Mirror Image

“No, I didn’t see anything. Give me a handkerchief,” he repeated. Eddy took one from his pocket. Avery snatched it from him and pressed it to the bleeding gash near Tate’s hairline. “Thanks. Now help me up.”

“I’m not sure you should try and stand,” she cautioned.

“I’m okay.” He smiled unsteadily. “Just help me get up off my ass, okay?”

“I could throttle you for joking at a time like this.”

“Sorry. Somebody beat you to it.”

As she and Eddy helped him to his feet, Jack ran up, huffing for breath. “A couple of the workers don’t like your politics. The police have arrested them.”

There was a commotion at the far corner of the parking lot. Anti-Rutledge picket signs bobbed up and down like pogo sticks. “Rutledge is a pinko fag,” read one. “Vote for a bleeding liberal? You’re bleeding crazy!” read another. And “Rutledge is a rutting commie.”

“Let’s go,” Eddy ordered.

“No.” Tate’s lips were stiff and white from a combination of anger and pain. “I came here to shake hands and ask for votes, and that’s what I’m going to do. A couple of bottle throwers aren’t going to stop me.”

“Tate, Eddy’s right.” Avery clutched his arm tightly. “This is a police matter now.”

She had died a thousand deaths on her headlong rush to reach him. She had thought, “This is it. This is what I wanted to prevent, and I have failed to.” The incident brought home to her just how vulnerable he was. What kind of protection could she offer him? If someone wanted to kill him badly enough, he could. There wouldn’t be a damn thing she or anyone else could do to prevent it.

“Hello, I’m Tate Rutledge, running for the U.S. Senate.” Stubbornly, Tate turned to the man standing nearest him. The UAW member looked down at Tate’s extended hand, then glanced around uncertainly at his co-workers. Finally, he shook Tate’s hand. “I would appreciate your vote in November,” he told the man before moving to the next. “Hi, I’m Tate Rutledge.”

Despite his advisers, Tate moved through the crowd, shaking hands with his right hand, holding the blood-stained handkerchief to his temple with the left. Avery had never loved him so much.

Nor had she ever been more afraid for him.

* * *

“How do I look?”

Tate asked for her opinion only after dubiously consulting his reflection in the mirror. He’d remained on the parking lot of the assembly plant until those going off duty had left for home and those reporting to work had gone inside.

Only then had he allowed Eddy and her to push him into the backseat of the car and rush him to the nearest emergency room. Jack, who followed in the second car, joined them there, where a resident physician took three stitches and covered them with a small, square, white bandage.

Avery had placed a call to Nelson and Zee from the emergency room, knowing that if they heard about the incident on the news they would be worried. They insisted on speaking with Tate. He joked about the injury, although Avery saw him gratefully accept the painkiller the nurse gave him.

A horde of reporters was waiting for them in the lobby of the Adolphus when they returned. They surged forward en masse. “Be sure they get pictures of the blood on your dress,” Eddy had told her out the side of his mouth.

For that insensitive remark, she could easily have scratched his eyes out. “You bastard.”

“I’m just doing my job, Carole,” he said blandly. “Making the most of every situation—even the bad ones.”

She had been too incensed to offer a comeback. Besides, they were battling their way through microphones and cameras toward the elevators. At the door to their room, she confronted Jack and Eddy, who were about to follow them inside.

“Tate is going to lie down and let that pain pill take effect,” she told them, barring any arguments to the contrary. “I’m going to tell the switchboard not to put any calls through.”

“He’s got to make some kind of statement.”

“You write it,” she said to Jack. “You would rewrite whatever he said anyway. Just remember what he told us on the drive back. He doesn’t intend to press charges against the man who threw the bottle, although he abhors violence and considers it a base form of self-expression. Nor does he blame the UAW as a group for the actions of a few members. I’m sure you can elaborate on that.”

“I’ll pick you up here at seven-thirty,” Eddy said as he turned to go. Over his shoulder, he added peremptorily, “Sharp.”

Tate had dozed for a while, then watched the news before getting up to shower and dress. Now he turned away from the bureau mirror and faced her, lifting his hands away from his sides. “Well?

Tilting her head, she gave him a thoughtful appraisal. “Very rakish.” His hair dipped attractively over the wound. “The bandage adds a cavalier dash to your very proper tuxedo.”

“Well, that’s good,” he muttered, tentatively touching the bandage, “because it hurts like bloody hell.”