Matt parked as far from the crash site as possible, not only to avoid getting mired in the mud but also to ensure he could sneak up on the scene. The tactic helped him get lead stories before, and with any luck, it would work this time, too.
He'd been on high alert since the call came in from Liam Wills, the editor who, according to his wife, showered and slept with his police scanner. "Phillips," he'd barked into the phone, "drop what you're doing and drag your sorry butt over to I-95." Liam's voice had that edgy "this is a headline story" quality to it, so Matt wasted no time dialing Mrs. Ruford. House phone pressed to one ear, cell phone attached to the other, he'd arranged for Harriet to stay with the twins while assuring Liam that he was on his way.
He'd spent nearly two hours on the interstate, observing, listening, grabbing a quote here and a radio transmission there, then headed over to the Patapsco. Now, wearing a thick brown Carhartt jacket and yellow reflective vest—the closest match to fire department gear he could find in the Cabela's catalog—he wished he'd kissed his sleeping sons' foreheads before leaving home. More than likely, he'd make it back before they woke up, but even if he didn't, it wouldn't surprise them to find their favorite sitter, cooking an old-fashioned country breakfast when they came downstairs. He'd packed their lunches and book bags after supper, same as always, and it wasn't like they'd know he hadn't said that final, quiet goodbye, but he'd know, and it ate at him. If he'd planned better . . .
Friends and family claimed he had a rabid case of OCD and followed the accusation with "you should see a shrink about that." Matt took it with good-natured ease because his Marine training taught him that a man can never be too prepared or too organized. He chucked his well-supplied rucksack behind a tree and scanned every face at the crash site. For his purposes, Matt needed a rookie, and they were easy to spot, thanks to overconfident "been here, done this a lot" expressions. He'd spent enough time, volunteering on SAR missions, to know that a true pro, having really done this a lot, looked a whole lot more tense and a little bit suspicious, especially of reporters. And who could blame them, considering how often they got the facts wrong?
He spotted a newbie on the fringes of the tree line, arms crossed and wearing his best "I'm calm and in control" frown. Matt sidled up and mimicked the younger man's stance. "Man. What a mess, huh?"
"Yeah, and weird." He shook his head. "I read Chicken Little to my kid, just this afternoon."
Matt picked up on the newbie's "things are falling out of the sky" parallel. "What in blue blazes happened?"
"I'm guessing mechanical failure, but—"
"Okay, Phillips," a gravelly voice interrupted, "assume the position." Sergeant Sam Norley stomped up, his size-fourteen police-issue shoes splattering muddy rainwater on both men's pants cuffs.
Matt grinned. "What's the charge this time?"
"How's 'impersonating a professional' sit with you?"
"You need some new material," he said, accepting the cop's hearty handshake. "So how goes it, Sam?"
"It goes." He gave the rookie a quick once-over. "I see you've met Matt Phillips, big-shot reporter."
"Don't know about the big-shot part," said the newbie, "but I knew he worked for the Sun. Saw him talking to Finley couple weeks back, when that truck got hung up on the Key Bridge." He said to Matt, "Austin says you two go way back, to before 9/11."
If this wasn't a "gotcha" moment, Matt didn't know what was. Caught, trying to pass himself off as a firefighter, then reminded of his days as a down-on-his-luck beat reporter in New York. The image of the smoking mountain of rubble that had been the World Trade Center flashed in his mind's eye, and he quickly blinked it away. Better to focus on the good times that happened before that awful day because God knew there weren't many afterward, for him or Austin. "Don't know who was dumber back then, him or me."
"From what I know," Sam said, smirking, "that'd be you."
Chuckling, the newbie laughed and stuck out his hand. "Name's Gibson," he said as Matt shook it. "Abe Gibson."
Instinct made all three men duck and press their hats to their heads as a helicopter hovered overhead, spotlighting the still-smoldering jetliner. "So what's the count?" Matt shouted over the roar of rotors.
"How long have you been here?" Sam asked.
" 'Bout ten minutes."
"Then you must've seen the ambos . . ."
Matt shook his head. "No, I came the back way, to save time."
Sam harrumphed. "Not enough time, then." He told Matt that so far, no one knew what had brought the plane down, but, by his estimate, a couple dozen people, pulled from vehicles that skidded into the crash site, were on their way to area hospitals. "Half dozen more were medevac'd to shock trauma, and that's just here at the river. Before the sun's up, I expect that number will triple on 95."
Triple, at least, Matt thought, remembering what he'd seen over there. He was wondering if his contact at the University of Maryland's R Adams Cowley Center was on duty when Abe said, "You really okay talking about all this in front of a reporter?"
Sam responded to a signal from a cop across the way. "Be there in two," he bellowed, holding up two fingers before facing Abe. "Matt, here, is good people. Most trustworthy reporter I know."
"Trustworthy and reporter don't even belong in the same sentence."
All three men turned toward the sultry female voice. Matt recognized her as Honor Mackenzie, who'd been featured on TV and in the papers for her work with search and rescue dogs. Twice, he'd seen her in person, too. The first time had been about a year after losing Faith, when he'd covered the collapse of a parking garage, and then about six months ago, after a construction trench gave way and buried two guys laying cable for Verizon. Both times, Liam had sent him to cover the cause of the cave-ins, not the rescues. And both times, Matt had to suppress guilt inspired by the feelings Honor had stirred. What kind of guy had thoughts like that so soon after losing his wife? Not a loving husband, for sure.
Yet here he stood, thinking them again.
Judging by the looks on Sam and Abe's faces, they felt the same way. Not that Matt could blame them. Honor was sure easy on the eyes. "Where's Rowdy?" he asked, mostly to change the subject.
"Back in the SUV," she said, but her attitude added, "Not that it's any of your business."
"Well," Abe said, backpedaling toward the river, "let's hope you won't need the dog."
Honor never took her wary eyes off Matt. "You've got some nerve, cowboy," she all but growled, "impersonating a first responder."
He'd run into plenty of people who aligned with the "reporters are scum" mind-set, but she had them all beat. By a long shot.
She took a step closer. "I read all about how you won an award for that piece about that slimeball who conned a bunch of old folks out of their life savings. I guess you got that story masquerading as a banker, huh?"
Matt was half tempted to defend himself by admitting he'd never written a word that couldn't be substantiated, even when his gut told him the unsubstantiated stuff was 100 percent true. But why waste his breath?
She crossed her arms. "So, does it work?"
He bristled a bit under her scrutinizing glare and hoped his stiff-backed posture would hide it. "Does what work?"
"You know, skulking around like a sewer rat in search of really good gore for your front page."
Maybe she'd been dumped by some slimy reporter. Or a slimy reporter had written something damaging about her. Later, he'd find out what had turned her into an unbridled reporter-hater. For now, he said, "I'm not fussy. Run-of-themill gore will do."
She rolled her eyes. The biggest, greenest, longest-lashed eyes he'd ever seen.
"Get this big goof out of here," she told Sam, "before he gets hurt. Or gets somebody else hurt." Halfway between where they stood and the river, she stopped. "Hey, Sam," she yelled, "I think you oughta arrest him. For impersonating a firefighter. Think writing about that'll earn him a Pulitzer?"
"Mmm-mmm-mmm," Sam said, shaking his head as she jogged back into the woods, "if I wasn't married, and old enough to be her father, and thirty pounds overweight . . ."
He laughed, cleared his throat, and didn't stop talking about the crash until Matt had scrawled pages of notes. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a donut, to show my appreciation?" He nodded toward the parade of TV news trucks and reporters, trying to penetrate the line of cops that kept them far from their story. "Ain't every day the paper beats 'em to something this big."
"Just keep my name out of it. Anybody wants to know what we were talking about, I'm gonna tell 'em you were pumping me for information about Mack," he said, heading back toward the jetliner, "and I said you're not good enough for her, no matter what anybody says."
No matter what anybody said? "Good way to pique a reporter's interest!" But he didn't have time to follow Sam for details. Not if he hoped to file his story in time for the morning edition and get home before the boys woke up.
Once he'd thanked Harriet and sent her home with a fistful of fives—and a mug so full of milk and sugar it seemed dishonest to call it coffee—he'd put the twins on the bus and head back to Calvert Street. Traffic downtown was bound to be easier to maneuver by then, and if he was lucky, Liam would have another juicy assignment waiting in the queue.
Staying busy was about the only thing that would keep his mind off the feelings Honor Mackenzie had awakened inside him . . . and the pounding guilt that went with them.