Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  “I know. How’d it go?”

  “They loved him better’n hot tamales.”

  “Was Avery there?”

  “Everybody was except the girl, Fancy, all looking as pure as Ivory soap.”

  “Did Avery get to talk to you?”

  “No. There was a throng of jabbering Mex’cans around them.”

  “What about Gray Hair? Any sign of him?”

  Van weighed the advisability of telling Irish the truth and decided in favor of it. “He was there.”

  Irish muttered a string of curses. “Didn’t he stick out like a sore thumb in a Hispanic crowd?”

  “He was outside, jockeying for position like the rest of us.”

  “He posed as media?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you get close to him?”

  “Tall dude. Mean face.”

  “Mean?”

  “Stern. No nonsense.”

  “A hit man’s face.”

  “We’re only guessing.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like it, Van. Maybe we ought to call the FBI and not tell Avery.”

  “She’d never forgive you.”

  “But she’d be alive.”

  The two men were quiet for a moment, lost in their private thoughts, considering possible options, and coming up with zip. “Tomorrow, you stick around here. No need to go with Rutledge.”

  “I figured that,” Van said of his assignment when Irish finally broke the silence. “I’ll be at the airport tomorrow night when he gets back. The press release said he’d be arriving at seven-thirty.”

  “Good. Try and make contact with Avery then. She said it’s hard to phone from the hotel.”

  “Right.”

  “Election morning, come to the TV station first. Then I’m posting you at the Palacio Del Rio. I want you to stick to Avery like glue all day. If you see anything suspicious, anything, to hell with her arguments, you call the cops.”

  “I’m not stupid, Irish.”

  “And just because you have a free day tomorrow,” Irish said in a threatening tone, “don’t go out and get blitzed on something.”

  “I won’t. I got a lot to do around here.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I’m still looking at tapes.”

  “You mentioned that before. What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I find it.”

  They said their good-byes. Van got up long enough to relieve himself in the bathroom, then returned to the console, where he had spent nearly every free hour for the last several days. The number of tapes left to view was dwindling, but not fast enough. He had hours of them still to look at.

  The wild goose he was chasing didn’t even have an identity. As he had told Irish, he wouldn’t know what it was till he saw it. This was probably a colossal waste of time.

  He’d been dumb enough to start this harebrained project; he might just as well be dumb enough to finish it. He took a drag on his joint, chased it with a swallow of booze, and inserted another tape into his machine.

  * * *

  Irish made a face into the bottom of the glass of antacid he had forced himself to drink. He shivered at the wretched aftertaste. He should be used to it by now since he guzzled the stuff by the gallon. Avery didn’t know. Nobody did. He didn’t want anyone to know about his chronic heartburn because he didn’t want to be replaced by a younger man before he could retire on a full salary.

  He’d been in the business long enough to know that management-level guys were bastards. Heartlessness was a requirement for the job. They wore expensive shoes, three-piece suits, and invisible armor against humanism. They didn’t give a damn about an old news horse’s valuable contacts at city hall or his years of experience beating the bushes for a story or anything else except the bottom line.

  They expected dramatic video at six and ten so they could sell commercial time to sponsors, but they’d never stood by and watched a house burn with people screaming inside, or sat through a stakeout while some nut wielding a .357 Magnum held people hostage in a 7-Eleven, or witnessed the unspeakable atrocities that one human being could inflict on another.

  They operated in the sterile side of the business. Irish’s side was the down-and-dirty one. That was fine. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He just wanted to be respected for what he did.

  As long as the news ratings kept KTEX number one in the market, he’d be fine. But if the ratings slipped, those bastards in the worsted wool would start sifting out the undesirables. An old man with a sour stomach and a disposition to match might be considered deadwood and be the first thing lopped off.

  So he covered his belches and hid his bottles of antacid.

  He switched out the light in his bathroom and shuffled into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of his double bed and set his alarm clock. That was routine. So was reaching into the nightstand drawer and taking out his rosary.

  The threat of physical torture couldn’t make him admit to anyone that this was a nightly ritual. He never went to confession or mass. Churches were buildings where funerals, weddings, or baptisms were solemnized.

  But Irish prayed ritualistically. Tonight he prayed fervently for Tate Rutledge and his young daughter. He prayed for Avery’s protection, begging God to spare her life, whatever calamity befell anyone else.

  Last, as he did every night, he prayed for Rosemary Daniels’s precious soul and beseeched God’s forgiveness for loving her, another man’s wife.

  Forty-Four

  Tate opened the door to the suite and looked curiously at the three people standing just beyond the threshold. “What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Rutledge, I’m sorry to bother you,” one of the uniformed policemen said. “Do you know this young woman?”

  “Tate?” Avery asked, joining him at the door. “Who—? Fancy?”

  The girl’s expression was surly. One policeman had a firm grip on her upper arm, but it was difficult to tell if he were restraining or supporting her. She was leaning against him, obviously intoxicated.

  “What’s the matter?” Eddy approached the door and took in the scene. “Jesus,” he muttered in disgust.

  “Will you please tell them who I am, so they’ll leave me the hell alone?” Fancy demanded belligerently.

  “This is my niece,” Tate stiffly informed the policemen. “Her name’s Francine Rutledge.”

  “That’s what her driver’s license said, but we had to take her word for it that she was a relation of yours.”

  “Was it necessary to bring her here under armed escort?”

  “It was either here or jail, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “On what charge?” Avery asked.

  “Speeding, driving while intoxicated. She was doing ninety-five on the loop.”

  “Ninety-eight,” Fancy corrected cheekily.

  “Thank you, officers, for seeing her safely here. I speak for her mother and father, too.”

  Fancy threw off the policeman’s hand. “Yeah, thanks a lot.”

  “How much is it going to cost us to keep this quiet?” Eddy asked the policemen.

  One scowled at him disdainfully. The other ignored him completely and spoke only to Tate. “We figured you didn’t need the bad publicity right now.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Well, after that speech you gave in Houston, taking the side of law enforcement officers and all, my partner and me figured it was the least we could do.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Good luck in the election, Mr. Rutledge.” They doffed their caps deferentially before walking down the carpeted hallway toward the elevators and the gawking security guards.

  Avery closed the door behind them. Everyone had already gone to bed except the four of them. Mandy was sleeping in the adjoining room. An ominous silence pervaded the suite—the calm before the storm.

  “Fancy, where have you been?” Avery asked her softly.

  She flung her hands far above her head and exe
cuted a clumsy pirouette. “Dancing. I had a wonderful time,” she trilled, batting her eyelashes at Eddy. “Of course, nobody here would think so because you’re all so old. So straight. So—”

  “You stupid little cunt.” Eddy backhanded her across the mouth. The force of the blow knocked her to the floor.

  “Fancy!” Avery dropped to her knees beside the stunned girl. Blood trickled from the swelling cut on her lip.

  “Eddy, what the hell’s the matter with you?” Tate demanded, catching his arm.

  Eddy flung Tate off and loomed above Fancy. “Are you trying to ruin everything? Do you know what could have happened if those two cops hadn’t seen fit to bring you here? This childish stunt could have cost us the election,” he shouted.

  Tate grabbed his collar and hauled him back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “She’s got it coming.”

  “Not from you!” Tate roared. He gave Eddy’s shoulders a hard shove that sent him staggering backward. Eddy regained his balance, snarled, and lunged for Tate.

  “Stop it, both of you!” Avery shot to her feet and moved between them. “You’ll bring this hotel down on our heads, and what kind of headlines will that create?”

  The men stood facing each other like two bulls pawing the ground, but at least they were no longer shouting. Avery bent over Fancy again and helped her to her feet. The girl was still so dazed she didn’t put up any resistance, but she whimpered with pain and remorse.

  Tate touched her cheek briefly, then aimed a warning finger at his friend. “Never, never, touch a member of my family like that again.”

  “I’m sorry, Tate.” Eddy smoothed his hands over his ruffled hair. His voice was low, composed, cool. The iceman was restored.

  “That’s one area of my life where your opinion doesn’t count,” Tate said angrily, his lips barely moving to form the words.

  “I said I was sorry. What else can I do?”

  “You can stop sleeping with her.”

  All were taken by surprise. Eddy and Fancy had no idea that Tate knew. Avery had told him she suspected it, but that was before she knew it for a certainty. The women remained stunned and silent. Eddy walked to the door.

  Before he went out, he said, “I think we all need time to cool off.”

  Avery looked at Tate with undiluted love and respect for coming so quickly to Fancy’s defense, then placed her arm across the girl’s shoulders. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”

  Once there, she waited while Fancy showered. Emerging from the bathroom, with her hair held away from her scrubbed face by barrettes, and wearing a long T-shirt as a nightgown, she looked young and innocent.

  “I improvised on an ice pack for your lip.” Avery handed her a plastic bag full of ice and led her toward the turned-down bed.

  “Thanks. You’re getting good at that.”

  Fancy propped herself against the headboard and held the ice pack to her lower lip. It had stopped bleeding, but was dark and swollen. She closed her eyes. Tears trickled through her lashes and rolled down her shiny cheeks. Avery lowered herself to the side of the bed and took her hand.

  “That son of a bitch. I hate him.”

  “I don’t think so,” Avery countered softly. “I believe you thought you loved him.”

  Fancy looked at her. “Thought I loved him?”

  “I think you were in love with the idea of being in love with him. How much do you really know about Eddy? You told me yourself you knew very little. I think you wanted to be in love with him because you knew deep down that the affair was inappropriate and had no chance of survival.”

  “What are you, an amateur shrink?”

  Fancy could put a strain on anyone’s patience, but Avery evenly replied, “I’m trying to be your friend.”

  “You’re just trying to talk me out of him because you want him for yourself.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  The girl stared at her for a long moment, and the longer she stared, the more tears filled her eyes. Eventually, she lowered her head. “No. Anybody can see that you love Uncle Tate.” She sniffed her drippy nose. “And he’s ga-ga over you, too.”

  She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “Oh, God,” she wailed, “why can’t somebody love me like that? What’s wrong with me? Why does everybody treat me like shit, like I was invisible or something?”

  The floodgate had been opened and all her self-doubt came pouring out. “Eddy was just using me to get his rocks off, wasn’t he? I’d hoped that maybe he would love me for something more than just what I was willing to do in bed. I should have known better,” she added in a bitter undertone.

  Avery pulled Fancy into her arms. Fancy resisted for a second or two, then relented and let herself be comforted while she cried against Avery’s shoulder. When her crying subsided, Avery eased her away.

  “You know who should be in on this?”

  Fancy wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. You need her, Fancy. More than that,” Avery said, pressing Fancy’s knee for emphasis, “she needs you. She’s been trying very hard to make up for past mistakes. Why not give her a chance?”

  Fancy thought it over for a moment, then nodded sullenly. “Sure, why not, if it’ll make the old girl feel significant.”

  Avery dialed the room. Jack answered sleepily. “Is Dorothy Rae already in bed? Could she come to Fancy’s room?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Avery looked at Fancy’s lip and lied, “Nothing. Just a hen party.”

  In under a minute Dorothy Rae knocked. She was in her nightgown. “What is it, Carole?”

  “Come in.”

  The minute she saw Fancy’s face, she stopped dead in her tracks and raised a hand to her chest. “Oh, my baby! What happened to you?”

  Fancy’s lower lip quivered. A fresh batch of tears filled her eyes. She stretched out her arms and, in a weak, tremulous voice said, “Mommy?”

  * * *

  “I left them crying in each other’s arms,” Avery told Tate a few minutes later. “This might have been the best thing that could have happened.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Eddy so irrational.” While she’d been gone, he’d stripped down to his trousers. Bare-chested, he was pacing the room, still spoiling for a fight.

  “He’s determined to get you elected. When something happens that could jeopardize that, his temper is explosive.”

  “But to strike a woman?” Tate asked incredulously, shaking his head.

  “How long have you known that he was sleeping with Fancy?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “He told you?”

  “No, I picked up signals.”

  “Did you say anything to him about it?”

  “What could I say? He’s a grown-up. So is she. God knows he didn’t coerce her or sweet talk his way past her virginity.”

  “I guess not,” Avery sighed. “But for all her sexual experience, Fancy’s extremely vulnerable, Tate. He’s hurt her.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not defending—”

  “Listen!”

  Avery held up her hand and signaled for quiet. Then, moving simultaneously, they rushed toward Mandy’s bedroom and burst through the door.

  She was flailing her limbs, thrashing them against the bed covers. Her small face was contorted and bathed with sweat. She was weeping copiously, her lips blubbering.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” She screamed the name repeatedly.

  Instinctively, Avery reached for her. Tate placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “You can’t. This might be it.”

  “Oh, no, Tate, please.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “We have to.”

  So Avery sat on one side of Mandy and Tate sat on the other. Each lived through the hell the child’s subconscious mind was being put through.

  “No, no.” She gasped for breath,
holding her mouth wide. “Mommy? I can’t see Mommy. I can’t get out.”

  Avery looked across at Tate. His fingers were steepled over his nose and mouth, his eyes fixed on his tormented daughter.

  Suddenly Mandy sat bolt upright, as though a spring action device had catapulted her head off the pillow. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes were open and unblinking, but she was still in the throes of the nightmare.

  “Mommy!” she screamed. “Get me loose. I’m scared. Get me loose!”

  Then her eyelids began to flutter and, though her respiration was still choppy, it no longer sounded as though she’d been running for miles and each breath might be her last.

  “Mommy’s got me,” she whispered. “Mommy’s got me now.” She flopped back down, and when she did, she woke up.

  Once her eyes had focused, she divided her bewildered gaze between Tate and Avery. It was into Avery’s arms that she hurled her solid little body. “Mommy, you got me out. You got me away from the smoke.”

  Avery enfolded Mandy in her arms and hugged her tight. She squeezed her eyes shut and thanked God for healing this child who had become so dear to her. When she opened her eyes, they melded with Tate’s. He extended his hand and stroked her cheek with his knuckle, then laid his hand on his daughter’s head.

  Mandy sat back on her heels and announced, “I’m hungry. Can I have some ice cream?”

  Laughing with relief, Tate scooped her into his arms and swung her high over his head. She squealed. “You certainly can. What flavor?”

  He ordered ice cream from room service, along with a change of linens from housekeeping to replace the damp, tangled sheets on Mandy’s bed. While they waited for the deliveries, Avery changed Mandy into another nightgown and brushed her hair. Tate sat watching them.

  “I had a bad dream,” Mandy told them pragmatically as she used another hairbrush on Pooh Bear. “But I’m not scared anymore ’cause Mommy’s there to get me away.”

  She’d gotten sleepy again by the time she’d finished her ice cream. They tucked her in and sat at the foot of her bed until she fell asleep, knowing that if Dr. Webster was right, her sleep would be uninterrupted from now on. As they left the room, their arms looped around each other’s waists, Avery began to cry.