Lucky Strap

by Cori Lannam

Billy glanced up at the clock over the check-in desk. 7:30, and a long line of people snaked out behind him at the gate. If the 8 o'clock flight to Boseman was going to leave on time, they had to start boarding soon.

His gaze slid to the table by the gate. Three security personnel stood chatting; one of them turned in his direction, and Billy quickly looked away. His hand gripped the strap of his camera bag, and he forced himself to relax and drop it to his side. Then he twitched as the bag trilled conspicuously.

Two of the security people were looking at him now, although so were most of the people in line ahead of him. He scrabbled at the zipper, furious at himself for putting his cell phone in the camera bag, for using the camera bag in the first place. Too obvious, but he was superstitious, and the bag had his lucky strap.

He got the phone out. "Hello?"

"Where are you?"

Just what he needed: Alan Grant, world-famous for being a calming influence in any situation. "Atlanta."

"No problems in Costa Rica?"

Nothing that the sight of Benjamin Franklin hadn't been able to solve, but Alan didn't need to know about that. Not until everything was over, assuming Alan was still speaking to him at all. "Nope. Everything's fine. If we leave on time, I'll see you in a few hours."

"I'll be there. Can't have Dr. Brennan taking a cab."

Billy snorted. Getting his doctorate in the months after Isla Sorna had been a media event that Alan would never let him live down. A man in an airline uniform approached the gate and picked up the intercom handset. "We're about to start boarding, so I gotta go. Love you."

He hung up before he heard Alan's reply. The guy on the intercom was saying something about security measures and random pre-flight searches. Billy gripped his boarding pass tighter.

"We're pleased to board rows 31 through 60 at this time," the man finished. Billy picked up his duffel. He preferred sitting in the back of planes; it increased the odds of survival if a large carnivore tried to eat the front end.

The second woman in line got detoured to the security table, as did the teenager three people ahead of him. Then he handed his boarding pass and I.D. to the attendant, trying to calcuate his odds of getting pegged.

The man took a glance at his boarding pass and immediately gestured him to the side. "Sir, as part of FAA security policy, please step over to the table with your carry-ons."

Fuck. He bit his lip to keep from cursing out loud and managed a weak smile as he obeyed and slung his duffel onto the table. One of the security officers took his I.D. again. "This will take just a minute, sir."

"Of course." He watched as they went through his clothes and toiletries with practiced efficiency. Profiling, that's what this was, a young, single male coming in from the Third World, of course he was going to be searched, it was probably flagged on his ticket, and it was a miracle they hadn't gotten him at customs--

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your other bag. Please place it on the table."

He wanted to balk, but the man's tone left no room for negotiation. "Be careful," he said, slowly putting his camera bag in front of him. Next to him, another rubber-gloved employee was searching through a backpack belonging to a pretty brunette. Getting led off in handcuffs was going to be embarrassing. "It's extremely fragile."

"We take every precaution," the man said as though by rote. He unzipped the main compartment, then stopped, staring down into the bag.

"Ostrich eggs," Billy volunteered. It sounded lamer then when he had rehearsed it in Costa Rica. Ostriches didn't even come from Costa Rica, for God's sake.

"Ostrich eggs?"

"Yes." Not velociraptor eggs. Certainly not, that would be ridiculous. And dangerous. And illegal, very, very illegal.

The man picked up his license again and studied it for an agonizing moment. "I didn't know you had ostrich farms in Montana."

Billy managed a grin. "Not as many as in Texas, but we've got a few."

After another long moment, the man handed him back his license. "Have a good flight, Dr. Brennan."

"Thank you," Billy said automatically, trying not to show his shock, or the way his hands trembled as he rezipped the case.

His duffel was in the overhead compartment and he had settled with the camera bag on his lap by the time he remembered to put his license away. He was about to stuff his wallet back in his pocket when a cold feeling struck his stomach; he pulled his ID card back out and stared at it, then reached for his boarding pass. Nowhere on either document did it mention his title.

The engines whined to life and the seatbelt light turned on. He stared blankly at the flight attendant demonstrating safety procedures. Then he tilted his head back and closed his eyes with a ragged sigh, his fingers skating along the edge of his lucky strap.

END