Mirror Image

pertinence of the tape, but she couldn’t find a single clue why Van had considered it crucial enough to mail.
    His camera panned across a group of men dressed in military fatigues. They were armed to the teeth. Avery backed the tape up, then slowed it down so she could study each face. The commander was screaming swill into the receptive ears of his soldiers.
    Van zoomed in for a close-up of one. Avery gasped with recognition. Her head began to swim.
    He looked different. His scalp shone through the buzz haircut. Camouflage makeup had been smeared on his face, but it was instantly recognizable because she’d been living with him for months.
    “That all men are created equal is a bunch of crap,” the instructor ranted into the hand-held microphone. “A rumor started by inferiors in the hope that somebody would believe it.”
    The man Avery recognized applauded. He whistled. Hatred smoldered in his eyes.
    “We don’t want to live alongside niggers and kikes and queers, right?”
    “Right!”
    “We don’t want them corrupting our children with their commie propaganda, right?”
    “Right!”
    “So what are we going to do to anybody who tells us we have to?”
    The group, as one body, rose. Van’s camera stayed focused on the participant who seemed the most steeped in bigotry and hatred. “Kill the bastards!” he shouted through his mask of camouflage makeup. “Kill the bastards!”
    The door suddenly swung open. Avery hastily switched off the tape and vaulted from the bed. “Jack!” She covered her lips with bloodless fingers. Her knees almost refused to support her.
    “They sent me back for you. We’re supposed to be downstairs now, but I’m glad we have a minute alone.”
    Avery propped herself up, using the TV set behind her for support. Beyond Jack’s shoulder she noted that the parlor was deserted now. Everyone had left for the ballroom downstairs.
    He advanced on her. “I want to know why you did it.”
    “Did what?”
    “Came on to me like you did.”
    Avery’s chest rose and fell on a single, life-or-death breath. “Jack—”
    “No, I want to know. Dorothy Rae says you never cared about me, that you only flirted with me to drive a wedge between Tate and me. Why, damn you? I nearly ruined my relationship with my brother. I nearly let my marriage fall apart because of you.”
    “Jack, I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “Truly I am, but—”
    “You just wanted to make me look like a buffoon, didn’t you? Did it elevate your ego to humiliate Dorothy Rae?”
    “Jack, listen, please.”
    “No, you listen. She’s twice the woman you are. Have you noticed how she’s quit drinking all by herself? That takes character—something you’ll never have. She still loves me, in spite of—”
    “Jack, when did Eddy first come to work for Tate?”
    He swore beneath his breath and shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. “I’m spilling my guts here and—”
    “It’s important!” she shouted. “How did Eddy talk himself into the job of campaign manager? When did he first appear on the scene? Did anyone think to check his qualifications?”
    “What the hell are you talking about? You know as well as I do that he didn’t talk himself into anything. He was recruited for the job.”
    “Recruited?” she repeated thinly. “By whom, Jack? Whose idea was it? Who hired Eddy Paschal?”
    Jack gave her a blank stare, then a quick shrug. “Dad.”

Forty-Nine
    The Corte Real was a lovely facility but a poor selection to host Tate Rutledge’s victory celebration because it had only one entrance. Between a pair of massive Spanish doors and the ballroom itself was a short, narrow passageway. It formed an inevitable bottleneck.
    The newly elected senator was propelled through that channel by a surge of family, friends, and supporters, all raucous, all jubilant over his win. Television lights created an aura around his head that shone like a celestial crown. His smile blended confidence with humility, that mix that elevated good men to greatness.
    Tate’s tall, gray-haired observer weaved his way toward the decorated platform at the opposite end of the room from the entrance. He elbowed aside media and Rutledge enthusiasts, somehow managing to do so without drawing attention to himself. Over the years, he’d mastered that kind of maneuver.
    Recently, he had wondered if his skills weren’t getting rusty. He was almost certain Mrs. Rutledge had picked him out of the crowd on more