Mirror Image

tape could feasibly be in Irish’s hands by tomorrow morning.
    In the meantime, though, Van planned to keep calling Irish every five minutes until he contacted him. Mailing the duplicate tape was only insurance.
    Where could the old coot be at this hour, if not at home or the TV station? He had to show up sooner or later. Then the two of them would decide how to warn Avery of just how real the threat on Rutledge’s life was.
    Sipping one of the beers en route, Van sauntered back to his apartment, went in, shrugged off his jacket, and resumed his seat at the video console. He reloaded one of the tapes that had solved the mystery for him and began replaying it.
    Midway through, he reached for the phone and dialed Irish’s number. It rang five times before he heard the click severing the connection. He glanced quickly at his phone and saw that a gloved hand had depressed the button. His eyes followed an arm up to a pleasantly smiling face.
    “Very interesting, Mr. Lovejoy,” his visitor said softly, nodding at the flickering monitor. “I couldn’t quite remember where I’d seen you before.”
    Then a pistol was raised and fired at point blank range into Van’s forehead.
    * * *
    Irish rushed through his front door and caught his telephone on the sixth ring, just as the caller hung up. “Dammit!” He had stayed late in the newsroom in preparation for the hellish day the news team would have tomorrow.
    He had checked and rechecked schedules, reviewed assignments, and consulted with the anchors to make certain everybody knew where to go and what to do when. It was this kind of news day that Irish loved. But it was also the kind that gave him heartburn as hot as smoldering brimstone in his gut. He shouldn’t have stopped to wolf down that plate of enchiladas on his way home.
    He drank a glass of antacid and returned to his telephone. He called Van, but hung up after the phone rang a couple dozen times. If Van was out carousing, getting hopped up on a controlled substance, he’d kill him. He needed him up bright and early in the morning.
    He would dispatch Van with a reporter to record the Rutledges voting in Kerrville, then install him at the Palacio Del Rio for the rest of the day and long evening while they waited for the returns to come in.
    Irish wasn’t convinced that anybody would be so stupid as to attempt an assassination on Election Day, but Avery seemed to believe that’s when it would happen. If seeing Van in the crowd alleviated her anxiety, then Irish wanted him there, visible and within easy reach should she need him.
    Contacting her by telephone was impossible. He had already tried to call her earlier today, but he had been told that Mrs. Rutledge wasn’t feeling well. At least that’s the story that had come out of the Rutledge camp when she failed to accompany Tate on his final campaign swing through North Texas.
    In a later effort to speak with her, he had been told that the family was out to dinner. Still uneasy, he’d stopped by the post office on the way home and checked his box. There’d been nothing in it, which allayed his concerns somewhat. He supposed that no news was good news. If Avery needed him, she knew where to find him.
    He prepared for bed. After his prayers, he tried calling Van once more. There was still no answer.
    * * *
    Avery spent Election Eve in tormenting worry. Tate told her peremptorily that she would not be going with him on his last campaign trip, and he stuck to it, heedless of her pleas.
    When he returned safely, her relief was so profound that she was weak with it. As they convened for dinner, Jack sidled up to her and asked, “Do you still have the cramps?”
    “What?”
    “Tate said you weren’t up to making the trip today because you got your period.”
    “Oh, yes,” she said, backing his lie. “I didn’t feel well this morning, but I’m fine now, thanks.”
    “Just make sure you’re well in the morning.” Jack wasn’t the least bit interested in her health, only in how her presence or absence might effect the outcome of the election. “You’ve got to be at your peak tomorrow.”
    “I’ll try.”
    Jack was then claimed by Dorothy Rae, who hadn’t touched a drink in weeks. The changes in her were obvious. She no longer looked frightened and frail, but took pains with her appearance. More self-assertive, she rarely let Jack out of her sight, and never when Avery was around. Apparently she still considered Carole a threat, but one she was