by Sandra Brown
He played with Mandy. He related anecdotes of the trip to his attentive mother and father. He gently teased Fancy and engaged her in conversation. He listened to Jack’s last few words of counsel. He argued with Eddy over his Election Day attire.
“I’m not dressing up to go vote—no more than the average guy—and I’ll change into a suit and tie only if I have to make an acceptance speech.”
“Then I’d better arrange to have the hotel valet press your suit overnight,” Avery said with conviction.
“Hear, hear!” Nelson heartily thumped his fist on the table.
Tate looked at her sharply, as though wanting to strip away her duplicity. If he suspected treachery of anyone in this convivial inner circle, it was she. If he harbored any doubts as to where his family’s loyalty and devotion lay, he masked it well. For a man whose life could be radically altered the following day, he appeared ludicrously calm.
However, Avery guessed that his composure was a façade. He exuded confidence because he wanted everyone else to remain at ease. That would be typical of Tate.
She longed for a private moment with him upon their return to the hotel, and was glad when his conference with Jack and Eddy concluded quickly.
“I’m going out for a stroll along the Riverwalk,” Jack told them as he pulled on his jacket. “Dorothy Rae and Fancy are watching a movie on the TV in our room. It’s the kind of sentimental crap I can’t stomach, so until it’s over I’m going to make myself scarce.”
“I’ll ride the elevator down with you,” Eddy said. “I want to check the lobby newsstand for papers we might have missed.”
They left. Mandy was already asleep in her room. Now, Avery thought, she would have time to plead her case before Tate. Maybe his judgment wouldn’t be so harsh this time. To her dismay, however, he picked up his room key and moved toward the door.
“I’m going to visit with Mom and Dad for a while.”
“Tate, did you notice Van at the airport? I tried calling him at home, but he wasn’t back yet. I wanted him to bring the tapes over so—”
“You look tired. Don’t wait up.”
He left the suite and stayed gone a long time. Finally, because it had been such a long, dreary day, which she’d spent largely confined to the suite, she went to bed.
Tate never joined her. She woke up during the night. Missing his warmth, panicked because she didn’t hear him breathing beside her, she quickly crossed the bedroom and flung open the door.
He was sleeping on the sofa in the parlor.
It broke her heart.
For months he had been lost to her because of Carole’s deceit. Now he was lost to her because of her own.
Forty-Seven
The bellyache Irish had when he went to bed the night before was mild in comparison to the raging one he had by seven o’clock Election Day morning.
It had dawned clear and cool. Heavy voter turnout was predicted statewide because of the perfect autumn weather.
The climate in the KTEX news department wasn’t so clement. Its chief was on the warpath. “Sorry, worthless son of a bitch,” Irish mouthed as he slammed down the telephone receiver. When Van failed to show up in the newsroom at six-thirty as scheduled, Irish had started telephoning his apartment. There was still no answer. “Where could he be?”
“Maybe he’s on his way,” another photographer volunteered, trying to be helpful.
“Maybe,” Irish grumbled as he lit a cigarette, which he’d only planned to hold between his lips. “In the meantime, I’m sending you. If you hurry, you can catch the Rutledges as they leave the hotel. If not, drive like hell to catch up with them in Kerrville. And report in every few minutes,” he yelled after the cameraman who scrambled out with the reporter. Both were grateful to escape with their scalps intact.
Irish snatched up the telephone and punched out a number he had memorized by now. “Good morning,” a pleasant voice answered, “Palacio Del Rio.”
“I need to speak to Mrs. Rutledge.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t put your call—”
“Yeah, I know, I know, but this is important.”
“If you’ll leave your name and num—”
He hung up on her saccharine spiel and immediately called Van’s number. It rang incessantly while Irish paced as far as the telephone cord would reach. “When I get my hands on him, I’m gonna hammer his balls to mush.”
He collared a gofer who had the misfortune to collide with him. “Hey, you, drive over there and haul his skinny ass out of bed.”
“Who, sir?”
“Van Lovejoy. Who the fuck do you think?” Irish bellowed impatiently. Why had everybody chosen today to turn up either missing or stupid? He scrawled Van’s address on a sheet of paper, shoved it at the terror-stricken kid, and ordered ominously, “Don’t come back without him.”
* * *
Avery emerged from the hotel, holding Mandy by one sweating hand. The other was tucked into the crook of Tate’s elbow. She smiled for the myriad cameras, wishing her facial muscles would stop cramping and quivering.
Tate gave the cameras his most engaging smile and a thumbs-up sign as they moved toward the waiting limousine parked in the brick paved porte cochere. Microphones were aimed toward them. Bleakly, Avery thought they resembled gun barrels. Tate’s voice carried confidently across the city racket and general confusion. “Great Election Day weather. Good for the voters and for the candidates in each race.”
He was bombarded with questions regarding more serious topics than the weather, but Eddy ushered them into the backseat of the limo. Avery was distressed to learn that he was riding with them to Kerrville. She wouldn’t have Tate to herself, as she had hoped. They hadn’t been alone all morning. He was already up and dressed by the time she woke up. He breakfasted in the dining room on the river level of the hotel while she got Mandy and herself dressed.
As the limo pulled away from the curb, she glanced through the rear window, trying to locate Van. She spotted a two-man crew from KTEX, but Van wasn’t the photographer behind the Betacam. Why not? she wondered. Where is he?
He wasn’t among the media waiting for them at their polling place in Kerrville, either. Her anxiety mounted, so much so that at one point, Tate leaned down at her and whispered, “Smile, for God’s sake. You look like I’ve already lost.”
“I’m afraid, Tate.”
“Afraid I’ll lose before the day is out?”
“No. Afraid you’ll die.” She held his gaze for several seconds before Jack intruded on them with a question for Tate.
The ride back to San Antonio seemed interminable. Freeway and downtown traffic was heavier than normal. As they alighted from the limo at the entrance of the hotel, Avery’s eyes scanned the milling crowd again. She sighted a familiar face, but it wasn’t the one she wanted to see. The gray-haired man was standing in front of the convention center across the street. Van, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight.
Irish had promised.
Something was wrong.
The moment they reached their suite, she excused herself and went into the bedroom to use the telephone. The direct line into the newsroom was answered after ten rings. “Irish McCabe, please,” she said with breathless urgency.
“Irish? Okay, I’ll go find him.”
Having worked election days, she knew what nightmares, and yet what challenges, they presented to the media. Everybody operated on a frantic frequency.
“Come on, come on, Irish,” she whispered while waiting. She kept remembering how still and intent Gray Hair had stood, as though maintaining a post.
“Hello?”
“Irish!” she exclaimed, going limp with relief.
“No. Is that who you’re holding for? Just a sec.”
“This is Av—” When she was abruptly put on hold again, she nearly sobbed with anxiety.
The phone was picked up a second time. “Hello?” a man asked hesitantly. “Hello?”
“Yes, who is—Eddy, is that you?�
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“Yeah.”
“This is, A—uh, Carole.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m in the bedroom. I’m using this line.” Evidently, he had picked up the extension in the parlor.
“Well, make it snappy, okay? We’ve got to keep these lines open.”
He hung up. She was still on hold. Her call to the newsroom had been ignored by people with better things to do than track down the boss on the busiest news day of the year. Distraught, she replaced the telephone and went to join the family and a few key volunteers who had assembled in the other room.
Though she smiled and conversed as it was expected of her, she tried to imagine where Van could be. She comforted herself by picturing him downstairs in the ballroom, setting up his tripod and camera to cover what would hopefully be Tate’s victory celebration later in the evening.
For the time being there was nothing more she could do. There must be a logical explanation for the switch in plans. Because she hadn’t been apprised, she had let her imagination run away with her. Irish and Van knew where she was if they needed to contact her. Resolving to keep her panic at bay, she moved toward the sofa where Tate was sprawled.
True to his word, he’d gone to the polls dressed casually, wearing a leather sports jacket over his jeans. He appeared perfectly relaxed as he told Zee, who was taking orders, what he wanted for lunch.
Avery sat down on the arm of the sofa. He absently draped his arm over her thigh and caressed her knee with negligent possession. When Zee moved away, he glanced up at her and smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
And then he remembered. She watched as memory crept back into his eyes, eating up the warm glow in his gray irises until they were cold and implacable once again. He gradually lifted his arm away from her.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Did you ever take care of birth control?”
“No. And neither did you.”
“Terrific.”
She couldn’t let his contempt intimidate her into keeping her distance. For the remainder of the day, she didn’t intend to get any farther away from him than she was at the moment.
* * *
“Irish, line two’s for you.”
“Can’t you see I’m already on the frigging phone?” he yelled across the pandemonium in the newsroom. “Put ’em on hold. Now,” he said, speaking into the receiver again, “did you try knocking?”
“Till my knuckles were bloody, Mr. McCabe. He’s not home.”
Irish ran his hand down his florid face. The gofer was calling in with news that made absolutely no sense. “Did you look through the windows?”
“I tried. The shades are down, but I listened through the door. I couldn’t hear a single sound. I don’t think anybody’s in there. Besides, his van’s not here. I already checked the parking lot. His space is empty.”
That was going to be Irish’s next suggestion. “Christ,” he muttered. He had hoped that Van would be at home, sleeping off a night of overindulgence, but obviously he wasn’t. If his van wasn’t there, he wasn’t at home, period.
Irish reasoned they might have gotten their signals crossed and that Van had gone straight to the Palacio Del Rio, but after checking with the crew there, they reported they hadn’t seen him either.
“Okay, thanks. Come on back in.” He pressed the blinking light on the telephone panel. “McCabe,” he said gruffly. He got a dial tone in his ear. “Hey, wasn’t somebody holding for me on two?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, they’re not there now.”
“Guess they hung up.”
“Was it a guy?” he wanted to know.
“A woman.”
“Did she say who?”
“No. Sounded kinda ragged out, though.”
Irish’s blood pressure shot up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“I did!”
“Jesus!”
Arguing with incompetents wasn’t going to help anything. He stamped back into his office, slammed the door behind him, and lit a cigarette. He couldn’t be certain it had been Avery on the phone, but he had a gut instinct that it had been. Maybe that’s what was making his gut hurt so bad—his rotten instincts.
He took a swig of antacid straight from the bottle and yanked up the telephone again. He dialed the hotel and got the same cool voice as before. When he demanded to be connected to the Rutledge suite, the operator began her same unruffled litany.
“Look, bitch, I don’t give a fuck about your fucking instructions or who the fucking calls are supposed to be routed through. I want you to ring her suite now. Now, got that? And if you don’t do it, I’m gonna come over there and personally take your fucking head off.”
She hung up on him.
Irish paced his office, puffing smoke and chugging like a steam locomotive. Avery must be beside herself. She would think they’d deserted her.
Van, that irresponsible bastard, hadn’t shown up at the hotel where he was supposed to be, where she would be watching for him, relying on him. His calls weren’t being put through to her, so she had no way of knowing that he’d frantically been trying to contact her.
He stormed back into the newsroom as he pulled on his tweed blazer. “I’m going out.”
“Out?”
“What, are you deaf? Out. If anybody calls or comes looking for me, tell ’em to stay put or leave a message. I’ll be back when I can.”
“Where are you…?” The subordinate was left talking to wisps of cigarette smoke.
* * *
“You’re sure he’s not there?” Avery was struck with disbelief. “I phoned earlier and—”
“All I know is somebody said he went out, and I can’t find him, so I guess he’s out.”
“Out where?”
“Nobody seems to know.”
“Irish wouldn’t go out the day of an election.”
“Look, lady, it’s a madhouse around here, especially since Irish decided to split, so do you want to leave a message, or what?”
“No,” she said distantly. “No message.”
Feeling that she’d been cut adrift, she hung up and wandered back into the main room. Her eyes automatically sought out Tate first. He was talking with Nelson. Zee was ostensibly listening to their conversation, but her eyes were fixed on Tate with that faraway absorption that often characterized her.
Jack and Eddy were downstairs seeing to the arrangements in the ballroom while carefully monitoring returns as they were reported. It was still several hours before the polls closed, but early indications were that Tate was staying abreast of Dekker. Even if he didn’t pull out in front, he’d given the pompous incumbent a good scare.
Dorothy Rae had pleaded a headache earlier and gone to her room to lie down for a while. Fancy was sitting on the floor with Mandy. They were coloring together.
On a sudden inspiration, Avery called her name. “Could you come here a minute, please?”
“What for?”
“I… I need you to run an errand for me.”
“Grandma told me to entertain the kid.”
“I’ll do that. Anyway, it’s getting close to her nap time. Please. It’s important.”
Grudgingly, Fancy came to her feet and followed Avery back into the bedroom. Since the incident a few nights earlier, she had been much more pleasant to be around. Every now and then, traces of her recalcitrance asserted itself, but on the whole, she was more congenial.
As soon as she closed the door behind them, Avery pressed a small key into Fancy’s hand. “I need you to do something for me.”
“With this key?”
“It’s a post office box key. I need you to go there and see if there’s something inside. If there is, bring it back with you and hand deliver it to me—no one else.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I can’t explain right now.”
“I�
��m not gonna go chasing—”
“Please, Fancy. It’s terribly important.”
“Then, how come you’re asking me? I usually get the shit detail.”
“I thought we were friends,” Avery said, turning up the heat. “Tate and I helped you out of a jam the other night. You owe us a favor.”
Fancy chewed on that for a moment, then flipped the key in her palm several times. “Where’s it at?” Avery provided her with the address of the post office branch. “Jeez, that’s a million miles from here.”
“And you said half an hour ago that you were tired of being cooped up in this friggin’ hotel suite. And I believe that’s a quote. Now, will you do this for me?”
Avery’s demeanor must have conveyed some measure of the urgency and importance of the errand because Fancy shrugged. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” Avery gave her a hard hug. At the bedroom door, she paused. “Don’t make a big deal of leaving. Just go as unobtrusively as possible. If someone asks where you are, I’ll cover for you.”
“Why so hush-hush? What’s the big secret? You’re not screwing a postman, are you?”
“Trust me. It’s very important to Tate—to all of us. And please hurry back.”
Fancy retrieved her shoulder bag from the credenza in the parlor and headed for the double door of the suite. “I’ll be back,” she tossed over her shoulder. No one gave her a second glance.
Forty-Eight
Fancy lifted her hip onto the stool and laid the small rectangular package she’d taken from the post office box on the polished wood surface of the bar. The bartender, a mustached, muscular young man, moved toward her.
The smile she blessed him with had been designed in heaven for angels to wear. “A gin and tonic, please.”
His friendly blue eyes looked at her skeptically. “How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“Make that two gins and tonic.” A man slid onto the stool beside Fancy’s. “I’m buying the lady’s.”
The bartender shrugged. “Fine with me.”
Fancy assessed her rescuer. He was a young executive type—insurance or computers, she would guess. Possibly late twenties. Probably married. Looking for kicks away from the responsibilities he had assumed so he could afford his designer clothes and the timepiece strapped to his wrist.
