The Stranger at Gate B17

Jim Mercer had been traveling through airports long enough to know that every one of them had its own personality, but they all seemed to share the same smell.

Coffee. Floor polish. Warm bread from somewhere nearby. And, beneath it all, the faint industrial scent of machinery, rubber, and jet fuel.

He stepped into Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport with his overnight bag hanging from his shoulder and stopped long enough to look toward the security signs.

At seventy-nine, Jim had learned not to hurry through airports. Hurrying accomplished two things: it made you sweat, and it gave you more time to sit at the gate.

He checked his phone.

Plenty of time.

The consulting job had gone well. Two days at a distribution warehouse reviewing loading procedures, forklift traffic, and a few safety problems the company should have corrected five years ago.

Jim had officially retired three years earlier.

Unofficially, apparently, retirement meant working fewer hours for more money.

He joined the TSA line.

A man perhaps twenty people ahead of him caught his attention.

Jim stared.

There was something familiar about him.

The man was about fifty, maybe a little older. Medium height. Lean without being thin. Dark hair with the beginnings of gray at the temples. He wore charcoal trousers, a pale blue shirt, and a dark jacket.

Nothing unusual.

And yet the jacket bothered Jim.

Not bothered exactly.

It was simply... different.

The lapels were narrower than the current style, but not unfashionable. There were no obvious seams around the shoulders, and when the man moved, the material seemed to move with him rather than fold.

Expensive, Jim decided.

The man wore a watch on his left wrist.

At least Jim assumed it was a watch.

It had a black face and a dark metallic band, but the case was unusually thin and slightly wider than a normal smartwatch.

The security line moved.

Jim lost sight of him.

Ten minutes later, Jim was putting his shoes, belt, phone and loose change into a gray plastic bin when he saw the man again.

He was at the conveyor directly ahead of him.

The stranger removed his jacket.

Then his shoes.

Then his belt.

Then he stopped.

A TSA officer pointed.

"Watch too, sir."

The man's hand went protectively to his wrist.

For just a second, his expression changed.

Jim noticed because he'd spent most of his career noticing things people hoped nobody would notice.

"Sir?"

"Of course."

The man removed the device carefully and placed it in the tray.

He watched it disappear into the scanner.

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Feels like they want everything but a blood sample these days."

The stranger looked back at him.

For the first time Jim saw his face clearly.

Something stirred in his memory.

The man gave him a tight smile.

"They're thorough."

"That's one word for it."

That got a genuine laugh.

They passed through security without incident.

On the other side, the stranger retrieved the watch before anything else and fastened it around his wrist.

Jim was busy fighting with his belt.

"Every year," Jim muttered, "this thing gets shorter."

The stranger glanced at Jim's waist.

"I don't think that's how belts work."

Jim looked up.

There was that smile again.

"Smartass."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No. Not really."

They laughed.

Then the flow of passengers separated them.

Jim headed toward the concourse.

He hadn't gone fifty yards when he smelled coffee.

"Now there's something worth standing in line for."

He joined the queue.

A moment later someone stepped in behind him.

"Apparently security didn't frighten you away."

Jim turned.

The stranger.

"Not before coffee."

"Reasonable."

Jim studied him again.

There was something about the eyes now.

The shape of the mouth.

The way one eyebrow rose slightly higher than the other.

Then the stranger smiled.

Jim's expression changed.

"Mark?"

The man's smile disappeared.

"I'm sorry?"

Jim stared at him.

"Mark?"

"I don't think so."

Jim blinked.

The face was wrong.

No—not wrong.

Different.

The hair was darker. The jawline a little tighter. There were fewer lines around the eyes.

But...

"Oh, hell. I'm sorry."

"No harm done."

"You look exactly like my son-in-law."

The stranger smiled again.

And there it was.

That smile.

"My God," Jim said. "You really do."

"Hopefully you like your son-in-law."

"Most days."

"Then I'll take it as a compliment."

Jim laughed.

They reached the counter.

Jim ordered coffee. The stranger ordered the same.

When they stepped away, Jim extended his hand.

"Jim Mercer."

The younger man shifted his coffee and shook it.

"Ethan."

"Ethan what?"

There was the slightest pause.

"Reed."

"Good to meet you, Ethan Reed."

"You too, Jim."

They walked toward the gates.

Jim checked his boarding pass.

"B17."

Ethan looked toward the signs.

"I'm headed that way."

They found seats across from a bank of windows overlooking the taxiways.

Jim dropped into one with a grunt.

Ethan sat beside him.

Jim glanced at the small black bag at Ethan's feet.

"That's all you're traveling with?"

"That's it."

"You're either extremely organized or wearing the same clothes tomorrow."

"Little of both."

Jim laughed.

"So what do you do?"

"Contract work."

"That covers a lot of territory."

"Defense contractor."

Jim looked at him.

"Doing what?"

"Systems integration."

Jim waited.

Ethan waited back.

"That's one of those job descriptions that explains everything and nothing at the same time."

"Pretty much."

"Wright-Patterson?"

"Sometimes."

"Military electronics?"

"Sometimes."

"Computers?"

"Sometimes."

Jim grinned.

"I see you've been trained not to answer questions."

"I integrate systems."

"There you go."

Ethan pointed at him.

"Exactly."

"So you're flying out?"

"Not today."

Jim glanced at the bag.

"Meeting somebody?"

"Something like that."

The answer was odd enough for Jim to notice but ordinary enough that he immediately forgot about it.

Above them, one of the televisions switched from a news panel to sports.

The anchor's voice rose over the airport noise.

"We're going live now to the fourth inning in Cincinnati, where the Reds have two on and two out—"

Jim and Ethan looked up at exactly the same moment.

Jim noticed that too.

"Baseball fan?"

"I like the game."

"Reds?"

Ethan tilted his hand from side to side.

"Not especially."

"Careful. You're in Cincinnati."

"I'll keep my voice down."

On television, the pitcher came set.

The batter fouled one back.

"Two and two," Jim said.

Ethan nodded.

The next pitch missed outside.

"Full count."

The crowd noise came through the little television speakers.

The pitcher delivered.

The batter slapped a grounder through the left side.

One run scored.

The second runner stopped at third.

Jim pointed toward the television.

"There you go."

Ethan leaned back.

"Doesn't matter."

Jim looked at him.

"What doesn't?"

"They'll strand him."

Jim looked back at the screen.

"You're pretty confident."

Ethan's eyes stayed on the television.

"If Ramirez gets on in the eighth, they'll win it by one."

Silence.

Ethan's expression changed.

Jim slowly turned toward him.

"The eighth?"

Ethan looked at him.

Then smiled.

"Just a hunch."

"That's a very specific hunch."

"I have those."

Jim chuckled.

"All right, Nostradamus. We'll see."

The broadcast went to commercial.

Soft piano music began.

A silver-haired couple walked hand in hand beside a lake while a golden retriever bounded happily ahead of them.

A warm voice said, "Don't let chronic inflammation keep you from the moments that matter. Ask your doctor whether Velunara may be right for you."

Jim groaned.

"Oh, here we go."

The smiling couple climbed into a canoe.

The voice continued at twice the speed.

"Velunara may cause nausea, dizziness, fatigue, muscle pain, joint stiffness, headaches, blurred vision, sleep disturbances or changes in appetite. Serious complications may include—"

Ethan laughed.

Jim looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The commercial continued cheerfully describing increasingly alarming possibilities while the couple paddled beneath a perfect sunset.

Jim shook his head.

"By the time they finish telling you what the medicine can do to you, you forget what it's supposed to cure."

"That's pretty much what my wife said."

"Your wife watches these?"

"My wife watches me."

Jim smiled.

"Ah."

"One of these commercials came on a few months ago. Different drug. Same parade of happy people followed by thirty seconds of impending death."

Jim laughed.

Ethan continued.

"They started listing symptoms. Fatigue. Muscle aches. Stiff joints. Some numbness. Trouble sleeping."

"And?"

"She looked across the room and said, 'That's you.'"

Jim chuckled.

"Sounds like my wife."

"I told her I was getting older."

"That's my diagnosis for everything."

"Mine too."

"But she didn't buy it."

"No."

"Smart woman."

"Annoyingly."

Jim sipped his coffee.

"So what happened?"

"I went in."

"Doctor?"

"Eventually."

"What did he say?"

"That ignoring something doesn't actually qualify as treatment."

Jim laughed.

"I don't like your doctor."

"Neither did I at that particular moment."

The television switched back to sports, but not baseball.

Two men were now playing table tennis with the intensity of mortal combat.

Jim watched for three seconds.

"Nope."

Ethan laughed.

The television faded into the background.

Jim rubbed his left shoulder.

Ethan noticed.

"Yours hurt?"

"Everything hurts."

"Seriously."

Jim hesitated.

"Shoulder sometimes. Legs. I get tired easier than I used to."

"How long?"

Jim gave him a suspicious look.

"You sure you're a defense contractor?"

"Absolutely."

"Because you've got a bedside manner developing."

"Occupational hazard."

Jim smiled.

"Six months, maybe."

"Been checked?"

"I have a physical every year."

"That's not what I asked."

Jim looked at him.

Ethan wasn't lecturing him.

That made the question harder to dismiss.

"I've been busy."

"That's what I said."

"And?"

"My wife made the appointment."

Jim nodded.

"Women."

"Yeah."

They sat quietly.

Then Ethan added, "Probably worth mentioning to your doctor."

Jim stared through the windows at an aircraft pushing away from the terminal.

"Probably."

Neither man said anything more about it.

A minute later the overhead speakers chimed.

"Delta Flight 2147 to Atlanta is now ready for boarding at Gate B17. We invite passengers requiring additional assistance to board at this time."

Jim looked at his phone.

"That's me."

He stood and lifted his bag.

Ethan rose with him.

"Good talking to you."

"You too."

Jim extended his hand.

Ethan reached for it—and stopped.

His right ring finger had curled toward his palm.

He frowned.

"Hold on."

Using his left hand, Ethan carefully pulled the finger straight.

There was a tiny pop.

Jim winced.

"Trigger finger?"

Ethan looked up.

"Yeah."

"I know that move."

Ethan flexed his hand.

"Annoying."

"My son-in-law has the same thing. Same hand too."

"Really?"

"Ring finger."

Ethan stared at him for perhaps half a second too long.

Then smiled.

"Small world."

As Ethan opened his hand again, Jim noticed a thin pale scar running along the base of the ring finger.

Surgery, perhaps.

Jim finally shook his hand.

"Take care of yourself, Ethan."

"You too, Jim."

"Maybe we'll run into each other again."

Ethan's expression softened.

"Maybe."

Jim started toward the boarding line.

"Safe travels," Ethan called.

Jim looked back.

"You're not traveling."

Ethan smiled.

"Figure of speech."

Jim laughed and disappeared into the line.

Twenty minutes later, Jim settled into 14A.

He fastened his seat belt, adjusted the air vent, put his bag beneath the seat and performed the collection of small rituals accumulated over several decades of flying.

Then he pulled out his phone.

He hesitated.

Ethan's words came back.

That's not what I asked.

Jim opened a video call.

His wife answered on the fourth ring.

"You're on the plane?"

"Hello to you too, Helen."

"Jim, they're going to tell you to turn that off."

"They haven't yet."

Her face filled the screen.

Behind her was their living room.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. Something funny happened."

"What?"

"I thought I saw Mark."

Helen frowned.

"Mark?"

"At the airport."

She laughed.

"You couldn't have."

"I'm aware of that now."

"You sure?"

"I actually called the guy Mark."

"Oh, Jim."

"He looked exactly like him."

"Jim."

"I'm serious."

Helen turned.

"Mark!"

Someone answered from outside the camera's view.

"What?"

"Come here."

Their daughter, Laura, appeared first.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey, sweetheart."

Then Mark stepped into view behind her.

Jim stared.

Mark was perhaps fifty-three. His hair was lighter than Ethan's, with more gray around the temples. There were deeper lines beside his mouth.

But the resemblance was extraordinary.

Especially the smile.

Mark lifted his right hand.

It was wrapped in a bulky white bandage.

"How was Cincinnati?"

Jim stared at the bandage.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Finally had that trigger finger fixed."

Jim sat very still.

"When?"

"This morning."

Helen said, "That's why they're here. He's recuperating."

Mark raised the bandaged hand.

"Doctor says I'll be playing piano by next week."

"You don't play piano."

"Then recovery may take longer."

Laura rolled her eyes.

Jim smiled, but his mind was somewhere else.

Helen noticed.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Jim."

"The guy at the airport had trigger finger."

Mark laughed.

"Half the men my age have trigger finger."

"Same finger."

"So?"

"Same hand."

"Jim."

"I know."

Helen studied her husband through the screen.

Then Jim said, "He told me something else."

"What?"

"He'd been having some health problems. Tired. Aches. Stiffness. Couple other things."

Helen's expression changed.

Jim continued.

"Some of it sounded familiar."

"How familiar?"

"Familiar enough."

Laura stepped closer.

"Dad?"

Jim raised a hand.

"I'm fine."

Three people on the screen gave him exactly the same look.

Jim sighed.

"All right. When I get back, I'll call Dr. Harrison."

"When you get back?" Helen asked.

"Yes."

"You'll actually call?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

Jim looked toward the airplane window.

Outside, a baggage cart moved away.

"Promise."

A flight attendant's voice came over the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please place your mobile devices in airplane mode as we prepare for departure."

Helen smiled.

"There's your cue."

"Apparently."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

"Call me when you land."

"I will."

Jim looked at Mark once more.

"Take care of that hand."

Mark raised the bandage.

"Yes, sir."

The call ended.

Jim switched the phone to airplane mode.

Outside, the aircraft began to move.

On the top level of the long-term parking garage, Ethan Reed watched the plane taxi toward the runway.

The evening air was warm.

Up here, the airport sounded different.

Distant engines.

Wind.

The faint roar of an aircraft lifting into the sky.

Ethan stood alone.

His small black bag rested beside his feet.

A vibration touched his wrist.

He looked down.

The black face of the watch illuminated.

A woman's voice came from it.

"It's time for you to come home."

Ethan watched Jim's aircraft turn toward the runway.

"I know."

A pause.

Then the voice said, "Ethan."

He smiled.

"I'm coming."

He raised his wrist.

"Visual mode."

The air above the watch shimmered.

A rectangle of pale light formed above his hand, no larger than a paperback book.

The image sharpened.

A woman appeared.

Laura.

Older than the Laura Jim had just seen on his phone.

Not dramatically older.

But enough.

There were silver threads in her hair now and fine lines around her eyes.

Ethan smiled.

"Hi."

"You took longer than expected."

"I got distracted."

"By what?"

"Someone."

She studied his face.

"You found him."

"I didn't exactly have to look."

"Did he see you?"

Ethan laughed quietly.

"He called me Mark."

Laura closed her eyes.

"Oh, Ethan."

"It was all right."

"Was it?"

"Yeah."

Behind her came the clatter of something hitting a table.

A man's voice complained.

"That's not where that goes."

A woman answered.

"It absolutely goes there."

"It blocks me."

"That's the point."

Ethan smiled.

"How's your father?"

Laura turned the projection.

At a kitchen table sat Jim Mercer.

Older.

Yet unmistakably Jim.

Across from him sat Helen.

A board game was spread between them.

Jim stared suspiciously at the board.

"You've been holding that piece for five minutes."

Helen looked innocent.

"I'm thinking."

"You're cheating."

"Thinking isn't cheating."

"The way you do it is."

Laura turned the image back toward herself.

"He's fine."

Ethan watched them for another moment.

"He'll make the appointment."

Laura nodded.

"I know."

"You always said that was the day."

"It was."

Ethan looked toward the runway.

Jim's plane accelerated.

For several seconds it seemed too large and heavy ever to leave the earth.

Then the wheels lifted.

The aircraft climbed into the evening sky.

Ethan watched until it became another set of lights among dozens.

Laura's voice softened.

"Come home."

Ethan looked at her.

"I'll be home in a little while."

He ended the connection.

The holographic image folded into itself and vanished.

For a moment Ethan stood alone beneath the open sky.

Then he reached into the black bag.

He removed a small silver packet.

It looked like an ordinary cleansing wipe.

He tore it open.

The cloth inside was cool and damp.

Ethan drew it slowly across his forehead.

The skin beneath changed.

Not dramatically.

There was no flash of light.

No grotesque transformation.

It simply relaxed into what it had actually become.

Lines appeared across his forehead.

The dark hair at his temples faded toward gray.

He wiped beneath one eye, then the other.

Crow's-feet emerged.

He passed the cloth along his jaw.

The firm skin loosened slightly.

The face looking back from the dark reflection of his watch was still Ethan.

Still recognizable.

But he was no longer fifty.

Not even close.

He wiped the last trace from his neck.

Then he flexed his right hand.

The ring finger caught.

Ethan smiled.

"Some things never change."

He reached into his back pocket and removed another device.

To anyone watching, it might have looked like an unusually thick phone.

Ethan touched the screen.

Nothing happened.

He touched it again.

Behind him, a point of blue light appeared.

It expanded silently.

A circle.

Three feet.

Five.

Seven.

The air inside the ring shimmered like moonlight reflected on deep water.

Ethan picked up his bag.

He looked once more toward the empty stretch of sky where Jim's airplane had disappeared.

"Good talking to you, Jim."

Then Ethan turned toward the blue light.

He stepped through.

For the briefest instant, the surface rippled around him.

Then he was gone.

The ring contracted.

Seven feet.

Five.

Three.

A single point of blue.

And then nothing.

Only an empty parking garage.

The wind moved across the concrete.

Far below, another boarding announcement echoed through Gate B17.