Free Fallen Masters by John Edward Page B

continue with that sport for many years by participating in fun runs and marathons. And it was the running that helped him keep the trim body that he still enjoyed. Dawson earned a degree in English, and his father thought that he was going to become a teacher; in fact he urged him to do so. But Dawson moved to New York where he found a job as an associate editor at Penword House. He did well and moved up to editor, then senior editor. That was when he met Mary Beth Williams. Mary Beth had no desire to ever be published.
    That was important to someone who was an acquisitions editor, someone who could fulfill the dreams of struggling writers all over the country. He used to attend writers’ conferences, and had to exercise restraint and common sense in order to resist the flirtations of women who made it clear that they would do almost anything to have their book published. That she didn’t give a fig for what he could do for her was one of the first things that endeared Mary Beth to him—just one of many—and he fell hopelessly in love. They were soon married, and their life together was about as perfect as anyone could ever hope for. But all that changed one bright September morning.
    Mary Beth was a financial wizard, a bond trader with Cantor Fitzgerald. She worked on the 101st floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Dawson had often replayed his last telephone conversations with her on that terrible September 11, 2001. She had just been promoted, which allowed her to have a desk next to one of the windows, and she wanted to celebrate by having lunch with him at Windows on the World.
    “Remember,” she said early that morning. “You must be wearing a jacket and tie.”
    “Windows on the World is pretty expensive,” Dawson replied. “Couldn’t we just celebrate at a burger joint somewhere?”
    “You don’t worry about how expensive it is. I’m paying for it. This is my celebration, remember.”
    Dawson got to the office early and was starting on at least ten submissions he had to look at, all ten from respected agents, which meant he had to do more than just scan them. He was about thirty pages into Remembered Faces, Forgotten Names when his cell phone rang. Seeing that it was Mary Beth, he picked up.
    “I know, I know, jacket and tie. I won’t forget,” he said.
    “Dawson,” Mary Beth responded, “I’m not calling to talk about that. I’ve been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes, but the phone lines have been jammed. The World Trade Center has just been hit by a plane.”
    “What? Where did it hit?” He looked at his watch. It was just past 9 A.M .
    “I don’t know. Below us somewhere.”
    “A small private plane?”
    “I don’t think so. The explosion was too loud, and there’s smoke everywhere.”
    Dawson could hear a lot of confusion in the background, shouts of anger and fear.
    “ The sprinklers haven’t come on! Why haven’t the sprinklers come on?”
    “Where is the fire extinguisher?”
    “Someone used it to break out the window.”
    “Mary Beth, I hear a lot of commotion in the background. Is it really that bad?”
    “It’s pretty bad,” Mary Beth said, strangely calm. “Someone just came back in and said that all the stairwells are blocked, we can’t go down.”
    “Dawson, my God! Come out here and see what is on the TV!” Sam Bryant said. Sam was the publisher of Penword House. “I turned on the TV and CNN is reporting that an airliner just flew into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.”
    “North Tower,” Dawson said. “I’m talking to Mary Beth now. She’s in the North Tower.”
    “Both of them got hit,” Bryant said. “And they are now just saying that this is no accident!”
    “This is bad, Dawson,” Mary Beth said. Now he could hear the fear in her voice. “This is very bad.”
    “I’m sure that help is on the way,” Dawson said. But even as he said that, he could see on the TV screen smoke billowing out from the point of impact