3

 

Honor hated quoting tired old clichés, but seriously, the nerve of some people!

Bad enough Phillips tried to pass himself off as a firefighter. If the guy was Sam's idea of trustworthy, she hated to think what the cop's version of dishonest looked like. No doubt, the reporter was shooting for another Pulitzer-winning story, but not even furthering his career excused the conscienceless way he'd tried to pry facts from rescue personnel, even those in the thick of administering aid.

Correction. Phillips hadn't tried. He'd succeeded, and the proof was splattered across the front page of this morning's Baltimore Sun. The memory of him scurrying back and forth, pad and pen in hand as he questioned the dazed flight crew was bad enough. But then he'd started in on ambulatory victims. The full-color photo of the copilot, head wrapped in white gauze and nose hidden by a metal splint, infuriated her. "Some people will do anything for a minute in the spotlight," she griped, tossing the paper onto the kitchen table. She wouldn't be the least bit surprised to find out he had a few other traits in common with her Uncle Mike.

Rowdy rested his head on her knee and whimpered, as if to say, "Easy, Mack. What's done is done."

"How'd Phillips get those pictures?" she wondered aloud, absently patting Rowdy's head. "I never saw him with a camera."

Rerun stepped up for a little attention and echoed his brother's whine. Honor ruffled his fur, too, then shoved back from the table. "Person can't nurse a grudge, even for a minute," she said, grinning, "with the two of you around."

The pair danced in spirited circles beside her chair, and then Rowdy tugged his leash from the hook beside the back door. "Sorry, handsome," she said, putting it back, "no time for a walk this morning." Stooping, she hugged them both. "I promise. Tonight. Before supper. You. Me. Around the block." She drew an invisible circle in the air. "Twice. K?"

They yipped happily as she grabbed her bag—more a combination first-aid kit and briefcase than purse—and headed into the garage. She grabbed the newspaper on the way, thinking to read the rest of it during her lunch hour. "That's a joke," she muttered, firing up her boxy SUV. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd taken a real lunch break in the past year and have fingers left over. According to her coworkers, Howard County General had been a beehive of activity, even before the merger with Johns Hopkins. If management had planned smarter, the crew insisted, they would have hired another clerk or two. But if they had, Honor couldn't count on overtime hours to help bypass destructive, self-pitying thoughts . . . and redirect gossip about her past.

The downward spiral began when her fiancé joined half a dozen firefighter pals in New York to help carry survivors— and those who didn't make it—from the rubble. If she'd known he'd become a victim of 9/11, too, Honor wouldn't have been so supportive of his decision to volunteer all those years ago. Wouldn't have joined the department after his funeral in personal tribute to his sacrifice. Wouldn't have made the biggest blunder of her young life. To be fair, she'd had help with that last one. But even now it was still hard to believe that one unscrupulous TV correspondent had the power to destroy her career and her reputation with one broadcast and nearly take her lieutenant down at the same time.

Nearly two years had passed since Brady Shaw's reputationdestroying story hit the airwaves. She'd dealt with the whole Uncle Mike fiasco; shouldn't she have a better handle on the bitter, depressing emotions aroused by the article by now?

"Evidently not," Honor grumbled as she drove past the hospital entrance. Annoyed at her lack of concentration, she went into a U-turn but didn't cut the wheel sharply enough. The scrape of her hubcap, grinding against the curb made her wince and hit the brake. Which made the guy behind her lean on his horn.

"Yeah, well," she said when he sped by, mouthing God knew what and shaking his fist, "same to you, buddy."

Tempting as it was to sit in the parking lot, pounding the steering wheel and cussing her bad luck, Honor didn't dare. SAR missions had made her late for work three times this month, most recently, just three days ago. How long before her so-called pals in the billing department called her boss to task for allowing her to get away with repeated tardiness? The appearance of favoritism had been at the root of her other troubles, and Honor had no desire to help that history repeat itself.

Head down, she tucked her keys and gloves into her bag and looked up in time to see the blue-uniformed EMT at the elevator . . . but not soon enough to keep from colliding with him.

"Holy mackerel, girl," Austin said, steadying her, "where's the fire?"

"Sorry. I'm this close to being late." She groaned. "Again."

He returned her smile. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Only my pride."

He thumbed the elevator's Up button. "That was some mess last night, eh?"

"I'll say. What time did you get out of there?"

"Not till about half hour ago. What about you?"

"Same here. Didn't even have time to shower. Just fed and watered the dogs and let 'em out for a potty break." And caused some poor guy to lose his cool. "So what's the latest?"

A furrow formed between his eyebrows. "Two went from critical to stable, one died."

"Awful," she said. Hopefully, neither of the little blond kid's parents. He'd have plenty to cope with, just being a survivor, without losing his mom or dad. Or worse, both. "Has anybody come up with a total yet?"

"Not that I know of. Just the info from that last report— twenty-seven dead."

And let's pray the number doesn't rise in the next few days.

So far, the only really positive news to filter down from higher-ups was the report stating that every passenger—those on the plane and the ones in the vehicles it had crushed— had been accounted for. That left nothing to do but wait—and pray—that every patient hospitalized by the crash would improve enough to move from the critical to the stable list and that those deemed "stable" could go home.

"Will you be at T-Bonz tonight?"

One way or another, she usually got wind of get-togethers at the steak house, where first responders observed birthdays and holidays or gathered to blow off steam. But she hadn't heard about this one. "What're you guys celebrating tonight?"

"My engagement."

Honor smiled, and for the first time today, her heart was in it. "No kidding? Austin, that's great news!" She gave him a congratulatory hug. "So who's the lucky lady . . . the one I saw you with a couple weeks ago?"

Austin nodded. "Yeah. Her name's Mercy." One shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "We go way back. Had some issues, but . . . long story." The shoulder rose again as the elevator doors opened. "That's history now, thank God." He stepped into the car. "You'd love her, Mack. And she'd love you, too. See you at seven? The wings are on me."

Honor was about to say thanks but no thanks when the doors hissed shut. And then she remembered the advice Elton gave her a couple of weeks ago: "How are people supposed to know you're innocent of what that sorry excuse for a reporter accused you of if you don't socialize a little, let the guys get to know the real you?"

She reminded him that "the real her" didn't care much for socializing. "If I didn't have to work full time to keep the wolf from the door, I'd be content, living a hermit's life." Then she wondered aloud if she had the backbone to take it on the chin when they put her to the test with hard questions and judgmental comments.

"You're already taking it on the chin," he'd pointed out, "so what have you got to lose?"

True enough, she decided, seated at her desk with two minutes to spare before starting time. A sign that her life was about to take a turn for the better?

Only one way to find out.