by Loree Lough
“People are to blame for that, not the airline or the geese. If folks didn’t feed ‘em, they would’ve migrated north, like they were supposed to, and all those people would be home today, celebrating Christmas with their families.”
Matt nodded somberly, remembering that 41 had died and another 113 had been injured—some on the ground, others in the airliner—when the jet landed on the interstate. “I see fire and smoke like that, and first thing I think of is 9/11.”
“Same here,” Matt said. “That, and Iraq.” Then he remembered that Austin’s brother had died in the North Tower, setting off a yearslong battle with alcoholism. “How’re you doing these days?”
“That bottle’s still in the companionway, with its seal intact.”
“Good, good.” He slid an arm across his friend’s shoulders, gave him a quick, sideways hug, then put his hands back in his pockets. “Proud of you, dude. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
“I can’t take all the credit. Mercy helped. More than she’ll ever know.”
“She’s a good woman. You’re lucky to have her.”
“Don’t I know it.” Now Austin gave Matt a sideways hug. “Honor’s a good woman, too.”
“Don’t I know it,” he echoed.
“Then clue me in, dude. The boys love her, and it’s as plain as the nose on your face that she’s crazy about them. Heck, even Cash, here, is nuts about her. What’s the holdup?”
“It’s just … stuff.”
“Not Brady Shaw stuff, I hope, ‘cause if you believe that nonsense, you’re even dumber than I thought.”
” ‘Course I don’t believe it. Never have. And neither does anybody else with a lick of sense. Problem is, a whole lot of people out there think if they see something on TV or read it in the newspaper, it’s gospel. They don’t bother to check it out, never ask if there’s another side to things. Just swallow it whole, like brainless fish with a worm on a hook. That jerk Shaw told the story, but it was the idiots who believed it who turned Honor’s life upside down.”
“Singin’ to the choir, friend. Singin’ to the choir.”
Matt told Austin about the research he’d been doing and that there were very few loose ends to tie up before he could make his move.
“Bet I could get a couple guys in the department to step up,” he said, “maybe accidentally photocopy some reports.” Austin shrugged. “If they blew off somebody’s passenger seat and fell into the wrong hands, well, hey, stuff happens, right?”
“But you’re getting married and leaving for London in a week. You can do all that by then?”
“I can sure give it the old college try.” He shrugged again. “What’ve we got to lose?”
“You and me? Nothing. But Honor … she has a lot to lose.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re saying that once you’ve helped her unload some of that baggage, you’ll make your move.”
They turned the final corner in their walk around the block. “Yeah. I guess. Something like that.”
“Well, sir,” Austin said, clapping Matt on the back, “you’ve just given me all the incentive I need to get you those reports, aye-sap.”
“Just don’t do anything that’ll implicate yourself or the other guys.”
Austin struck a cool dude pose and swaggered up Matt’s driveway. “Hey … do I look like somebody who was born yesterday?”
“No. Guess not.”
“All right then, have a little faith, why don’t you?”
Matt stood on the bottom porch step. “Much as it galls me,” he said, clenching his jaw, “none of this will go before a judge, or help send Shaw to Jessup, where he belongs. Because it’s all circumstantial.”
“Not to mention every scrap of evidence was obtained without a warrant.”
“That, too.”
“Well, look at the bright side. Maybe when that lyin’ sack of
…” Austin growled. “Maybe when he sees what you’ve got on him, he’ll end up in a padded cell instead of a prison cell.”
“We can hope.”
“You know what I regret?”
“That you can’t be there when I grind Shaw under my boot.”
Austin held open the screen door, and Cash planted both front paws on the threshold, waiting for the inside door to open. “You know me too well, brutha,” he said, standing aside to let the dog and Matt pass.
They were hanging their jackets on the hall tree when Austin added, “I know you pretty well, too, y’know.”
Matt snorted. “I’m almost afraid to ask what that means.”
Austin peeked into the kitchen, checked the dining room, too, to make sure the coast was clear. “Sounds like everybody’s in the family room. Good.” He stepped up beside Matt, and, draping a big hand on the back of Matt’s neck, said, “You know what they say about paybacks, don’t you?”
“No, but I know what they say about mouthwash.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “And you could use some.”
“Dude,” he said, “be serious for a minute.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand in front of Matt’s face. “Concentrate: I’m not doing this, ah, this errand for free. It’s gonna cost you. Big time.”
“Much as I hate divulging personal information of the financial kind, I feel it only fair to tell you there’s only a hundred bucks in my checking account.”
Austin grimaced. “That hurts, Matt. I don’t want your money, you boob.”
“Then what? Tell me. Fast. So I can find you a toothbrush … and ask Honor to go a little easier on the garlic next time she makes lasagna.”
“Okay. Here it is in a nutshell: you,” he said, driving his pointer finger into Matt’s shoulder, “take it to the next step before I get back from London, or I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”
“Ha. Like what?”
Eyes narrowed, Austin said, “Bet she’d love to hear about the time a hooker got her hair caught on your belt buckle.”
“Hey. That wasn’t my fault. She jumped into the cab at a red light, drunk as a skunk, and passed out cold in my lap. What was I supposed to do, kick her to the curb?”
“Not with her hair all tangled up in your belt. But I digress. Some of us who were there that night tell a slightly different version of the story.”
“Hmpf. Accent on story, then.”
Austin lifted his shoulders, extended his hands in silent supplication. “Oh, I’m reasonably certain that Honor will believe your version.”
“Then why—”
“Because misery loves company.”
“What?”
“Why should you be the last single man standing?”
Matt chuckled. “You’re a jerk, Finley, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he said, tapping his temple, “but I’m a smart jerk.”
“Did you thump your head last time you were on a call?”
“No. Why?”
“Because you’re not making a lick of sense.”
“All I’m sayin’ is, those kids of yours need a mother, and you need a wife. And Honor needs a family. So hunker down and do the right thing.” He waved his hand, as if shooing a fly. “Get things moving along with—”
Honor stepped into the doorway and stopped him cold. “We’re about to have some cheesecake, but Flora insisted that we wait for you guys to get back.”
“She’s such a sweetheart,” Austin said.
Honor nodded. “So … get what things moving?”
“Oh, nothing.” He winked at Matt. “Just guy talk.” He grasped her elbow and led her into the family room. “What’s this? A second dessert … in front of the TV? Be still my heart!”
Should he let on that he’d planned to move things to the next level with Honor, even before the comical reminder of that wild and crazy New York night.
Nah. Let the boy have his fun.
16
Three days ago, when Baltimore area stations had started broadcasting blizzard warnings, news cameras panned empty store shelves that once stock
ed ample supplies of milk, bread, and the all-important toilet paper. Yesterday, the contents of grocery carts proved that TV viewers had stopped paying attention to the messages that crawled across their TV screens 24/7. Apathy, Honor had learned, killed more people than tornadoes, hurricanes, and floods combined.
Now, as she trudged through knee-deep drifts, she pictured the distraught face of the mother who’d given her children— boys ages nine and four, and a seven-year-old girl—permission to hike in the woods behind their house. “They’ve spent almost as much time out there as in the house,” she’d cried. “I can’t believe they could be lost …”
But lost they were.
That alone wasn’t so scary; Rowdy had sniffed out a dozen or more kids who, even after a couple of days in the wild country, suffered little more than bug bites, rumbling tummies, and mild dehydration. Their dreams for the next few weeks had no doubt been peppered with scary visions of being lost and alone, but for the most part, they’d gone home none the worse for wear.
The difference here? The kids’ winter jackets, gloves, and snow boots were still in the mudroom, right where they’d stowed them after school, day before yesterday. If Honor was cold to the bone in a downy parka and fleece-lined mukluks, after only a few hours’ exposure to the biting wind and stinging snow crystals …
Perhaps their mother was right, and they knew the area well enough to find shelter in a cave or a hollow tree. And with any luck, they’d known enough to huddle together, as much to prevent one of them getting lost as to share body heat.
Years of bad endings to searches like this one told Honor that the chances of one live find were dim, but three? Her sigh of frustration formed a thick cloud of vapor in front of her face, and through it she saw a flash of red—Rowdy’s rescue vest—then spotted his tail, like a fuzzy gold hand waving her onward. You need to take a page from his book, she told herself. That dog never gives up hope.
He was strong and tireless, and she knew from experience that he’d run nonstop for miles … if she let him. She couldn’t let him, of course, because whether he realized it or not, he needed to stop, and often, for small bites of food and short drinks of water. Wait too long and he’d grow overeager and end up with gastric dilation or, worse still, torsion. She’d seen both happen to non-handlers’ dogs after a long run or rough play; difficult as it was to turn down any much-loved dog, Honor would stick to the “just say no” policy where hers was concerned.
He’d earned every “He’s the best I’ve ever seen” and “That’s some dog” compliments, and she knew better than to take credit for it. True, she was a good trainer—of dogs and the people who handled them—but Rowdy was special in a hundred ways. Like the way he seemed to know when she was about to whistle for him and almost always spared her the trouble. “You’re some dog, all right,” she repeated when he got close enough to hug. “I oughta rename you Wilbur, like that pig in Charlotte’s Web.” He quivered from nose to tail, a sure sign that he wouldn’t be happy until after she’d fed and watered him and he could plow through the snow again, in search of the missing.
“Patience, pal,” she said, adjusting his booties, checking his ears and nose for signs of frostbite. Finding none, she pulled the Ziploc bag from her field pack, exactly as she had when they’d started out, hours ago. This time, it took only seconds for the icy wind and snow to stiffen the normally pliable plastic, and it crackled like cellophane as a tiny pair of Elmo mittens stored inside to preserve the scent, peeked from the opening. Rowdy’s ears perked and he cocked his head in response to the unusual sound. “Find,” she’d said, watching his head bob up and down, absorbing a noseful of scent. “Find!” And off he went, alternately nosing at the ground and sniffing the air.
Even for a well-trained natural like Rowdy, a day like this could prove confusing, even dangerous, for him and for her. She would never have admitted it out loud, but being off on her own, this far off and for this long was downright scary. However, flu season had laid several of the regulars low, and the weather had made it impossible for others to get out of their driveways, let alone make their way to the sector. It was one of those times when training and preparedness, coupled with stamina and a trusted canine companion, would have to provide the confidence to press on, even when the terrain got dicey and the weather grew fierce.
Marching along in shin-deep snow would have been exhausting, even without her pack. How had three little kids managed to get this far, dressed the way they were? Maybe the scent Rowdy was picking up wasn’t theirs, after all. Because they could have made it this far from the house before the snow started, but in this mess?
What had their mother been thinking, letting them out here alone, even in good weather! The family had stubbornly— some might say greedily—refused to sell out to developers or city planners. The farm was the last of its kind in a three-state area, bordering state parks and county recreational areas that spanned miles.
And miles, she grumbled, tugging at the straps of her pack. She could reduce its heft by losing the bulky tarp, but given a choice between lightening her load and holding on to gear that could move a victim or become a makeshift shelter, Honor would choose the added weight of the tarp, any day. The coil of rope wasn’t exactly lightweight, either, but like her trusty compass and radio, it was one of those things she wouldn’t leave home without. She’d never put the thing on a scale, because she didn’t want to think about what it weighed. Besides, it was a comfort to know that right on her back, she carried enough food, water, heat packs, and routine first-aid supplies, too, to support herself, Rowdy, and any survivors they might locate. As long as her batteries lasted, they’d be fine until help arrived.
Provided help could get to her … something else she preferred not to think about.
Rowdy’s tracks veered right, then left and straight ahead. He’d been out of sight now for a good fifteen minutes. If there was a plus to searching in a place like this, it had to be the absolute silence; if he barked—and she hoped he would because it was the only signal she’d get of a live find—the sound would travel for miles, she’d have no trouble hearing him.
She struggled up a small knoll, using her poke stick like a ski pole. Not every handler chose to carry one, because they were clumsy and cumbersome, but Honor had always preferred to err on the side of caution. One story about a unit member who’d underestimated the depth of an avalanche victim was enough to convince her it was worth the aggravation of figuring out where to put it when it wasn’t in use.
She held the field glasses to her eyes and did a slow turn, looking for Rowdy’s vest. If she didn’t see him soon, she’d have to call him in for another food and water break. This time, in addition to looking for frostbite, Honor would check his pulse and count every breath. He might well be equipped with a thick fur coat, but hypothermia wasn’t out of the question on a day like this.
Though her peers voiced the usual complaints about winter assignments—numb toes and noses, the occasional case of frostbite, and trembling so hard from the cold that their muscles and bones ached—most preferred them to hot weather searches. Not Honor. She didn’t like mosquitoes and snakes, heat and humidity, or maggots that feasted on fetid tissue any more than the rest of them—but even those things were preferable to being surrounded by an ocean of snow.
Worse, even, than far-as-you-can-see white … the strange and ceaseless moaning of the wind. Prior to the Brady Shaw story, cold-weather searches had provoked spine-chilling nightmares that were peopled by howling banshees and groaning ghosts. But even after Honor taught herself not to remember her dreams, she’d wake up dog-tired in a tangle of sweat-dampened sheets. She could mash the head of a snake with her boot or crush annoying insects with her palms and tell herself she had a little power over her environment. But this? There was nothing to do but prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
“Speaking of dogs,” she whispered, “where’s mine?”
Her perceptive pup must have sensed his mistress’s restle
ssness because a moment later, he began to bark. Not the annoying yelps of a dog who wants to come in out of the cold or the highpitched “gimme another treat” yips, but steady, persistent barking that told her he’d found something.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather coursed down her spine. Too soon to celebrate, though, she knew. There were three children missing; he may only have found one. And talented as he was, Rowdy hadn’t figured out a way to communicate whether what he’d found was alive or dead. In his mind, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, and it was up to the humans involved to take it from there.
But it was too soon to radio for help, too. He was a good dog, but he wasn’t perfect; what if he’d made one of his rare mistakes, and cornered a rabbit or a squirrel, instead?
Beyond the next hillock, she caught sight of his vest, and as she got closer, Honor recognized that stance: hind legs slightly splayed and forepaws planted firmly, one slightly in front of the other, ears perked and tail up … alert, determined, and ready for whatever command his mistress gave him.
She palmed the compass in one hand, and radioed for help with the other. As she gave the coordinates, Honor noticed that behind him, deep inside the yawning hollow of a massive oak, a shadow moved. She couldn’t see them, or what shape they were in, but she knew the kids were in there, alive. She knew because Rowdy told her with every huffy bark and stomp of his red-booted paws.
After adding that information to her report, she shed the pack, tucked the radio into an outer pocket, and dropped to her knees to peer into the hollow tree. And there they were, like crazy-eyed, trembling Keebler elves.
One.
Two.
Three.
Teeth chattering from fear and cold.
Huddled together like blue-eyed monkeys separated too soon from their mama.
But alive, thank God, alive.
Honor almost didn’t trust herself to speak. She was the grown-up here. If her voice cracked, even a little, or she shed a tear of relief, it would only scare them more. Let their parents dole out the scoldings and reprimands. Let the cops ask how and why they got way out here. Let the doctors and nurses find out if their frostbitten little ears and fingertips and toes would soon get back to normal. Her job, now that Rowdy had found them and help was on the way: stay with them. Keep them as comfortable as possible. Offer gentle assurances that soon, they’d be home and in the arms of their parents.