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was.
    Carefully placed questions had revealed little. Innocently, she had asked Jack how he had managed to get into the ICU the night she regained consciousness. He had looked at her blankly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Never mind. Sometimes the sequence of events still confuses me.”
    He was either innocent or an adroit liar.
    She had tried the same ploy with Eddy. He had answered by saying, “I’m not family. What would I be doing in the ICU?”
    Making threats on Tate’s life,
she had wanted to say.
    She couldn’t say that, so she had mumbled something about her confusion and let it go at that, turning up nothing in the way of opportunity for either of them.
    She hadn’t been luckier in discerning a motive. Even when Tate disagreed with his confidants and advisers, as he often did, they all seemed devoted to him and his success at the polls.
    In lieu of a campaign contribution, a private businessman had loaned the entourage his private jet. As they flew from El Paso to Odessa, where Tate was scheduled to speak to independent oil men, the key personnel aired some of their differences.
    “At least talk to them, Tate.” Eddy was being his most persuasive. “It won’t hurt to listen to their ideas.”
    “I won’t like them.”
    The argument over whether or not to hire professional campaign strategists was becoming a frequent one. Weeks earlier, Eddy had suggested retaining a public relations firm that specialized in getting candidates elected to public office. Tate had been vehemently opposed to the idea and remained so.
    “How do you know you won’t like their ideas until you’ve heard what they are?” Jack asked.
    “If the voters can’t elect me for what I am—”
    “The voters, the voters,” Eddy repeated scoffingly. “The voters don’t know shit from Shinola. What’s more, they don’t want to. They’re lazy and apathetic. They want somebody to tell them who to vote for. They want it drummed into their feeble little minds so they won’t have to make a decision on their own.”
    “Great confidence you’re showing in the American public, Eddy.”
    “I’m not the idealist, Tate. You are.”
    “Thank God I am. Rather that than a cynic. I believe that people do care,” he shouted. “They do listen to the issues. They respond to straight talk. I want to get the issues across to the voters without having to filter the language and phraseology through some bullshitting P.R. jargon.”
    “Okay, okay.” Eddy patted the air between them. “Since that subject is a sore spot, let’s table it for now and talk about the Hispanics.”
    “What about them?”
    “Next time you’re addressing an audience of them, don’t lean so hard on their integrating into our society.”
    “
Our
society?”
    “I’m thinking like an Anglo voter now.”
    “It’s important that they integrate into American society,” Tate argued, not for the first time. “That’s the only way we can keep society from being distinguished as yours, ours, or theirs. Haven’t you been listening to my speeches?”
    “Stress that they maintain their own customs.”
    “I did. I said that. Didn’t I say that?” he asked everyone within hearing distance.
    “He said that.” It was Avery who spoke up. Eddy ignored her.
    “I just think it’s important that you don’t broadcast the message that they should give up their culture in favor of Anglo America’s.”
    “If they live here, Eddy—if they become citizens of this country—they’ve got to assume some of the customs, primarily the English language.”
    Eddy was undeterred. “See, the Anglos don’t like hearing that their society is going to be invaded by the Hispanics, any better than the Hispanics like having Anglo customs crammed down their throat, including a new language. Get elected first and then make a point of that integration bit, okay? And try to avoid addressing the drug trafficking problem that exists between Texas and Mexico.”
    “I agree,” Jack said. “When you’re a senator you can do something about it. Why wave the drug problem like a red flag now? It gives everybody room to criticize that you’re either too harsh or too soft.”
    Tate laughed with disbelief and spread his hands wide. “I’m running for the U.S. Senate, and I’m not supposed to have an opinion on how to handle the illegal flow of drugs into my own state?”
    “Of course you’re supposed to have an opinion,” Jack said, as though he were humoring