The
wait was making Avery crazy. She sat in her little square cubicle,
her back against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, drumming
her fingertips against the desktop with one hand and holding an
icepack against her wounded knee with the other. What was taking so
long? Why hadn't Andrews called? She stared hard at the phone,
willing it to ring. Nothing. Not a sound. Turning in her swivel
chair, she checked the digital clock for the hundredth time. It was
now 10:05, same as it was ten seconds ago. For Pete's sake, she
should have heard something by now.

Mel Gibson stood up and leaned over the partition separating his
workspace from Avery's and gave her a sympathetic look. That was
his honest-to-goodness, real name, but Mel thought it was holding
him back because no one in the law enforcement agency would ever
take him seriously. Yet, he refused to have it legally changed to
"Brad Pitt," as his supportive coworkers had suggested.

"Hi, Brad," Avery said. She and the others were still trying out
the new name to see if it fit. Last week it was "George Clooney,"
and that name got about the same reaction "Brad" was getting now, a
glare and a reminder that his name wasn't "George," it wasn't
"Brad," and it wasn't "Mel." It was "Melvin."

"You probably should have heard by now," he said.

She refused to let him rile her. Tall, geeky-looking, with an
extremely prominent Adam's apple, Mel had the annoying habit of
using his third finger to push his thick wire-rimmed glasses back
up on his ski nose. Margo, another coworker, told Avery that Mel
did it on purpose. It was his way of letting the other three know
how superior he felt he was.

Avery disagreed. Mel wouldn't do anything improper. He lived by a
code of ethics he believed personified the FBI. He was dedicated,
responsible, hardworking, ambitious, and he dressed for the job he
wanted . . . with one little glitch. Although he was only
twenty-seven years old, his clothing resembled the attire agents
wore back in the fifties. Black suits, white long-sleeved shirts
with button-down collars, skinny black ties, black wingtip shoes
with a perfect shine, and a crew cut she knew he got trimmed once
every two weeks.

For all of his strange habits--he could quote any line from The FBI
Story, starring Jimmy Stewart--he had an incredibly sharp mind and
was the ultimate team player. He just needed to lighten up a bit.
That was all.

"I mean, don't you think you should have heard by now?" He sounded
as worried as she felt.

"It's still early." Then, less than five seconds later, she said,
"You're right. We should have heard by now."

"No," he corrected. "I said that you should have heard. Lou and
Margo and I didn't have anything to do with your decision to call
in the SWAT team."

Oh, God, what had she been thinking? "In other words, you don't
want to take the flak if I'm wrong?"

"Not flak," he said. "The fall. I need this job. It's the closest
I'm going to get to being an agent. With my eyesight . . ."

"I know, Mel."

"Melvin," he automatically corrected. "And the benefits are
great."

Margo stood so she could join the conversation. "The pay sucks,
though."

Mel shrugged. "So does the work environment," he said. "But still .
. . it's the FBI."

"What's wrong with our work environment?" Lou asked as he too
stood. His workstation was on Avery's left. Mel's was directly in
front of hers, and Margo's cubicle was adjacent to Lou's. The
pen--as they lovingly called their hellhole office space--was
located behind the mechanical room with its noisy water heaters and
compressors. "I mean, really, what's wrong with it?" he asked
again, sounding bewildered.

Lou was as clueless as ever, but also endearing, Avery thought.
Whenever she looked at him, she was reminded of Pig-Pen in the old
Peanuts cartoon. Lou always looked disheveled. He was absolutely
brilliant, yet he couldn't seem to find his mouth when he was
eating, and his short-sleeved shirt usually had at least one stain.
This morning there were two. One was jelly from the
raspberry-filled doughnuts Margo had brought in. The big red spot
was just above the black ink stain from the cartridge pen in his
white shirt pocket.

Lou tucked in his shirttail for the third time that morning and
said, "I like being down here. It's cozy."

"We work in the corner of the basement without any windows," Margo
pointed out.

"So what?" Lou asked. "Where we work doesn't make us any less
important. We're all part of a team."

"I'd like to be a part of the team that has windows," Margo
said.

"Can't have everything. Say, Avery, how's the knee?" he asked,
suddenly changing subjects.

She gingerly lifted the icepack and surveyed the damage. "The
swelling's gone down."

"How'd it happen?" Mel asked. He was the only one who hadn't heard
the grisly details.

Margo ran her fingers through her short dark curls and said, "An
old lady nearly killed her."

"With her Cadillac," Lou said. "It happened in her parking garage.
The woman obviously didn't see her. There really ought to be an age
restriction on renewing a driver's license."

"Did she hit you?" Mel asked.

"No," Avery answered. "I dove to get out of her way when she came
roaring around the corner. I ended up flying across the hood of a
Mercedes and whacked my knee on the hood ornament. I recognized the
Cadillac. It belongs to Mrs. Speigel, who lives in my building. I
think she's about ninety. She's not supposed to drive anymore, but
every once in a while I'll see her taking the car out to do
errands."

"Did she stop?" Mel asked.

She shook her head. "I don't think she had a clue I was there. She
was accelerating so fast I was just glad there weren't any other
people in her way."

"You're right, Lou," Margo said. She disappeared behind her cubicle
wall, bent down to push the box of copy paper into the corner, and
then stood on top of it. She was suddenly as tall as Mel. "There
should be an age limit on keeping a license. Avery told us the
woman was so little she couldn't see her head over the back of the
seat. Just a puff of gray hair."

"Our bodies shrink as we age," Mel said. "Just think, Margo. When
you're ninety, no one will be able to see you."

Margo, a petite five feet two inches, wasn't offended. "I'll just
wear higher heels."

The phone rang, interrupting the conversation. Avery jumped at the
sound, then checked the time. It was 10:14.

"This is it," she whispered as it rang a second time.

"Answer it," Margo anxiously demanded.

Avery picked up the phone on the third ring. "Avery Delaney."

"Mr. Carter would like to see you in his office at ten-thirty, Miss
Delaney."

She recognized the voice. Carter's secretary had a distinct Maine
accent. "I'll be there."

Three pairs of eyes watched her as she hung up the phone. "Oh,
boy," she whispered.

"What?" Margo, the most impatient of the group, demanded.

"Carter wants to see me."

"Uh-oh. That can't be good." Mel made the remark, and then, as if
he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have, added, "You want
us to go with you?"

"You'd do that?" Avery asked, surprised by the offer.

"I don't want to, but I would."

"It's okay. I'll take the bullet alone."

"I think we should all go," Margo said. "A mass firing. I mean,
we're all in this together, right?"

"Yes," Avery agreed. "But you three tried to talk me out of going
to Andrews. Remember? I'm the only one who screwed up." She stood,
put the icepack on top of the file cabinet, and reached for her
jacket.

"This can't be good," Mel repeated. "They're breaking the chain of
command. It must be really bad to get the boss's boss involved.
Carter was just promoted to head of in-house operations."

"Which means he's now the boss's boss's boss," Margo pointed
out.

"I wonder if all the bosses will be there," Lou said.

"Right," Avery muttered. "Maybe all three of them want to take a
turn firing me." She buttoned her suit jacket and then said, "How
do I look?"

"Like someone tried to run over you," Mel said.

"Your hose are shredded," Margo told her.

"I know. I thought I had another pair in my drawer, but I
didn't."

"I've got an extra pair."

"Thanks, Margo, but you're a petite, and I'm not. Mel, Lou, turn
around or sit down."

As soon as they turned their backs, she reached up under her skirt
and pulled off her panty hose. Then she put her heels back
on.

She was sorry now she'd worn the suit. She usually wore pants and a
blouse, but she was going to a luncheon today and so she'd pulled
out all the stops and put on the Armani suit her aunt Carrie had
sent as a present two years ago. The color was a wonderful taupe
gray and had a matching sleeveless V neck shell. At one time there
had been an obscene slit up the side, but Avery had sewn it
together. It was a great-looking suit. Now it would be remembered
as the suit she wore the day she got fired.

"Catch," Margo said as she threw the new package of panty hose at
Avery. "These are the one-size-fits-all kind. They'll work just
fine. You have to wear hose. You know the dress code."

Avery read the label. It did say the hose would fit every size.
"Thanks," she said as she sat down again. Her legs were long, and
she was afraid of tearing the hose when she pulled them up over her
hips, but they seemed to fit.

"You're going to be late," Mel told her when she stood up again and
adjusted her skirt. Why hadn't she noticed how short it was? The
hem barely touched the top of her knees.

"I've got four minutes left." After she'd put on some lip gloss and
clipped her hair back behind her neck with a barrette, she slipped
the heels back on. Only then did she notice how loose the right
heel was. She must have broken it when she slammed into the hood of
the car.

Can't do anything about it now, she thought. She took a deep
breath, straightened her shoulders, and limped toward the aisle.
With every step, her left knee throbbed.

"Wish me luck."

"Avery," Mel shouted. He waited until she turned around, then
hurled her clip-on ID. "You should probably wear this."

"Yeah, right. They'll want to take it from me before they escort me
out of the building."

Margo called after her. "Hey, Avery, think of it this way--if you
get fired, you won't have to worry about all the work piling up
while you and your aunt chill out at that fancy spa."

"I haven't decided if I'm going to meet my aunt or not. She still
thinks I'm chaperoning those kids around D.C."

"But now that that got canceled, you ought to go get pampered,"
Margo argued.

"That's right, you should go," Lou said. "You could stay at Utopia
a whole month and work on your resume."

"Not helping, guys," Avery said without looking back.

Carter's office was four flights up. On any other day she would
have taken the stairs as aerobic exercise, but her left knee ached
too much, and the heel on her right shoe was too wobbly. She was
exhausted by the time she reached the elevator. While she waited
for it, she rehearsed what she would say when Carter asked what in
God's name she thought she was doing.

The doors parted. She took a step forward and felt something snap.
Glancing down, she spotted the heel of her shoe lodged in the seam
between the elevator and the floor. Since she was alone, she hiked
her skirt up and bent down on her good knee to pry the heel loose.
It was then that the elevator doors closed on her head.

Muttering an expletive, Avery fell back. The car began to move and
she grabbed the railing. She clutched the broken heel in her hand
and pulled herself to her feet just as the doors opened on the
first floor. By the time she reached the fourth floor, the elevator
was full of passengers, and she was squeezed to the back of the
car. Feeling like an idiot, she excused her way to the front and
limped off.

Unfortunately, Carter's office was located at the end of a long
corridor. The glass doors were so far away she couldn't even read
the name etched above the brass handle.

Suck it up, she thought as she started walking. She was halfway
there when she stopped to check the time and give her leg a rest.
She had one minute. She could make it, she thought as she started
walking again. Her barrette slipped out of her hair, but she caught
it before it fell to the floor. She clipped it back in place and
continued on. She was beginning to wish Mrs. Speigel's car had
actually struck her. Then she wouldn't have to come up with any
excuses, and Carter could call her at the hospital and fire her
over the phone.

Suck it up, she repeated. Could it get any worse?

Of course it could. At precisely the second she was pulling the
door open, her panty hose began to slip. By the time she'd limped
over to the receptionist, the waistband was down around her
hips.

The stately brunette woman wearing a knockoff Chanel suit looked a
bit startled as she watched Avery approach.

"Miss Delaney?"

"Yes," she answered.

The woman smiled. "You're right on time. Mr. Carter will appreciate
that. He keeps a tight schedule."

Avery leaned forward as the woman picked up the phone to announce
her. "Is there a ladies' room close by?"

"It's down the hall, past the bank of elevators, on your
left."

Avery glanced behind her and considered her options. She could be
late for the appointment, try to run like hell down the mile-long
hallway and rip off the damn pantyhose, or she could--

The receptionist interrupted her frantic thoughts. "Mr. Carter will
see you now."

She didn't move.

"You may go inside," she said.

"The thing is . . ."

"Yes?"

Avery slowly straightened. The panty hose stayed put. Smiling, she
said, "I'll go on in then."

She pivoted and held her smile as she grabbed the edge of the desk,
and then tried to walk as though her shoe still had a heel. With
any luck, Carter wouldn't even notice her
condition.

Excerpted from KILLJOY © Copyright 2002 by Julie Garwood.
Reprinted with permission by Ballantine Books, a division of Random
House, Inc. All rights reserved.