Mirror Image

stomaching this.” He gestured down at the folder.
    Curious, Avery approached the bed and picked up the folder. She opened it and scanned the first several sheets of paper. “A list of dos and don’ts for the candidate’s wife.”
    “That’s right, Mrs. Rutledge.”
    She slapped shut the folder’s cover and dropped it back onto the bed.
    Again Jack laughed. “I’m glad I’m just the errand boy. Eddy’s going to be pissed if you don’t read and digest everything in there.”
    “Eddy can go to hell. And so can you. And so can anybody who wants to make Tate a baby-kissing, handshaking, plastic automaton who can turn a glib phrase but says absolutely nothing worth listening to.”
    “You’ve become quite a crusader for him, haven’t you? All of a sudden you’re his staunchest ally.”
    “Damn right.”
    “Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Carole?”
    “I’m his wife. And the next time you want to see me, Jack, knock louder.”
    He took a belligerent step toward her, his face congested with anger. “Playact all you want in front of everybody else, but when we’re alone—”
    “Mommy, I drew you a picture.” Mandy came bounding in, waving a sheet of construction paper.
    Jack glowered at Avery, then wheeled around and strode from the room. She congratulated herself on holding up remarkably well, but now her weak knees buckled and she sank onto the edge of the bed, gathering Mandy against her and holding on tight. She pressed her lips against the top of the child’s head. It would be difficult to tell who was drawing comfort from whom.
    “Mommy?”
    “What did you draw? Let me see.” Avery released her and studied the colorful slashes Mandy had made across the page. “It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, smiling tremulously.
    In the weeks since her visit with Dr. Webster, Mandy had made tremendous progress. She was gradually emerging from the shell she had sequestered herself in. Her mind was fertile. Her sturdy little body seemed imbued with energy. Though her self-confidence was still fragile, it didn’t seem quite so breakable as before.
    “It’s Daddy. And here’s Shep,” she chirped, pointing to a dark blue blob on the paper.
    “I see.”
    “Can I have some chewing gum? Mona said to ask you.”
    “One piece. Don’t swallow it. Bring it to me when you don’t want it anymore.”
    Mandy kissed her moistly. “I love you, Mommy.”
    “I love you, too.” Avery gave her another tight hug, sustaining it until Mandy squirmed free and rushed off in quest of her chewing gum.
    Avery followed her to the door and closed it. She considered turning the lock. There were those in the house whom she wanted to shut out.
    But there were those she had to leave her door open for, just in case. Mandy, for one. And Tate.
    * * *
    Van opened a can of tuna and carried it with him back to his video console. His stomach had finally communicated to his brain that one had to have sustenance to stay alive. Otherwise, he would have been so engrossed in what he was doing, he would never have remembered to eat. He conveyed chunks of the oily fish from can to mouth via a reasonably clean spoon.
    Clamping the bowl of the spoon in his mouth, he used both hands at once to eject one tape from one machine and insert a new tape into another. In this capacity, he functioned like a well-coordinated octopus.
    He replaced the first tape in its labeled box and turned his attention to the one now playing. The color bars appeared on the screen, then the countdown.
    Van swallowed the food he’d been holding in his mouth, took a puff of his smoldering cigarette, a gulp of whiskey, then scooped up another bite of tuna as he leaned back in his desk chair and propped his feet on the edge of the console.
    He was watching a documentary he had shot several years earlier for a station in Des Moines. The subject was kiddie porn. This wasn’t the watered-down, edited version that had gone out over the air. This was his personal copy—the one containing all the footage he’d shot over a twelve-week period while following around a features producer, a reporter, a grip, and a sound man. It was only one tape of the hundreds in his extensive personal library.
    So far, none that he’d watched had justified the niggling notion that he’d seen someone in Rutledge’s entourage before, and it wasn’t the gray-haired man that had Avery so concerned. Van wasn’t even certain what he was looking for, but he had to start somewhere.