From Ashes to Honor (3 page)

Trembling and sweaty, he faced her. "Was that another one of your cockamamie
tests?"
He drew quote marks in the air, raised his voice an octave to mock her. "'Let's see how riled up the crazy cop will get if the tower of books falls down around him, reminding him of the day when—'"

She grabbed his wrists and held on tight. "I give you my word, Austin," she said. "I'd never do such a thing."

For a long, silent moment, she gazed into his eyes, and in that moment, she looked every bit as vulnerable and helpless as he felt. Without the doctor-patient wall between them, they were just two people. A man and a woman who, like so many others, were forever changed by that dreadful day.

Her expression softened to a slow smile. "Thanks," she said, nodding at the tidy row of books he'd arranged on the shelf.

"I've been meaning to do that since I moved in here."

As he stared at their hands, he couldn't help thinking that maybe he really
did
need therapy, because he would have sworn she'd grabbed his wrists. When—and
how—
had their fingers become so tightly linked? He'd been a cop for years, for crying out loud. Why hadn't he
noticed?
And why were his eyes smarting with unshed tears?

If he didn't get out of there, and fast, he'd get the psychological treatment he seemed to need, all right . . . in a padded cell, wearing a jacket with no arms.

He strode purposefully toward the elevator and thumbed the Down button hard enough to make him wince. From the corner of his eye, he saw that she'd followed him. Saw the Exit sign, too, and for a second, considered racing down the stairs instead of waiting for the car to reach her floor. But the image of once-normal and civilized people, screaming and crying as they crawled over one another to escape the Towers, stopped him dead in his tracks. He didn't need a shrink to tell him those were normal reactions to a thing like that, but he sure wouldn't mind knowing long it would take before he could ride in an elevator or climb a flight of stairs without breaking into a cold sweat as his heart beat double-time.

"I'll see you on Thursday, ten sharp. And I promise to be on time."

Austin stepped into the car and, facing her, lit up the number One. "So, did you get everything you needed from your little experiment?"

"It wasn't an experiment, or a test, or anything of the kind."

Her tiny hand formed the Boy Scout salute. "I give you my word."

Only the image of her, bent over his file and scribbling "It is my professional opinion that Officer Austin Finley should be relieved of duty" kept him from barking "Yeah, right".

"So I'll see you on Thursday, then?"

Nodding, he thanked God that the elevator doors hissed shut when they did, because if Dr. Samara hadn't already gathered enough "Crazy Austin" trivia for her file, his traitorous watery eyes and trembling lower lip would have sealed his fate, for sure.

February 2003

M
ercy stared at the calendar page and sighed.

Twenty years ago today, her placard-waving feminist mother announced, "If I can sail alone from New York to Annapolis, why, I'll feel whole and fulfilled and powerful for the first time in my life!" Even at ten, Mercy heard underlying message, loud and clear:
Being your mom isn't enough for me. I need more.
Lots
more.

Angry and hurt, the pouting pre-teen made herself scarce when her mother left for the family sailboat, docked at Fire Island, and remained unavailable for the phone call made from a Baltimore marina. Unfortunately, she'd been there when the Coast Guard informed her dad that
The Sea Wind
had gone down in the stormy Atlantic, because it forced her to add "guilt" and "regret" to the list of emotions roused by her mother's never-ending pursuit of freedom.

Her father wasted no time dragging her to a psychologist.By the time the second session concluded, Mercy had outfoxed the so-called child specialist and put a quick and permanent end to the meetings. The only good thing to come from therapy had been Mercy's unquenchable thirst for knowledge about the human psyche, for it put her on a career path that led to numerous degrees and diplomas, and filing cabinets bulging with positive outcomes for her patients.

But even as her patients confessed sins and exposed fears, the successful Dr. Mercy Samara struggled. Not with the proper diagnosis and treatment for their disorders, not with which medication—if any—to prescribe. Her conflict? Hypocrisy, because though she'd taught herself to conceal mistrust and cynicism behind a sunny smile, Mercy never learned how to shed the resentment and bitterness that clung to her heart and mind like the destructive barnacles that fixed themselves to
The Sea Wind's
hull.

Frowning, she did her best to shrug off the negative sentiments.She had work to do, and nothing good could come from wallowing in the past. Perhaps if she got the most disagreeable task out of the way first, the gloomy aspects of the anniversary would fade into the background.

Mercy reached for a thick manila folder that said "Austin Finley" on the tab. Opening it, she flipped through dozens of pages, meticulous notes she'd typed up after every one of his sessions. On page seven, she'd described nightmares that often interrupted his sleep. Page ten documented the blinding migraines and stomach aches. Thirteen listed bad habits he'd once overcome that had returned with a vengeance since the tragedy.

She flipped to the last page and stared at the blank form.Here, the Department's decision-makers expected her to cite the reasons why, in her professional opinion, Officer Finley could return to active duty—or provide a detailed explanation for the reasons she believed he shouldn't. Try as she might— and she'd spent hours studying his file, searching for a legitimate way to get him back to work—Mercy couldn't avoid the ugly truth: Austin Finley was the proverbial powder keg personified, and if allowed to continue on his path of selfdestruction, the detonation would destroy him and anyone who made the mistake of getting too close to him.

Of all the first responders she'd treated for post-traumatic stress disorder—and there'd been nearly a hundred since the attack on the World Trade Center—why had she let Finley get under her skin this way? The analyst side of her brain recited rational, clinical reasons, but the
woman
in her couldn't forget the raspy edge that hardened his pleasant baritone when he told her about his brother's cell phone message. Yes, other patients had lost comrades and brothers-in-arms on 9/11, but this one?
This
one believed he deserved to suffer for ignoring that call, because in his mind, it was penance for letting his twin die, alone and afraid.

Mercy fired up her computer and called up his file. If she believed in God, the way her father did, this would be a very good time to pray. She'd pulled out all the stops, hoping to give Finley permission to go back to the work he clearly loved. But neither sympathy nor empathy could change the cold, hard fact that her decision would ultimately protect the department, the citizens of New York, and most important of all, Finley, himself.

Her father had a favorite adage, and it amazed her how often and how well he could make it fit nearly every situation: "Two wrongs don't make a right."

Fingers flying over the keyboard, she typed her final conclusions onto the form, saved the data, and printed a copy for his file. And as her pen hovered above the signature and date lines, Mercy sighed.

"Ah, Papa," she whispered, pressing the pen's nib to the page, "if only you'd taught me a wise old saying that could ease the sting of doing the right thing."

August 2009

L
ike every morning, Austin woke to the screeching of gulls and waves, gently lapping at the hull, and thanked God for the peace of mind that had become as much a part of his life as the briny scent of the Chesapeake. Quite a difference from the spite and malice he carried home on the day he slammed his badge and gun on the lieutenant's desk! One of these days, he'd screw up the courage to call Dr. Samara and thank her, because if she hadn't recommended permanent desk duty, he'd probably be toes-up in some untended grave instead of banging his elbows in the minuscule shower stall . . .

Purchased sight unseen for five hundred dollars, the old tug required another twenty grand to be moved from Wisconsin's Lake Michigan to Bullneck Creek, and fifteen thousand more to make her habitable. Until his move to Maryland, he'd shared a third floor Manhattan walk-up with two other bachelor cops, and what the trio knew about real estate could fit in one shirt pocket. Before docking in the narrow inlet of the Patapsco River, Austin had known even less about boats.

But like the EMT certification that lured him from New York, scars collected retooling the engine and muscles built by varnishing wood and polishing brass had been earned the hard way. Both the career and his floating home delivered a sense of accomplishment, but few things filled him with more pride than the name, applied one Old West letter at a time in a bold, broad arc across the stern:

One Regret.

When asked why that, instead of something more work- or water-related, he recited the same answer: "At the end of every day, there's sure to be at least
one
thing I could have done better."

Coffee mug in hand, he scaled the ladder leading to the pilot house, where, for decades, a short list of stalwart captains had stood to guide unwieldy vessels into an assortment of ports along Lake Michigan's shores. The 360° view made him feel like the ruler of a watery kingdom that stretched from the Bay to the Patapsco River to this private cove on Bear Creek. His one regret? That his twin would never enjoy the Van Gogh–like sunrise that blended orange and yellow into the cloud-streaked azure sky.

Stepping through the narrow door and onto the upper deck, he filled his lungs with briny air and, forearms on the glossy brass rail, surveyed his domain. Melancholy wrapped round him as, holding the steaming mug high, he toasted the horizon."Here's to you, Avery," he said into the salty wind, "may you always—"

"Ahoy, Finley!"

Austin turned toward the eardrum-piercing voice. " Mornin', Flora." Grinning, he lowered the cup. "Don't tell me Bud's still in his berth. . ."

Her brittle cackle skipped across the mirrored surface of the water. "I keep telling him if he intends to sleep his life away, I'll have no choice but to move in with the good lookin' young paramedic next door."

Much as he enjoyed the company of his elderly neighbors, Austin sometimes wished he'd chosen a more remote place to tie up, because regardless of season, Flora squawked the same greeting every day, no matter what time he rolled out of his bunk. Half a dozen times, thinking it had been his cabin lights skittering across the water that roused her, he'd climbed to the pilot house without so much as a candle to guide him. But not even full-out darkness deterred her. Small price to pay, he supposed, for fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies in the winter, homemade ice cream during the summer months, and amusing conversation all year long. "You flatter me," he said. "I'm off to work in a few. What're your plans for the day?"

Even from a distance of twenty yards, he could see the bend of her arthritic finger, pointing west. "Into town to restock the pantry," she said, loosing another guffaw. "Hopefully I can rouse that lazy husband of mine and get him to help me toss groceries from the car to the dock."

"Aw, the exercise'll do you good," he joked. "Besides, poor ol' Bud hasn't been retired all that long."

"Next Tuesday it'll be
six years,
I'll have you know!"

His tug doubled their schooner in width and length, yet he couldn't imagine sharing it 24-7—for six years—with
anyone.

"Well, I'd better hit the road. Have a good day, kiddo."

"Will do. And you stay safe out there, y'hear?"

Three years earlier, the Callahans' firefighter son had died when the roof of a blazing building collapsed under the weight of his heavy gear, so they understood better than most the dangers of Austin's job. "Give my best to Bud."

"I'm making shrimp Creole for supper . . ."

Because she knew he had no family, Flora made sure they shared one meal a week, sometimes more; and much as he enjoyed the "your turn–my turn" feasts, Austin looked forward to his solitude. Tonight, he planned to watch a Tom Selleck movie on TV and hit the hay early.
Think fast, Finley.

"Thanks, Flora, but I'll be getting in kinda late. The captain said if I don't get caught up on my reports, he'll put me on KP duty for a month." He gave a final wave, knowing, even as he ducked back into his pilot house, that when his shift ended he'd sneak onto his boat to spare her feelings. Again.

He heard her voice, fading as he descended the ladder: "All right then, I'll save the leftovers for you."

Grinning, he shook his head, because something told him that by six bells, he'd be eating shrimp Creole at the chrome and red-marbled Formica table in Bud and Flora's narrow galley.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

M
ercy hated wishing her life away, but she could hardly wait for the construction crew to finish up. The old brick structure felt cold and drafty between November and March, and stifling the rest of the year, especially on her side of the building.

A humid blast of air sneaked past the crumbling caulk of the dingy tilt-out window nearest her desk, and she reached for a bottle of spring water. "Patience," she muttered, unscrewing the cap, because in no time she'd exchange the stack of sweat-blotting paper towels on the corner of her desk for the portable heater that would have her reaching for hand lotion, instead.

All things considered, she had very little to complain about.The drive from her end-of-row townhouse in Baltimore's historic Fells Point neighborhood took a pleasant fifteen minutes, now that students with drivers licenses weren't on the roads; and because school wouldn't officially start for another three weeks, she could wear capris and flip-flops, a tank top and a ponytail instead of her traditional flowing skirts and blouses.In New York, she'd never owned a home or a car, never had a pet, and since resigning from the department and moving here at the insistence of her college roommate, she had all three— and a gratifying job as a guidance counselor, as well.

Her work day began like every other, with a cheery welcome from the gray-haired cop assigned to the main entrance."Mercy, Mercy, Mercy," he sing-songed Billy Crystal style, "you look
mah-
velous this morning, simply
mah-
velous!" He'd delivered the same greeting every morning of the three years she'd been affiliated with the high school. Would there ever come a day when she
didn't
blush as she thanked him for the compliment?

Mercy hurried to her office, passing a bank of pea green lockers, then a row of pasty yellow ones.
Who chooses these nauseating colors?
she thought as a line of sickly coral lockers came into view. For the time being, at least they looked clean and tidy. What a pity that by the third week of classes, chips and dings, fingerprints and lipstick would dull the semi-gloss sheen. As her sandals click-clacked over the polished linoleum, she thought of her own high school days, when metal detectors and policemen at the door were unheard of, and when parents ambled in and out of schools without the need to sign a book, or submit to being frisked by an armed guard. Her mood brightened slightly as she heard her father's gruff voice comparing the scenario to the dictatorship he'd grown up in.

Memories of her dad could be happy and lighthearted— and could just as easily lead to dark and depressing thoughts.Mercy consciously focused on the peculiar layout of the tiles. If the blue squares led to the main office or the science lab, they might have made sense. Instead, a row here and a row there merely connected with pink and green squares, or formed ridiculous zigzags across the floor, as if they'd been designed and slapped into place by a crew of drunken construction workers. In her high school, teachers insisted that kids going north stay on one side of the hall, those headed south on the other. "No running allowed!" was an all too-familiar shout.No wonder these kids moved from classroom to classroom between periods like dizzy cattle, recently turned loose from weeks in a too-small corral!

In most ways, kids weren't so different than they'd been back then. That first week of September, they'd change their minds about courses they'd chosen the previous spring, or if a teacher who'd earned a reputation for sternness appeared at the top of their schedules, they'd swap classes to be with their friends. By May, graduating seniors called in "sick," while juniors scrambled to sign up for next year's prerequisites.Sophomores with an eye on college gathered up every available pamphlet in the guidance office, and those bound for vo-tech made appointments to learn which tradesmen were looking for apprentices to work the second half of every school day.

Her duties as a counselor were as varied as the teens themselves.Occasionally, Mercy was called upon to advise pregnant girls, or kids whose parents were divorcing. Sometimes, she found herself going to bat for youngsters caught red-handed with drugs or alcohol. Always, she made a point of underscoring the dangers of tobacco. She befriended the new transfers, put athletes with sub-par grades together with tutors, scolded bullies—and gave pep talks to their victims.

But even when the principal demanded Mercy's input on decisions to suspend or expel a student, the pressures and stresses of the job didn't come close to what she'd faced as a police department psychiatrist. Until 9/11, Mercy had loved the work so much that she didn't even mind the low pay and long hours, because—

A quiet knock interrupted her reverie. A moment later, Abe Archer, the Owl's assistant coach, stuck his head into her office. No doubt he'd come to collect on the promise she'd made before school ended for the summer. He stood in the doorway, grimacing and waving his arms in a futile attempt to stir up some cool air. "Cheese and crackers, girl, and I thought it was hot down in the locker room! How do you stand it?"

Mercy laughed. "Easy. I pretend this is my own private sauna."

Shaking his head, he said "Well, more power to you." Then, "We're ready for you."

Where had the hours gone! Last time she'd checked, the big clock above the door said ten, and now the hands pointed to the eleven and the three. "Let me grab my clipboard," she said, shoving back from her desk, "and I'll meet you on the field."

Winking, he fired off a smart salute and closed the door as Mercy gathered her things.

She'd suggested at the start of last year's football season that maybe with a few pointers the team could "psyche out" their opponents. So she studied their opponents and watched the Owls practice, and taught them how brain power, in combination with savvy plays, could win out over brute force alone.At first, her idea received noisy skepticism and scoffing from the coaches and the boys on the team alike. Never one to back down from a challenge, Mercy convinced them to at least give it a try. "If it doesn't work, I'll take you all out for pizza!"

As things turned out, she treated them to deep-dish and thin crust . . . to celebrate making it into the playoffs. This year, they wanted to get started even earlier, with the hope of winning the championship.

By the time she arrived on the field, the team had already split into "shirts" and "skins" to practice their new plays. The boys on the bench made room for her while on the field, their teammates grunted and groaned as big padded bodies peppered the grass.

Abe and Coach Jordan paced on the sideline, shouting insults and instructions in equal measure. Jordan blew his whistle so long and hard that his face turned beet-red, inspiring the kid beside her to lean closer and whisper, "Is it possible for a person's face to explode?"

Laughing, Mercy said, "No, but I have a feeling if it's physically possible, your coach might just qualify for an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records."

Jordan's croaking bellow overpowered the boy's response."Winston! For the luvva Pete! We went over this not ten minutes ago: Twenty-four, zig right . . . blue. Twenty-four, zig right . . . blue.
Got it?"

"Got it, coach."

The face mask and mouth guard made it tough to read offensive tight end's reaction, but on the next play he leaped into the air, hands outstretched to catch the pass. Healye, the defensive safety, looked like a locomotive as he chugged across the turf, dirt and grit spewing from his cleats. He battered Winston with such force that the sickening sound of the impact rolled across the field like an ocean wave.

Mercy jumped to her feet now, too, watching the scene unfold like a slow-motion replay:

Winston's body, bent at an awkward angle, seemed to hover in mid-air for a moment before it hit the grass with a sickening
thud.
Then he tumbled and rolled several times, and when at last he came to rest, he looked like a human pretzel.Nothing moved, save the rise and fall of the number fifteen on his chest.

By the time his stunned teammates gathered round, Abe had already dialed 9-1-1.

Jordan took a knee. "Don't touch him, boys. And stand back, for the luvva Pete!"

Abe snapped his cell phone shut. "We're in luck. Dispatcher said there was a false alarm right up the street. The ambo's just around the corner."

"Couple of you boys open that gate," Jordan barked, pointing at the chain-link fence that surrounded the field.

Half of the Owls ran toward the road while the rest stood, green-and-gold helmets dangling from sweaty, trembling fingers, staring at Winston's motionless body. Mercy stepped up and ushered them aside.

Healye used his sleeve to blot his eyes. "He gonna be OK, Dr. Samara?"

Before she could respond, the quarterback said "Man. I sure hope he won't be paralyzed for life, like the kid in that
Friday Night Lights
movie."

She slid an arm around Healye's shoulders and led him away from the group. "This is football," she stated. "Everybody knows it's a rough game and that you were only doing your job. What happened was just . . . just a freak accident, but I'm sure Winston will be fine." She smiled, but her heart wasn't in it. "He probably just got the wind knocked out of him."

Healye nodded, but his demeanor made it clear he wasn't buying a word of it.

"Do you hear sirens?"

"Yeah, thank
God!"

Mercy gave him a sideways hug. "Don't you worry. Before you know it, Winston will be back on the field, giving you a run for your money."

"Maybe." Then, "Should we say a prayer or somethin'?"

It had been a long, long time since Mercy believed in the healing power of prayer. She considered citing studies and news reports that outlined what the high courts had decided on public prayer, but thought better of it. If calling on an uncaring, unresponsive heavenly power brought these kids a moment of peace, what harm could it do?

When the boys gathered close and bowed their heads, they stood and waited, their silence making it clear they expected
her
to do the honors. Thankfully, the approaching ambulance saved her from having to concoct a believable entreaty.

The EMTs whipped the vehicle around and backed as close to Winston's stock-still body as possible, kicking up dust and bits of dried grass as they lurched to a stop.

Two EMTs jumped from the cab. "Did anybody touch him?" asked the driver.

Mercy read "McElroy" on his name tag as the coach answered "Nope, and he hasn't moved—not so much as a pinky—since he hit the ground, either."

The paramedics grabbed a backboard and raced to Winston's side. She saw the flash of scissors as they slit his shirt from hem to neck, a blur of white as the cervical collar snapped into place. Next, they eased him onto the board and carried him to the truck.

The tallest EMT climbed in beside the boy, and, after covering Tommy's face with a clear-plastic mask, adjusted the dials of the oxygen tank. Round disks were taped to the boy's broad, hairless chest to monitor his vitals, and a needle inserted into a blue vein on the back of his hand. Immediately, glucose trickled from a bulging bag.

When he turned to thump the snaky length of flexible tubing, the breath caught in Mercy's throat, because she would have recognized those long-lashed blue eyes at thirty yards, even in a crowd at Penn Station. Thankfully, he seemed far too busy to notice her.

"What hospital you takin' him to, mister?" Healye asked.

"Bayview." Before anyone could fire off another question, McElroy added, "And if any of you follow us over there, you're to drive the speed limit, you hear? We don't need another patient in the ER!"

Austin met Healye's teary eyes. "You the boy who hit him?"

Healye nodded.

"Well, don't worry, son. We'll take good care of him, and so will the staff at the hospital. You've got my word on it."

McElroy slid behind the steering wheel, revved the engine and fired up the siren as Austin climbed into the back with his patient. He grabbed the left door handle and pulled it shut with a bang. Reaching for the right one, he met Mercy's gaze. "
You're
a long way from home," he said, grinning as he slammed it.