Mirror Image

However, Avery guessed that his composure was a façade. He exuded confidence because he wanted everyone else to remain at ease. That would be typical of Tate.

She longed for a private moment with him upon their return to the hotel, and was glad when his conference with Jack and Eddy concluded quickly.

“I’m going out for a stroll along the Riverwalk,” Jack told them as he pulled on his jacket. “Dorothy Rae and Fancy are watching a movie on the TV in our room. It’s the kind of sentimental crap I can’t stomach, so until it’s over I’m going to make myself scarce.”

“I’ll ride the elevator down with you,” Eddy said. “I want to check the lobby newsstand for papers we might have missed.”

They left. Mandy was already asleep in her room. Now, Avery thought, she would have time to plead her case before Tate. Maybe his judgment wouldn’t be so harsh this time. To her dismay, however, he picked up his room key and moved toward the door.

“I’m going to visit with Mom and Dad for a while.”

“Tate, did you notice Van at the airport? I tried calling him at home, but he wasn’t back yet. I wanted him to bring the tapes over so—”

“You look tired. Don’t wait up.”

He left the suite and stayed gone a long time. Finally, because it had been such a long, dreary day, which she’d spent largely confined to the suite, she went to bed.

Tate never joined her. She woke up during the night. Missing his warmth, panicked because she didn’t hear him breathing beside her, she quickly crossed the bedroom and flung open the door.

He was sleeping on the sofa in the parlor.

It broke her heart.

For months he had been lost to her because of Carole’s deceit. Now he was lost to her because of her own.

Forty-Seven

The bellyache Irish had when he went to bed the night before was mild in comparison to the raging one he had by seven o’clock Election Day morning.

It had dawned clear and cool. Heavy voter turnout was predicted statewide because of the perfect autumn weather.

The climate in the KTEX news department wasn’t so clement. Its chief was on the warpath. “Sorry, worthless son of a bitch,” Irish mouthed as he slammed down the telephone receiver. When Van failed to show up in the newsroom at six-thirty as scheduled, Irish had started telephoning his apartment. There was still no answer. “Where could he be?”

“Maybe he’s on his way,” another photographer volunteered, trying to be helpful.

“Maybe,” Irish grumbled as he lit a cigarette, which he’d only planned to hold between his lips. “In the meantime, I’m sending you. If you hurry, you can catch the Rutledges as they leave the hotel. If not, drive like hell to catch up with them in Kerrville. And report in every few minutes,” he yelled after the cameraman who scrambled out with the reporter. Both were grateful to escape with their scalps intact.

Irish snatched up the telephone and punched out a number he had memorized by now. “Good morning,” a pleasant voice answered, “Palacio Del Rio.”

“I need to speak to Mrs. Rutledge.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t put your call—”

“Yeah, I know, I know, but this is important.”

“If you’ll leave your name and num—”

He hung up on her saccharine spiel and immediately called Van’s number. It rang incessantly while Irish paced as far as the telephone cord would reach. “When I get my hands on him, I’m gonna hammer his balls to mush.”

He collared a gofer who had the misfortune to collide with him. “Hey, you, drive over there and haul his skinny ass out of bed.”

“Who, sir?”

“Van Lovejoy. Who the fuck do you think?” Irish bellowed impatiently. Why had everybody chosen today to turn up either missing or stupid? He scrawled Van’s address on a sheet of paper, shoved it at the terror-stricken kid, and ordered ominously, “Don’t come back without him.”

* * *

Avery emerged from the hotel, holding Mandy by one sweating hand. The other was tucked into the crook of Tate’s elbow. She smiled for the myriad cameras, wishing her facial muscles would stop cramping and quivering.