Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  Tate looked for something to criticize, but could find nothing. She reached for dirty hands and gave them a friendly shake. Her smile was unflagging, even though the crowd was rambunctious and the heat unbearable.

  And she was the first one to reach his side when something struck him and he went down.

  Twenty-Nine

  Avery happened to be watching Tate when his head suddenly snapped backward. Reflexively, he raised his hand to his forehead, reeled, then fell.

  “No!”

  There were only a few yards separating them, but the crowd was dense. It seemed to take forever for her to push her way through the people. She ruined her stockings and skinned her knees when she landed on the hot pavement beside Tate.

  “Tate! Tate!” Blood was oozing from a wound on the side of his head. “Get a doctor, somebody. Eddy! Jack! Somebody do something. He’s hurt!”

  “I’m all right.” He struggled to sit up. Swaying dizzily, he groped for support, found Avery’s arm, and held on tight.

  Since Tate could speak and make an effort to sit up, she was sure that the bullet had only grazed him and not penetrated his skull. She cushioned his head on her breasts. His blood ran warm and wet down the front of her clothing, but she didn’t even notice.

  “Jesus, what happened?” Eddy finally managed to elbow his way through the crowd to them. “Tate?”

  “I’m okay,” he mumbled. Gradually, Avery released her hold on his head. “Give me a handkerchief.”

  “They’re calling an ambulance.”

  “No need to. Something hit me.” He glanced around him, searching through a forest of feet and legs. “That,” he said, pointing to the broken beer bottle lying nearby on the pavement.

  “Who the hell threw it?”

  “Did you see him?” Avery was prepared to do battle with the attacker.

  “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.”

  Avery moved nearer and gazed up at him with concern. “We don’t have to go.”

  “Eddy would shit a brick.”

  “Let him. Everyone else would understand. If Michael Jackson can cancel a concert because of a stomach virus, disappointing thousands of adoring fans, you can cancel a dinner and disappoint a couple hundred.”

  “But have Michael Jackson’s fans paid two hundred dollars a plate?” he quipped. “He can afford to cancel. I can’t.”

  “At least take another pill.”

  He shook his head. “If I go, I’ve got to be in full command of my faculties.”

  “Lord, you’re stubborn. Just like you were about staying there this afternoon.”

  “It made great video on the evening news.”

  She frowned at him. “You sound like Eddy now. You’re running for public office, not best target of the year for every kook with a grudge against the system. You shouldn’t place your life in jeopardy just because it makes for good film at six and ten.”

  “Listen, it’s only because I’m running for public office that I didn’t go after that son of a bitch who threw the bottle and beat the crap out of him myself.”


  “Ah, that’s what I like. A candidate who really speaks his mind.”

  They laughed together, but after a moment their laughter died. Tate’s warm gaze held hers. “That’s still my favorite dress. You look terrific.”

  “Thank you.” She was wearing the black cocktail dress he had admired before.

  “I, uh, behaved like a jerk this afternoon.”

  “You said some hurtful things.”

  “I know,” he admitted, blowing out a gust of air. “I meant to. Partially because—”

  A knock sounded. “Seven-thirty,” Eddy called through the door.

  Tate looked annoyed. Avery, at the height of frustration, yanked up her evening bag and marched toward the door. Her senses were sizzling. Her nerves were shot. She felt like screaming.

  She almost did when one of the first people she spotted among the crowd at Southfork was the man she’d noticed once before, at the Midland/Odessa Airport.

  * * *

  The ranch house made famous by the television series “Dallas” was ablaze with lights. Since this was a special night, the house was open and partygoers were allowed to walk through it. The actual dinner was being held in the adjacent barnlike building that was frequently leased for large parties.

  The turnout was better than expected. As soon as they arrived they were informed that it was a capacity crowd. Many had offered to pay more than two hundred dollars for the opportunity to attend and hear Tate speak.

  “No doubt as a result of that fantastic news story today,” Eddy said. “All the networks and local channels led with it on their six o’clock telecasts.” He flashed Avery a complacent smile.

  She slid her arm through the crook of Tate’s elbow, an indication that he was more important to her than any news story, or even the election itself. Eddy’s grin merely widened.

  Avery was liking him less every day. His inappropriate dalliance with Fancy was reason enough for her to distrust his Boy Scout cleanliness.

  Tate, however, trusted him implicitly. That’s why she hadn’t mentioned seeing Fancy coming out of Eddy’s room, even when Tate had provided her an opportunity to. She could sense a softening in Tate’s attitude toward her and didn’t want it jeopardized by bad-mouthing his trusted best friend.

  She tried to put aside Eddy’s remark and all other worries as she walked into the cavernous building with Tate. He would need her to bolster him tonight. The injury was probably causing him more discomfort than he let on. An enthusiastic local supporter approached them. He bussed Avery on the cheek and pumped Tate’s hand. It was as she tossed back her head to laugh at a comment he made that she caught sight of the tall, gray-haired man on the fringes of the crowd.

  She did a double take, but almost instantly lost sight of him. Surely she was mistaken. The man at the airport had been wearing a western suit and Stetson. This man was dressed in formal clothing. They were probably just coincidental look-alikes.

  While trying to appear attentive to the people approaching them to be introduced, she continued to scan the crowd, but didn’t catch sight of the man again before dinner. From the head table it was difficult to see into the darkest corners of the enormous hall. Even though it was a formal dinner, people were milling about. Frequently, she had television lights blindingly trained on her.

  “Not hungry?” Tate leaned toward her and nodded down at her virtually untouched plate.

  “Too much excitement.”

  Actually, she was sick with worry and considered warning Tate of the danger he was in. She regarded the bandage on his forehead as an obscenity. Next time it might not be an empty beer bottle. It might be a bullet. And it might be deadly.

  “Tate,” she asked hesitantly, “have you seen a tall, gray-haired man?”

  He laughed shortly. “About fifty of them.”

  “One in particular. I thought he looked familiar.”

  “Maybe he belongs in one of those memory pockets that hasn’t opened up for you yet.”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “Say, are you all right?”

  Forcing a smile, she raised her lips to his ear and whispered, “The candidate’s wife has to go to the ladies’ room. Would that be kosher?”

  “More kosher than the consequences if she doesn’t.”

  He stood to assist her out of her chair. She excused herself. At the end of the dais, a waiter took her hand and helped her down the shaky portable steps. As unobtrusively as possible, she searched the crowd for the man with gray hair while making her way toward an exit.

  As she cleared the doorway, she felt both frustrated and relieved. She was almost positive he had been the same man she’d spotted in West Texas. On the other hand, there were tens of thousands of tall Texans with gray hair. Feeling a little foolish over her paranoia, she smiled to herself ruefully.

  Her smile congealed when someone moved in close behind her and whispered menacingly, “Hello, Avery.”

  Thirty

  At midnight, the McDonald’s restaurant at the corner of Commerce and Griffin in downtown Dallas looked like a goldfish bowl. It was brightly lit. Through the plate glass windows, everyone inside was as clearly visible as actors standing on center stage.

  The cashier was taking an order from a somber loner. A wino was sleeping it off in one of the booths. Two giddy teenage couples were squirting catsup on each other.

  Breathless from having walked three blocks from the hotel, Avery approached the restaurant cautiously. Her formal attire distinguished her from everyone else who was out and about. It was foolhardy for a woman to be walking the downtown streets alone at this hour anyway.

  From across the street, she peered into the capsulized brilliance of the dining room. She saw him, sitting alone in a booth. Fortunately, the booth was adjacent to the windows. As soon as the traffic light changed, she hurried across the broad avenue, her high heels clacking on the pavement.

  “Mmm-mmm, mama, lookin’ good!” A black youth licentiously wagged his tongue at her. With punches and guffaws, his two chums congratulated him. On the corner, two women, one with orange hair, the other with burgundy, competed for the attentions of a man in tight leather pants. He was leaning against the traffic light post, looking bored, until Avery walked by. He gave her a carnivorous once-over. The orange-haired woman spun around, propped her hands on her hips, and shouted at Avery, “Hey, bitch, keep your ass outta his face or I’ll kill you.”

  Avery ignored them all as she walked past, moving along the sidewalk toward the booth. When she drew even with it, she knocked on the window. Van Lovejoy looked up from his chocolate milk shake, spotted her, and grinned. He indicated the other bench of the booth. Avery angrily and vehemently shook her head no and sternly pointed down at the grimy sidewalk beneath her black satin shoes.

  He took his sweet time. She impatiently followed his unhurried progress through the restaurant, out the door, and around the corner, so that by the time he reached her, she was simmering with rage.

  “What the hell are you up to, Van?” she demanded.

  Feigning innocence, he curled both lanky hands in toward his chest. “Moi?”

  “Did we have to meet here? At this time of night?”

  “Would you rather I had come to your room—the room you’re sharing with another woman’s husband?” In the ensuing silence, he casually lit a joint. After two tokes, he offered it to Avery. She slapped his hand aside.

  “You can’t imagine the danger you placed me in by speaking to me tonight.”

  He leaned against the plate glass window. “I’m all ears.”

  “Van.” Miserably, she caught her head with her hand and massaged her temples. “It’s too difficult to explain—especially here.” The women at the corner were loudly swapping obscenities while the man in leather cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. “I slipped out of the hotel. If Tate discovers that I’m gone—”

  “Does he know you’re not his wife?”

  “No! And he mustn’t.”

  “How come
?”

  “It’ll take a while to explain.”

  “I’m under no deadline.”

  “But I am,” she cried, clutching his skinny arm. “Van, you can’t tell anybody. Lives would be put in danger.”

  “Yeah, Rutledge just might be pissed off enough to kill you.”

  “I’m talking about Tate’s life. This isn’t a game, trust me. There’s a lot at stake. You’ll agree when I’ve had a chance to explain. But I can’t now. I’ve got to get back.”

  “This is quite a gig, Avery. When did you decide to do it?”

  “In the hospital. I was mistaken for Carole Rutledge. They had done the reconstructive operation on my face before I could tell them otherwise.”

  “When you could, why didn’t you?”

  Frantically, she groped for an expeditious way to tell him. “Ask Irish,” she blurted out.

  “Irish!” he croaked, choking on marijuana smoke. “That cagy son of a bitch. He knows?”

  “Not until recently. I had to tell somebody.”

  “So that’s why he sent me on this trip. I wondered why we were covering Rutledge like he was fuckin’ royalty or something. It was you Irish wanted me to keep an eye on.”

  “I guess. I didn’t know he was going to assign you this detail. I was stunned when I saw you in Houston. It was bad enough when I answered the door that day at the ranch and you were standing on the porch. Is that when you first recognized me?”

  “The day you left the clinic, I noticed how Mrs. Rutledge’s mannerisms in front of a camera were similar to yours. It was spooky the way she wet her lips and made that movement with her head just like you used to. After that day of taping at the ranch, I was almost convinced. Tonight I was so sure of it, I decided to let you know that I was in on your little secret.”

  “Oh, Lord.”