Mirror Image by Sandra Brown
PROLOGUE
The hell of it was that it couldn't have been a better day for flying. The January sky was cloudless and so blue it was almost painful to look at. Visibility was unlimited. There was a cool, harmless breeze out of the north.
Airport traffic was moderate to heavy at that time of day, but efficient ground crews were keeping to schedules. No planes were circling, awaiting permission to land, and there were only a couple of aircraft in line to take off.
It was an ordinary Friday morning at the San Antonio International Airport. The only thing the passengers of AireAmerica's Flight 398 had found troublesome was getting into the airport itself. Road construction on 4I0 West, the major freeway artery in front of the airport, had caused bumper-to-bumper traffic for nearly a mile.
Yet ninety-seven passengers had boarded on schedule, stowing carryon baggage in overhead compartments, buckling up, settling into their seats with books, magazines, newspapers. The cockpit crew routinely went through the pre flight check. Flight attendants joked among themselves as they loaded up drink dollies and brewed coffee that would never be poured. A final head count was taken and anxious standby passengers were allowed to board. The jetway was withdrawn. The plane taxied to the end of the runway.
The captain's friendly drawl came over the speakers and informed his passengers that they were next in line on the runway. After he reported that the current weather conditions in their destination city of Dallas were perfect, he instructed the attendants to prepare for takeoff.
Neither he nor anyone on board guessed that Flight 398 would be airborne less than thirty seconds.
"Irish!" "Hmm?"
"A plane just went down at the airport." Irish McCabe's head snapped up.
"Crashed?"
"And burning. It's a hell of a fire at the end of the runway."
The news director dropped the latest Nielsen ratings onto his messy desk. Moving with admirable agility for a man of his age and untended physical condition, Irish rounded the corner of his desk and barreled through the door of his private glass cubicle, almost mowing down the reporter who had brought him the bulletin from the newsroom.
"Taking off or landing?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Unconfirmed."
"Survivors?"
"Unconfirmed."
"Airline or private craft?"
"Unconfirmed."
"Hell, are you sure there's even been a crash?"
A somber group of reporters, photographers, secretaries, and gofers had already collected at the bank of police radios. Irish elbowed them aside and reached for a volume knob.
". . . runway. No sign of survivors at this time. Air-port firefighting equipment is rushing toward the site. Smoke and flames are evident. Choppers are airborne. Ambulances are—"
Irish began barking orders louder than the radios, which were squawking noisily. "You," he said, pointing toward the male reporter who had barged into his office only seconds earlier, "take a live remote unit and get the hell out there on the double." The reporter and a video cameraman peeled away from the group and raced for the exit. "Who called this in?" Irish wanted to know.
"Martinez. He was driving to work and got caught up in traffic on 4I0."
"Is he standing by?"
"He's still there, talking on his car phone."
"Tell him to get as close to the wreckage as he can, and shoot as much video as possible until the mobile unit arrives. Let's get a chopper in the air, too. Somebody get on the phone and chase down the pilot. Meet him at the heliport."
He scanned the faces, looking for one in particular. "Ike still around?" he asked, referring to the morning news anchorman.
"He's in the John taking a crap."
"Go get him. Tell him to get on the studio set. We'll do a break-in bulletin. I want a statement from somebody in the tower, from the airport officials, the airline, police—somethingto go on the air with before the NTSB boys put a gag on everybody. Get on it, Hal. Somebody else call Avery at home. Tell her—"
"Can't. She's going to Dallas today, remember?"
"Shit. I forgot. No, wait," Irish said, snapping his fingers and looking hopeful. "She might still be at the airport. If she is, she'll be there ahead of everyone else. If she can get into the Aire America terminal, she can cover the story from the human interest angle. When she calls in, I want to be notified immediately."
Eager for an update, he turned back to the radios. Adrenaline rushed through his system. This would mean he would have no weekend. It meant overtime and headaches, cold meals and stale coffee, but Irish was in his element. There was nothing like a good plane crash to round out a news week and boost ratings.
Tate Rutledge stopped his car in front of the house. He waved to the ranch foreman who was pulling out of the driveway in his pickup. A mongrel, mostly collie, bounded up and tackled him around the knees.
"Hey, Shep ." Tate reached down and petted the dog's shaggy head. The dog looked up at him with unabashed hero worship.
Tens of thousands of people regarded Tate Rutledge with that same kind of reverent devotion. There was a lot about the man to admire. From the crown of his tousled brown hair to the toes of his scuffed boots, he was a man's man and a woman's fantasy.
But for every ardent admirer, he had an equally ardent enemy.
Instructing Shep to stay outdoors, he entered the wide foyer of the house and peeled off his sunglasses. His boot heels echoed on the quarry tile flooring as he headed toward the kitchen, where he could smell coffee brewing. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten before making the early round trip to San Antonio. He fantasized about a breakfast steak, grilled to perfection; a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs; and a few slices of hot, buttered toast. His stomach growled more aggressively.
His parents were in the kitchen, seated at the round oak table that had been there for as long as Tate could remember. As he walked in, his mother turned toward him, a stricken expression on her face. She was alarmingly pale. Nelson Rutledge, his father, immediately left his place at the table and moved toward him, arms outstretched.
"Tate."
"What's going on?" he asked, puzzled. "To look at the two of you, you'd think somebody just died."
Nelson winced. "Weren't you listening to your car radio?"
"No. Tapes. Why?" The first stirring of panic seized his heart. "What the hell's happened?" His eyes flickered to the portable television on the tile countertop. It had been the focus of his parents' attention when he walked in.
"Tate," Nelson said in an emotionally ragged voice, "Channel Two just broke into 'Wheel of Fortune' with a news bulletin. A plane crashed on takeoff a few minutes ago at the airport." Tate's chest rose and fell on a quick, soundless gasp.
"It's still unconfirmed exactly which flight number it was, but they think—" Nelson stopped and shook his head mournfully. At the table, Zee crammed a damp Kleenex to her compressed lips.
"Carole's plane?" Tate asked hoarsely.
Nelson nodded.