Mirror Image

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?”
    “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,