Mirror Image

Irish began barking orders louder than the radios, which were squawking noisily. “You,” he said, pointing toward the male reporter who had barged into his office only seconds earlier, “take a live remote unit and get the hell out there on the double.” The reporter and a video cameraman peeled away from the group and raced for the exit. “Who called this in?” Irish wanted to know.

“Martinez. He was driving to work and got caught up in traffic on 410.”

“Is he standing by?”

“He’s still there, talking on his car phone.”

“Tell him to get as close to the wreckage as he can, and shoot as much video as possible until the mobile unit arrives. Let’s get a chopper in the air, too. Somebody get on the phone and chase down the pilot. Meet him at the heliport.”

He scanned the faces, looking for one in particular. “Ike still around?” he asked, referring to the morning news anchorman.

“He’s in the john taking a crap.”

“Go get him. Tell him to get on the studio set. We’ll do a break-in bulletin. I want a statement from somebody in the tower, from the airport officials, the airline, police—something to go on the air with before the NTSB boys put a gag on everybody. Get on it, Hal. Somebody else call Avery at home. Tell her—”

“Can’t. She’s going to Dallas today, remember?”

“Shit. I forgot. No, wait,” Irish said, snapping his fingers and looking hopeful. “She might still be at the airport. If she is, she’ll be there ahead of everyone else. If she can get into the AireAmerica terminal, she can cover the story from the human interest angle. When she calls in, I want to be notified immediately.”

Eager for an update, he turned back to the radios. Adrenaline rushed through his system. This would mean he would have no weekend. It meant overtime and headaches, cold meals and stale coffee, but Irish was in his element. There was nothing like a good plane crash to round out a news week and boost ratings.

* * *

Tate Rutledge stopped his car in front of the house. He waved to the ranch foreman who was pulling out of the driveway in his pickup. A mongrel, mostly collie, bounded up and tackled him around the knees.

“Hey, Shep.” Tate reached down and petted the dog’s shaggy head. The dog looked up at him with unabashed hero worship.

Tens of thousands of people regarded Tate Rutledge with that same kind of reverent devotion. There was a lot about the man to admire. From the crown of his tousled brown hair to the toes of his scuffed boots, he was a man’s man and a woman’s fantasy.

But for every ardent admirer, he had an equally ardent enemy.

Instructing Shep to stay outdoors, he entered the wide foyer of the house and peeled off his sunglasses. His boot heels echoed on the quarry tile flooring as he headed toward the kitchen, where he could smell coffee brewing. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten before making the early round trip to San Antonio. He fantasized about a breakfast steak, grilled to perfection; a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs; and a few slices of hot, buttered toast. His stomach growled more aggressively.

His parents were in the kitchen, seated at the round oak table that had been there for as long as Tate could remember. As he walked in, his mother turned toward him, a stricken expression on her face. She was alarmingly pale. Nelson Rutledge, his father, immediately left his place at the table and moved toward him, arms outstretched.

“Tate.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, puzzled. “To look at the two of you, you’d think somebody just died.”

Nelson winced. “Weren’t you listening to your car radio?”

“No. Tapes. Why?” The first stirring of panic seized his heart. “What the hell’s happened?” His eyes flickered to the portable television on the tile countertop. It had been the focus of his parents’ attention when he walked in.

“Tate,” Nelson said in an emotionally ragged voice, “Channel Two just broke into ‘Wheel of Fortune’ with a news bulletin. A plane crashed on takeoff a few minutes ago at the airport.” Tate’s chest rose and fell on a quick, soundless gasp.

“It’s still unconfirmed exactly which flight number it was, but they think—” Nelson stopped and shook his head mournfully. At the table, Zee crammed a damp Kleenex to her compressed li

ps.

“Carole’s plane?” Tate asked hoarsely.

Nelson nodded.

One

She clawed her way up through the gray mist.

The clearing beyond it must exist, she reassured herself, even if she couldn’t see it yet. For a minute, she thought that reaching it couldn’t possibly be worth the struggle, but something behind her was so terrifying it propelled her ever forward.