Mirror Image

like Mr. Rutledge’s.
    “You’re still in bad shape and might succumb yet. But if you feel that you’re fixing to die, don’t make any deathbed confessions, even if you’re able to.”
    She wondered if she was dreaming. Frightened, she opened her eye. As usual, the room was brightly lit. Her respirator hissed rhythmically. The person speaking to her was standing outside her peripheral vision. She could sense him there, but she couldn’t see him.
    “We’re still in this together, you and I. And you’re in too deep to get out now, so don’t even consider it.”
    To no avail, she tried to blink away her grogginess and disorientation. The person remained only a presence, without form or distinction—a disembodied, sinister voice.
    “Tate will never live to take office. This plane crash has been an inconvenience, but we can work it to our advantage if you don’t panic. Hear me? If you come out of this, we’ll pick up where we left off. There’ll never be a Senator Tate Rutledge. He’ll die first.”
    She squeezed her eye closed in an attempt to stave off her mounting panic.
    “I know you can hear me, Carole. Don’t pretend you can’t.”
    After several moments, she reopened her eye and rolled it as far back as she could. She still couldn’t see anybody, but she sensed her visitor had left.
    Several minutes more ticked by, measured by the maddening cycle of the respirator. She hovered between sleep and wakefulness, valiantly fighting the effects of drugs, panic, and the disorientation inherent to an ICU.
    Shortly afterward, a nurse came, checked her IV bottle, and took her blood pressure. She behaved routinely. Surely if someone were in her room, or had been there recently, the nurse would have acknowledged it. Satisfied with her patient’s condition, she left.
    By the time she fell asleep again, she had convinced herself that she had only had a bad dream.

Two
    Tate Rutledge stood at the window of his hotel room, gazing down at the traffic moving along the freeway. Taillights and headlights were reflected on the wet pavement, leaving watery streaks of red and white.
    When he heard the door opening behind him, he turned on the heels of his boots and nodded a greeting to his brother. “I called your room a few minutes ago,” he said. “Where have you been?”
    “Drinking a beer down in the bar. The Spurs are playing the Lakers.”
    “I’d forgotten. Who’s winning?”
    His brother’s derisive frown indicated the silliness of that question. “Dad’s not back yet?”
    Tate shook his head, let the drape fall back into place, and moved away from the window.
    “I’m starving,” Jack said. “You hungry?”
    “I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it.” Tate dropped into the easy chair and rubbed his eyes.
    “You’re not going to do Carole or Mandy any good if you don’t take care of yourself through this, Tate. You look like shit.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I mean it.”
    “I know you do,” Tate said, lowering his hands and giving his older brother a wry smile. “You’re all candor and no tact. That’s why I’m a politician and you’re not.”
    “Politician is a bad word, remember? Eddy’s coached you not to use it.”
    “Even among friends and family?”
    “You might develop a bad habit of it. Best not to use it at all.”
    “Jeez, don’t you ever let up?”
    “I’m only trying to help.”
    Tate lowered his head, ashamed of his ill-tempered outburst. “I’m sorry.” He toyed with the TV’s remote control, punching through the channels soundlessly. “I told Carole about her face.”
    “You did?”
    Lowering himself to the edge of the bed, Jack Rutledge leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. Unlike his brother, he was clad in suit slacks, a white dress shirt, and a necktie. This late in the day, however, he looked rumpled. The starched shirt had wilted, the tie had been loosened, and his sleeves were rolled back. The slacks were wrinkled across his lap because he’d been sitting most of the day.
    “How did she react when you told her?”
    “How the hell do I know?” Tate muttered. “You can’t see anything except her right eye. Tears came out of it, so I know she was crying. Knowing her, how vain she is, I would imagine she’s hysterical underneath all those bandages. If she could move at all, she would probably be running up and down the corridors of the hospital screaming. Wouldn’t you be?”
    Jack hung his head and studied his hands, as though trying to