Mirror Image

“I’ll be all right.”

“I hope so,” he said, moving toward the door. “Eddy wants everything to go like clockwork.”

* * *

On Monday evening, Irish summoned KTEX’s political reporter into his office. “You all set for this week?”

“Yeah. Rutledge’s people sent over a schedule today. If we cover all this, you’ll have to give Dekker equal time.”

“Let me worry about that. Your job is to document what’s going on in Rutledge’s campaign. I want daily reports. By the way, I’m sending Lovejoy with you instead of the photographer originally assigned.”

“Jesus, Irish,” the reporter whined. “What have I done to deserve him, huh? He’s a pain in the ass. He’s unreliable. Half the time he smells bad.”

He continued with a litany of objections. He preferred to be paired with just about anybody over Van Lovejoy. Irish listened silently. At the conclusion of the reporter’s petition, he repeated, “I’m sending Lovejoy with you.” The reporter slunk out. Once Irish said something twice, there was no use arguing.

Irish had arrived at that decision several days earlier. Before he had even begun, the reporter hadn’t had a chance in hell of changing Irish’s mind.

Avery might not think she was in any imminent danger, but she was impetuous and headstrong and often made snap judgments for which she later paid dearly. He couldn’t believe the mess she’d made for herself now. God almighty, he thought, she had become another woman! It was too late for him to talk her out of assuming Carole Rutledge’s identity, but he was going to do all he could to see that she didn’t pay for this impersonation with her life.

They had agreed to contact each other through his post office box if telephoning proved risky. He had given her his extra key to the box. Fat lot of good that would do her if she needed immediate help. That safety net was no more substantial than a spiderweb, but she had refused his offer to loan her a handgun.

The whole cloak-and-dagger routine made him nervous as hell. Just thinking about it made him reach for his bottle of antacid. These days he was drinking as much of that stuff as he was whiskey. He was too old for this, but he couldn’t just stand by, do nothing, and let Avery get herself killed.

Since he couldn’t be her guardian angel, he would do the next best thing—he’d send Van along. Having Van around would no doubt make her nervous, but if she got into trouble while on the campaign trail, she’d have somebody to run to. Van Lovejoy wasn’t much, but for the time being, he was the best Irish could do.

Twenty-Four

The first glitch in Eddy’s carefully orchestrated campaign trip occurred on the third day. They were in Houston. Early that morning Tate had made an impassioned breakfast speech to a rowdy audience of longshoremen. He was well received.

Upon their return to the downtown hotel, Eddy went to his room to answer telephone calls that had come in during their absence. Everyone else gathered in Tate’s suite. Jack buried himself in the morning newspapers, scouring them for stories relating to Tate, his opponent, or the election in general. Avery sat on the floor with Mandy, who was scribbling in a Mickey Mouse coloring book.

Tate stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows behind his head. He turned on the television set to watch a game show. The questions were asinine, the contestants frenzied, the host obnoxious, but often something that inane relaxed his mind and opened up new avenues of thought. The best ideas came to him when he wasn’t concentrating.

Nelson and Zee were working a crossword puzzle together.

Eddy interrupted the restful scene. He barged into the room, as excited as Tate had ever seen him. “Switch that thing off and listen.”

Tate used the remote control to silence the TV set. “Well,” he said with an expectant laugh, “you’ve got everybody’s attention, Mr. Paschal.”

“One of the largest Rotary Clubs in the state is meeting at noon today. It’s their most important meeting of the year. New officers are being sworn in, and wives are invited. Their scheduled speaker called in sick this morning. They want you.”

Tate sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. “How many people?”

“Two-fifty, three hundred.” Eddy was riffling through the papers in his briefcase. “These are top businessmen and professionals—pillars of the community. Oldest Rotary Club in Houston. Its members have lots of money, even in these depressed times. Here,” he said, thrusting several she

ets of paper at Tate, “this was a hell of a speech you gave in Amarillo last month. Glance over it. And for God’s sake, get out of that chambray and denim and put on a conservative suit.”

“This crowd sounds more like Dekker people.”

“They are. That’s why it’s important that you go. Dekker’s made you out to be a kid with his head in the clouds, at best, or a wacko liberal, at worst. Show them you’ve got both feet on the ground and that you don’t have horns and a pointed tail.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re invited, too, Carole. Look your charming best. The women—”

“I can’t be there.”

Everyone’s attention abruptly shifted from Eddy to her, where she still sat on the floor with Mandy, holding a selection of crayons in her hand and a picture of Donald Duck in her lap. “Mandy’s appointment with Dr. Webster is at one o’clock today.”

“Crap.” Tate plowed his hand through his hair. “That’s right. I’d forgotten.”

Eddy divided his disbelieving gaze between them. “You can’t even consider throwing away this opportunity. We’re up one point in the polls this week, Tate, but we’re still trailing by a dismal margin. This speech could mean a lot of campaign dollars—dollars we need to buy TV commercial time.”