depart an hour and fifteen minutes before mine. I sat in the backseat of Sam’s car on the drive to the airport. The time I observed between Sam and his niece was playful and lighthearted, as they argued the relative merits of his love, hockey, and hers, basketball. Merritt finally agreed to go to an Avalanche game with her uncle, and I felt a stab of loss that I might not be accompanying Sam to any playoff games. Sam promised not to miss a basketball game next season at Boulder High. Watching the two of them banter, I realized these were the first jovial moments I recalled experiencing from the moment days ago that Lauren had received the phone call that her mother was sick.

We arrived at the airport a good hour before Merritt and Lucy’s flight.

I’d already recovered from all my initial annoyance with Denver International Airport. It is halfway to Kansas, there is no getting around that, but once you get there, the place works. DIA is attractive, spacious, and efficient. Every trip out there costs twenty extra minutes by car; every flight in or out saves at least that much aggravation. Every time I land at another airport I appreciate DIA more and more.

But in all my trips I had never checked a bag at DIA. My carry-on habit wasn’t a protest against DIA’s oft-maligned automated baggage system but was, rather, more philosophical. My feelings are this: if I can’t fit it in a carry-on, I figure I don’t need it. Merritt’s packing philosophy was a little more liberal. She was traveling with a duffel bag the size of a pregnant sow and a suitcase that didn’t have a prayer of fitting in the overhead compartment.

Sam pulled his car up to the curb of the check-in level on the United Airline’s side of the huge tented terminal so we could check Merritt’s bags. Lucy and Simon would meet us later in the train station down below the terminal. She figured Simon would enjoy watching the trains come and go.

A Skycap grabbed Merritt’s bags from Sam’s trunk and I waved Sam off to park the car. The Skycap perused Merritt’s tickets to discover her destination, and quickly attached computer-generated tags to her luggage. He placed the bags, one after the other, on a nearby conveyor belt and the luggage immediately disappeared into a rubber-toothed tunnel.

The baggage system at DIA is the stuff of local and national legend. Being a carry-on devotee, I’d never examined it up close before and was fascinated watching its humble curbside beginnings. This was, I decided, like viewing one of the headwaters of the mighty Mississippi.

“Where do they go?” I asked the closest Skycap, pointing at some disappearing suitcases.

“The bags? Down a floor. Underneath the terminal, there’s six big stations that collect bags from the curb, six more that collect bags inside at the ticket counters. Automated scanners read the tags to discover where the bags are supposed to be goin’, then they get loaded on these tele-cars, like little railroad cars you might see in a, you know, coal mine, and then it shoots ’em, the tele-cars, right down to your gate on tracks. More tracks down there than at Gran’ Central Station. The tracks go every which way for a while, then they all join in the middle of the terminal and scoot straight down a tunnel to the concourses. Those bags be in your plane before you’re off the train.”

“It really works?”

“You bet.”

“What’s that?” I pointed at a separate setup a few steps away. A large flat gray bin, maybe eight feet by four feet and a foot high, sat empty on a big stainless steel tray.

He smiled a toothy grin. “You recover your manners and get around to showing me some ’preciation for my help with the young lady’s bags, I’ll show you how it all works.”

I gave him five bucks and he placed another customer’s ski bag in the flat gray bin. “This one’s already tagged. These skis are going home to Omaha.” He punched a code on an adjacent keypad, a stainless steel door slid open, and a stainless steel cradle carried the gray tray in the same general direction Merritt’s bags had just traveled. A moment later, another empty gray tray automatically slid into the place of the one that was schussing the skis to Omaha.

He said, “Oversized bags, skis, golf clubs, and stuff like that go in those gray trays. I punch in a code. Elevator takes ’em down and puts ’em in the system. They get loaded on double cars and go right to the concourse.”

“Same system?”

“Same one. But the cars be different. They use big double tele-cars for these oversize bins. This stuff’s too big for the beige bins on the single tele-cars. But the same system.”

“And it really works?”

“God be my witness. It does.”

I realized I’d lost track of Merritt. I looked around and spotted her thirty or forty yards down the curb talking to someone whose back was to me. I thought it was a man. I started down the sidewalk to join her so we could go inside to find Sam and get in line to retrieve our boarding passes.

With his left hand, the man was pointing at a car, a recent-model, dark blue Lincoln Continental, that was idling beside them at the curb. His right hand was on Merritt’s back.

She took a step away-toward the terminal, not the car-and, with a quick move, he grabbed her arm. To me, it didn’t look like a friendly gesture, but she didn’t scream at first. A second later, though, she was mounting a vigorous effort to try to shake free. Failing, she looked my way. I knew what terror looked like when it was reflected in Merritt’s eyes, and I decided she was terrified right then, and I started to run toward her. My first thought was that the man was a particularly aggressive reporter who had somehow tracked Merritt to DIA.

I closed about half the distance and watched Merritt try to free herself from the man’s grasp with a violent shove to his chest. It didn’t work. Then she lifted her left foot and pounded hard on the man’s instep. He released his grip for a split second and she leapt backwards, sidestepping a large woman cradling a large child. The man recovered quickly and was no more than a yard behind her. Merritt saw him, and without hesitation dove headfirst into one of the big gray four-by-eight trays that carry oversize luggage into the automated baggage system. This one was just beginning its journey to the concourses. In addition to Merritt, that particular tray’s cargo was an aluminum tube almost a foot in diameter and five feet long.

Poof! In a blink, Merritt and the tube disappeared into the automated baggage system.

I wasn’t even sure the Skycap saw her go.

I yelled, “Hey!” or something equally incisive. The man who had been holding Merritt was struggling to be inconspicuous, but I was pretty sure I saw something shiny and metallic in his hand. Fearful that it was a gun, I yelled again, “Get down! Everybody get down!” Everyone, of course, looked my way-assessing me for signs of mental instability and for indications that I might be dangerous-but nobody got down, and the man who was after Merritt took advantage of the diversion I provided. He edged to the back of the group at curbside and lowered himself onto the conveyor that carried individual suitcases into the system. In a blink, he disappeared through a tunnel, in pursuit of Merritt.

Impulsively, I went after him but a Skycap had me by the ankles before I could get down the conveyor. Somebody asked if they should call for security and I allowed myself a moment of hope before I realized that the most likely target of security’s interest was me.

I stood up and said to the Skycap, “Okay, okay, listen. Two people just disappeared into the baggage system. A man is after a girl, a teenage girl. I think he might be armed. She’s in trouble.”

The Skycap had heard better stories recently. He made a sound like a pony neighing and said, “I didn’t see anybody go in, George, did you?”

George, the other Skycap, said, “Not me.”

A little girl, maybe six, maybe seven, stepped forward and raised her hand like a well-behaved schoolgirl. She said, “I did. I saw them. She went down that hole.” She pointed at the elevator with the big gray trays, then moved her outstretched arm in the direction of the conveyor. “And he went down that hole. There.”

I said, “Thank you.”

The next voice I heard was Sam’s. He was behind me. “Where is she, Alan?”

“Down there, Sam, the baggage system. Somebody’s after her with a gun.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, a man, I didn’t get a good look at him. White, my size. Brown hair, bomber jacket.”

Sam held out his badge and showed it to George. “Get us down there.”

The Skycap named George had his own idea. He asked me, “You want we should shut it all down? We can call, do that. One call and we can shut it all down.”

I had no idea what the consequences would be of shutting the automated baggage system down. Would it help Merritt get away, or would it make it easier for whoever was after her to catch her? Would the car she was in stop abruptly and throw her out of the bin she was in? I didn’t know.

I shook my head. “I don’t think we should do that. We don’t know what would happen. It might help the guy catch her. Where will she end up? The girl that went in the bin? If she stays in the tray, where will she go?”

A Skycap said, “That case she’s with was going to Dallas. Let me see, that’s gate B-35. If she stays in that tray, she’ll end up in the collecting station for oversize materials that’s on the west side of B Concourse.”

I said, “We have to go in after her, Sam.”

The Skycap said, “Can’t let you.”

Sam said, “Then look the other way.”

“Can’t.”

“You know who that girl is who that man is after? That’s Chaney’s sister. You know Chaney?”

“The sick girl? On the news?”

“Yeah. That’s her sister. She’s on her way to see Chaney in Washington and somebody’s trying to hurt her.”

George said, “Who are you?”

“I’m her uncle.”

George seemed to be pondering his options. He was bigger than Sam, but I was sure Sam could overpower him physically and force his way into the system. Unless Sam actually killed him, however, George would immediately pick up the phone and shut the system down.

George said, “Chaney, huh? B-35, Dallas? I’ll turn my back. You guys go down one at a time. I’m gonna deny this.”

“Wait. Sam, you go after him, the man who’s chasing Merritt. He’s in that part of the system with the suitcases. I’ll go after her, this way. This is where she went down.”

He nodded, said, “Go.”

I watched Sam climb onto the conveyor as I laid down in the bin. George punched some buttons on a nearby keypad and I felt a quick jerk as the tray slid into the elevator and fell rapidly about fifteen feet. When I came out of the shaft I was in a huge cavern of orange tracks mounted with dozens of individual tele-cars that were topped with beige plastic bins. The tele-cars zoomed above me and below me in a pattern that was befuddling. To my left, suitcases were being loaded automatically into the beige bins mounted on top of the tele-cars, and large arrays of laser scanners were reading the luggage tags and deciding where the tele-cars should go.

I saw Sam sitting Indian-style on a segmented conveyor, waiting his turn to be loaded into a beige bin on top of a tele-car. He was holding the luggage tag George had given him. George had already instructed the computer exactly where to send me and, with smooth acceleration, the big gray tray I was riding was loaded into a cradle that spanned across two of the tele-cars. With a rumble and a sudden swooosh, I figured I was on my way to join Merritt on Concourse B.

I flipped myself over to a prone position and looked back as Sam was being unceremoniously dumped into the awkward beige bin on top of a single tele-car. The bin was designed for a solitary suitcase and was way too small for Sam’s big body. He seemed to be trying to find a way to sit in the bin, but his balance was precarious. I lost sight of him as he laid back and the tele-car zoomed around a bend.

I’d seen all the news reports of the infamous baggage system on television and still found myself totally unprepared for the scale of the installation. It was immense. Tracks ran everywhere in this space that was the size of at least two high school gymnasiums. I thought to myself, This is one of six collecting stations?

As my double tele-car crossed toward the far corner, I scanned the huge room where we had started but couldn’t find any sign of Merritt or her pursuer. Or any workers. The system was totally automated; I couldn’t find a single technician monitoring the system’s progress.

Below me and behind me, Sam’s car was accelerating into the system. I heard him yell, “Oh, shit,” as his car migrated around a bend.

I laid back down and tried to clear my head. Who was after Merritt?

And why?

Denver International Airport is designed with one large central terminal and three separate concourses built in parallel at great distances from the main building and at great distances from each other. Our destination, Concourse B, was over half a mile away from the terminal and could only be reached by passengers via a subway system that runs in two wide tunnels beneath the tarmac.

That is, unless you happen to be impersonating luggage.

Parallel to the train tunnels are two service tunnels. These tunnels contain roadways for the electric carts that transport whatever baggage the automated system doesn’t. Above the roadways, suspended from the ceilings, are the tracks that shoot the baggage system tele-cars from the terminal to the concourses and back.

When Sam and I cleared the sorting area where we began our journey, we entered a cluttered interchange where our tele-cars slowed to merge with tele-cars carrying suitcases from the other sorting areas on the west side of the terminal. It was like entering a busy interstate at rush hour. I was about a dozen tele-cars ahead of Sam as we merged onto the main line.

Twice that far ahead of me was the man in the bomber jacket who was chasing Merritt.

He was looking forward, after Merritt. I couldn’t see her. I prayed that she was prone in her gray tray and that he couldn’t see her either. I was also hoping that George the Skycap had alerted Denver Police and that they would be waiting for Merritt whenever and wherever the system was planning on dumping her in Concourse B.

The man began to turn in his bin to check for pursuers. I dropped flat in my tray. Behind me, Sam didn’t have the same luxury; he couldn’t hide. He was overflowing the beige bin on his single tele-car like a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup.

And he was almost that vulnerable.

The man spotted him. Within seconds I knew my suspicions were correct. The man chasing Merritt did have a gun.

Shots echoed in the cement-walled chamber like an explosion in a pipe. Two blasts came from the direction of the man who was after Merritt.

One came quickly in return from Sam.

As the echoes died, the drones of the tele-cars on the tracks were the only sounds I heard.

The tracks made a sudden drop right then, going from straight and level to a thirty-degree decline, and the tele-cars picked up speed. The experience was not unlike an amusement park ride that was revving to terminal velocity. We were, I assumed, beginning our passage into the service tunnels on our way out toward the concourses. Without raising my head, I looked up behind me, silently counting the tele-cars that were appearing above and behind me on the sloping tracks.

I counted eighteen tele-cars before I stopped. I knew Sam was no longer riding in his beige bin.

My despair could have filled the terminal.

Twenty or thirty seconds later, I heard loud voices and my tele-car burst from below the terminal building. Looking down, I realized I was high above an intersection of roads. Below me were a cluster of electric carts and a group of about a dozen people on the tunnel roadway. In that instant, the tele-car I was riding crossed into the service tunnels, and I was now traveling on tracks that were suspended from the tunnel ceiling at least thirty feet above the cement roadway. I raised my head just enough to peek forward. The man in the bomber jacket was still in front of me. On a parallel track, tele-cars with empty bins zoomed past me in the opposite direction to return to the concourse to pick up fresh loads of luggage.

I guessed we were about halfway between the terminal and Concourse A when the man shouted something I couldn’t understand and fired another shot.

Merritt screamed so clearly I thought she was right next to me.

She was.

I raised my head and was astonished to see her in a gray tray traveling back toward me on the parallel track.

He fired again. I screamed, “Get down.”

Merritt shrieked again and yelled, “Help me.”

“How did-”

“It’s about to slow,” she said.

And it did. As we approached Concourse A, the tele-cars slowed so scanners could read the tags and divert any bags that were destined for the A concourse. I waited for a double tele-car to approach from the opposite direction, tried not to think about what I was doing, tried to time my leap, and jumped.

My timing was better than my strategy. I landed solidly in the approaching gray tray, not remembering that the tray was not actually attached to the tele-cars. My momentum caused the tray to begin to slide out of its steel cradle. I rolled hard against the opposite side and the tray seemed to hesitate before sliding down and finding its natural place. It thunked back into position.

“Merritt, are you okay? I made it. I’m behind you.”

“I’m okay. Who’s after me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alan, is that you?” The voice was Sam Purdy’s and came from the roadway down below. My heart leaped.

I yelled, “Sam, we’re heading back the other way, toward the terminal. Merritt and me.”

“What? Where is-”

“Don’t know.”

He yelled something else, but the cars had carried me out of range of his voice and I couldn’t understand him.