Mirror Image

Disobediently, Avery dashed after them. There were even more people in the suite now. Campaign workers had thronged the corridor and were forcing their way through the double doors to catch a glimpse of their hero. The noise was deafening. Somehow, over it, Avery heard Carole’s name and turned in that direction.

Fancy squeezed through the squirming bodies. Inertia propelled her straight into Avery’s arms. “Fancy! Where have you been?”

“Don’t lecture me. I’ve been through bloody hell trying to get here. There’s a guy out in the hall who’s really pissed off because I welshed on a deal and another one named John who’s—”

“Was there anything in the box?”

“Here.” The younger woman thrust the package at Avery. “I hope to God it’s worth all the hell I’ve been through to get it here.”

“Carole! You, too, Fancy, let’s go!” Eddy shouted at them, waving them toward the door above the heads of the celebrants.

Avery ripped into the envelope and saw that it contained a videotape. “Stall them if you can.”

“Huh?” Stupefied, Fancy watched her slip into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “Jesus, is it me, or has everybody else gone fuckin’ nuts?” A total stranger danced by and thrust a magnum of champagne into her hand. She took a long gulp.

Inside the bedroom, Avery inserted the tape into the VCR. She backed up toward the bed until the backs of her knees made contact, then sat down on the edge of it. Using the remote control, she fast-forwarded past the color bars to the clapboard. She recognized the station’s call letters. Washington state, wasn’

t it? The reporter’s name was unfamiliar to her, but the photographer was listed as Van Lovejoy.

Excitement churned inside her. Van had sent the tape to Irish’s box, so it must contain something vitally important. After watching for several minutes, however, she couldn’t imagine what that something might be. Was Van playing a joke?

The subject of the piece was a white supremacist and paramilitary group that had a permanent encampment located in an undisclosed spot, deep within the forested wilderness. On weekends, members would meet to plan their annihilation of everybody who wasn’t exactly like them. It was their goal to eventually take over America, making it the racially pure, undiluted nation it should be.

Van, who to Avery’s knowledge, had no political predilection, must have been alarmed by the ferocity of the hatred the organization espoused, for he had documented on tape the war games they played. He featured them swapping arms and ammunition, training newcomers in guerrilla tactics, and indoctrinating their children into believing that they were superior to everyone. They preached it all in the name of Christianity.

It was captivating video and the news hound inside her regretted having to fast-forward through it. She ran it at normal speed occasionally to make sure she wasn’t missing the pertinence of the tape, but she couldn’t find a single clue why Van had considered it crucial enough to mail.

His camera panned across a group of men dressed in military fatigues. They were armed to the teeth. Avery backed the tape up, then slowed it down so she could study each face. The commander was screaming swill into the receptive ears of his soldiers.

Van zoomed in for a close-up of one. Avery gasped with recognition. Her head began to swim.

He looked different. His scalp shone through the buzz haircut. Camouflage makeup had been smeared on his face, but it was instantly recognizable because she’d been living with him for months.

“That all men are created equal is a bunch of crap,” the instructor ranted into the hand-held microphone. “A rumor started by inferiors in the hope that somebody would believe it.”

The man Avery recognized applauded. He whistled. Hatred smoldered in his eyes.

“We don’t want to live alongside niggers and kikes and queers, right?”

“Right!”

“We don’t want them corrupting our children with their commie propaganda, right?”

“Right!”

“So what are we going to do to anybody who tells us we have to?”

The group, as one body, rose. Van’s camera stayed focused on the participant who seemed the most steeped in bigotry and hatred. “Kill the bastards!” he shouted through his mask of camouflage makeup. “Kill the bastards!”

The door suddenly swung open. Avery hastily switched off the tape and vaulted from the bed. “Jack!” She covered her lips with bloodless fingers. Her knees almost refused to support her.

“They sent me back for you. We’re supposed to be downstairs now, but I’m glad we have a minute alone.”

Avery propped herself up, using the TV set behind her for support. Beyond Jack’s shoulder she noted that the parlor was deserted now. Everyone had left for the ballroom downstairs.

He advanced on her. “I want to know why you did it.”

“Did what?”