From Ashes to Honor Read Online Free Page A

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."

3
     
    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