Mirror Image

“We’ve brought him pictures of you—recent pictures, taken from every angle. He’ll be able to reconstruct your features perfectly. The burns on your face affected only the outer skin, so you won’t have to have grafts. When the skin peels, it will be like taking off ten years, the doctor said. You should appreciate that.”

The subtle inflections in his speech slipped past her comprehension while she focused on key words. The message that had come through loud and clear was that beneath the bandages, she looked like a monster.

Panic welled up inside her. It must have communicated itself to him because he laid his hand on her shoulder again. “Carole, I didn’t tell you the extent of your injuries to upset you. I know that you’re worried about it. I thought it best to be frank so you could mentally prepare yourself for the ordeal ahead of you.

“It won’t be easy, but everybody in the family is behind you one hundred percent.” He paused and lowered his voice. “For the time being, I’m laying personal considerations aside and concentrating on putting you back together again. I’ll stick by you until you are completely satisfied with the surgeon’s results. I promise you that. I owe it to you for saving Mandy’s life.”

She tried to shake her head in denial of everything he was saying, but it was no use. She couldn’t move. Making an effort to speak around the tube in her throat caused pain to her chemically scorched esophagus.

Her frustration increased until a nurse came in and ordered him to leave. When he lifted his hand off her shoulder, she felt forsaken and alone.

The nurse administered a dose of narcotic. It stole through her veins, but she fought its anesthetizing effects. It was stronger than she, however, and gave her no choice but to submit.

* * *

“Carole, can you hear me?”

Roused, she moaned pitiably. The medication made her feel weighted down and lifeless, as though the only living cells in her entire body resided in her brain and the rest of her was dead.

“Carole?” the voice hissed close to her bandaged ear.

It wasn’t the man named Rutledge. She would have recognized his voice. She couldn’t remember if he had left her. She didn’t know who was speaking to her now. She wanted to shrink from this voice. It wasn’t soothing, like Mr. Rutledge’s.

“You’re still in bad shape and might succumb yet. But if you feel that you’re fixing to die, don’t make any deathbed confessions, even if you’re able to.”

She wondered if she was dreaming. Frightened, she opened her eye. As usual, the room was brightly lit. Her respirator hissed rhythmically. The person speaking to her was standing outside her peripheral vision. She could sense him there, but she couldn’t see him.

“We’re still in this together, you and I. And you’re in too deep to get out now, so don’t even consider it.”

To no avail, she tried to blink away her grogginess and disorientation. The person remained only a presence, without form or distinction—a disembodied, sinister voice.

“Tate will never live to take office. This plane crash has been an inconvenience, but we can work it to our advantage if you don’t panic. Hear me? If you come out of this, we’ll pick up where we left off. There’ll never be a Senator Tate Rutledge. He’ll die first.”

She squeezed her eye closed in an attempt to stave off her mounting panic.

“I know you can hear me, Carole. Don’t pretend you can’t.”

After several moments, she reopened her eye and rolled it as far back as she could. She still couldn’t see anybody, but she sensed her visitor had left.

Several minutes more ticked by, measured by the maddening cycle of the respirator. She hovered between sleep and wakefulness, valiantly fighting the effects of drugs, panic, and the disorientation inherent to an ICU.

Shortly afterward, a nurse came, checked her IV bottle, and took her blood pressure. She behaved routinely. Surely if someone were in her room, or had been there recently, the nurse would have acknowledged it. Satisfied with her patient’s condition, she left.

By the time she fell asleep again, she had convinced herself that she had only had a bad dream.

Two

Tate Rutledge stood at the window of his hotel room, gazing down at the traffic moving along the freeway. Taillights and headlights were reflected on the wet pavement, leaving watery streaks of red and white.

When he heard the door opening behind him, he turned on the heels of his boots and nodded a greeting to his brother. “I called your room a few minutes ago,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Drinking a beer down in the bar. The Spurs are playing the Lakers.”

“I’d forgotten. Who’s winning?”

His brother’s derisive frown indicated the silliness of that question. “Dad’s not back yet?”

Tate shook his head, let the drape fall back into place, and moved away from the window.