Deadline (Sandra Brown)

matter, had named Harriet Plummer as editor-in-chief, effective immediately.
    She was a disastrous choice for the position, first because she was more corporate animal than journalist. On any given tough editorial call, her top priority would be to protect the magazine against possible lawsuits. Stories addressing controversial topics would be watered down or canned altogether. Which, in Dawson’s opinion, amounted to editorial castration.
    Secondly, she was a card-carrying ball breaker who had no leadership qualities. She harbored a scornful dislike for people in general, an even stronger antipathy toward the male of the species, and big-time loathing for Dawson Scott in particular. As humbly as possible, he recognized that her animosity was largely based on jealousy of his talent and the respect it had earned him among his colleagues at NewsFront and beyond.
    But on the day she was appointed editor-in-chief, the source of her hostility had ceased to matter. It was there, it was robust, it was enduring, and she was now in charge. That sucked. Nothing could be worse.
    Or so he’d thought.
    She said, “I’m sending you to Idaho.”
    “What for?”
    “Blind balloonists.”
    “Excuse me?”
    She pushed a file folder across the desk toward him. “Our researchers have done the heavy lifting for you. You can acquaint yourself with the program on the flight out there.”
    “Give me a hint.”
    “Some group of do-gooders started taking blind people up in hot-air balloons and showing them the ropes. So to speak.”
    The cheeky add-on didn’t get a smile out of Dawson, who kept his expression impassive. Leaving the folder where it lay, he asked, “And this is hard news?”
    She smiled sweetly. Or tried. On her face, coyness didn’t quite work. “To the blind balloonists it is.”
    Her smugness made him want to vault the desk and wrap both hands around her neck. Instead, he mentally counted to ten and looked away from her, toward the windows. Four stories below, the broad avenues of Washington, DC, baked under a midday sun.
    “Despite your belittling description of the program,” he said, “I’m sure it’s worthy of national notice.”
    “Yet I sense a marked lack of enthusiasm on your part.”
    “It’s not my kind of story.”
    “You’re not up to it?”
    An invisible gauntlet landed on her desk alongside the untouched file. “I come up with my own stories, Harriet. You know that.”
    “So come up with one.” She folded her arms over her wide bosom. “Let me see that reputed genius of yours at work. I want to witness in action the writer everyone knows and loves, who’s hailed as always taking a fresh approach, who writes with rare insight, who lays bare for his readers the soul of the story.” She gave it a count of five. “Well?”
    With as much equanimity as possible, he unclenched his teeth and said, “I still have vacation days. At least a week’s worth.”
    “You’ve had two weeks off already.”
    “Not long enough.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “I just returned from a war zone.”
    “No one forced you to stay over there. You could have come home at any time.”
    “There were too many good stories to tell.”
    “Whom do you think you’re kidding?” she scoffed. “You wanted to dress up and play soldier, and you did. For three quarters of a year. On the magazine’s nickel. If you hadn’t come home on your own when you did, I, as incoming editor-in-chief, was going to haul your ass back.”
    “Careful, Harriet. Along with your dark roots, your envy is showing.”
    “Envy?”
    “Nothing you wrote was ever short-listed for a Pulitzer.”
    “But you’ve yet to be nominated for one, ergo you’ve never been awarded one, so big fucking deal about those rumors, which you probably started yourself. Now, I’ve got other things to do that are much more important.” She arched a penciled eyebrow. “That is, unless you want to turn in your key to the men’s restroom here and now, in which case I’m more than happy to call Bookkeeping and request your severance check.”
    She paused for several seconds, and when he didn’t move, she continued. “No? Then your butt is in seat eighteen-A on a flight to Boise tomorrow morning.” She slapped an airline ticket on top of the research folder. “Regional jet.”
    *  *  *
     
    Dawson pulled to the curb in front of the neat Georgetown townhouse and cut his car’s engine. Raising his hips, he fished a small bottle of pills from the