Mirror Image

Tate’s wide shoulders drooped slightly. “She is. I hope to God that surgeon knows what he’s talking about.”

Nelson laid a hand on Tate’s arm in a silent gesture of reassurance. For a moment, Tate covered his father’s hand with his own. “Dr. Sawyer, the surgeon, did the video imaging today. He electronically painted Carole’s face onto a TV screen, going by the pictures we’d given him. It was remarkable.”

“And he thinks he can reproduce this video image during surgery?”

“That’s what he says. He told me there might be some slight differences, but most of them will be in her favor.” Tate laughed dryly. “Which she should like.”

“Before this is over, she might believe that every woman in America should be so lucky,” Nelson said with his characteristic optimism.

But Tate was thinking about that single eye, bloodshot and swollen, yet still the same dark coffee brown, looking up at him with fear. He wondered if she was afraid of dying. Or of living without the striking face that she had used to every advantage.

Nelson said good night and retired to his own room. Deep in thought, Tate turned off the TV and the lights, stripped, and slid into bed.

Lightning flashes penetrated the drapes, momentarily illuminating the room. Thunder crashed near the building, rattling panes of glass. He stared at the flickering patterns with dry, gritty eyes.

They hadn’t even kissed good-bye.

Because of their recent, vicious argument, there had been a lot of tension between them that morning. Carole had been anxious to be off for a few days of shopping in Dallas, but they’d arrived at the airport in time to have a cup of coffee in the restaurant.

Mandy had accidentally dribbled orange juice on her dress. Naturally, Carole had overreacted. As they left the coffee shop, she blotted at the stained, ruffled pinafore and scolded Mandy for being so careless.

“For crissake, Carole, you can’t even see the spot,” he had said.

“I can see it.”

“Then don’t look at it.”

She had shot her husband that drop-dead look that no longer fazed him. He carried Mandy through the terminal, chatting with her about all the exciting things she would see and do in Dallas. At the gate, he knelt and gave her a hug. “Have fun, sweetheart. Will you bring me back a present?”

“Can I, Mommy?”

“Sure,” Carole replied distractedly.

“Sure,” Mandy told him with a big smile.

“I’ll look forward to that.” He drew her to him for one last good-bye hug.

Straightening up, he asked Carole if she wanted him to wait until their plane left the gate. “There’s no reason for you to.”

He hadn’t argued, but only made certain they had all their carryon luggage. “Well, see you on Tuesday then.”

“Don’t be late picking us up,” Carole called as she pulled Mandy toward the Jetway, where an airline attendant was waiting to take their boarding passes. “I hate hanging around airports.”

Just before they entered the passageway, Mandy turned and waved at him. Carole hadn’t even looked back. Self-confident and assured, she had walked purposefully forward.

Maybe that’s why that single eye was filled with such anxiety now. The foundation of Carole’s confidence—her looks—had been stolen by fate. She despised ugliness. Perhaps her tears hadn’t been for those who had died in the crash, as he had originally thought. Perhaps they had been for herself. She might wish that she had died instead of being disfigured, even temporarily.

Knowing Carole, he wouldn’t be surprised.

* * *

In the pecking order of assistants to the Bexar County coroner, Grayson was on the lowest rung. That’s why he checked and rechecked the information before approaching his immediate supervisor with his puzzling findings.

“Got a minute?”

An exhausted, querulous man wearing a rubber apron and gloves gave him a quelling glance over his shoulder. “What’d you have in mind—a round of golf?”

“No, this.”