FORTY
"Hello, Mr. Lovejoy." Van was bent over, diddling with his camera. He raised his head and shook his long hair out of his face. "Oh, hi, Av. . .uh, Mrs. Rutledge."
"It's good to see you again."
"Same here." He inserted a blank tape into his camera and hoisted it onto his shoulder. "I missed you the first week of this trip, but the family has been reunited, I see."
"Yes, Mr. Rutledge wanted us with him."
"Yeah?" Van leered with insinuation. " Ain'tthat sweet?"
She gave him a reproving look. Although she'd seen Van at various times during the day and they'd nodded at each other, she hadn't had an opportunity to speak with him until now. The afternoon had passed in a blur, especially after her enlightening conversation with Dorothy Rae.
"How's it going?" Van asked her.
"The campaign? It's exhausting work. I've shaken a thousand hands today, and that's a fraction of what Tate has done." It was little wonder to her that he had been so tired when she arrived in Fort Worth the evening before. Yet in front of every crowd he had to appear fresh and enthusiastic.
This was the last appearance of the day. Even though the banquet was officially over, the dais was thronged with people who had cheered his speech and now wanted to meet him personally. She commiserated with the demands being placed on him after such a long day, but she was glad for the opportunity to slip away and seek out Van.
"Heard he fired those buzzards from Wakely and Foster."
"News travels fast."
"Paschal already released a statement to that effect. If you ask me, Rutledge didn't oust them a minute too soon. They made it almost impossible to get close to him. It was like screwing with a steel belted radial on your dick instead of a regular rubber."
Avery hoped no one nearby had overheard the simile. It was one he would use with a co-worker, but hardly one suitable for the ears of a congressional candidate's wife. She hurriedly switched subjects. "The commercials you taped at the ranch are running on TV now."
"You've seen them?"
"Excellent photography, Mr. Lovejoy."
His crooked teeth showed when he smiled. "Thanks, Mrs. Rutledge."
"Have you seen anyone here that you recognize?" she asked, casually scanning the milling crowd.
"Not tonight." His emphasis on the second word brought her eyes snapping back to his. "There were some familiar faces in the crowd this afternoon."
"Oh?" She had monitored the crowds carefully, but to her vast relief, hadn't spotted Gray Hair. Obviously Van had. "Where? Here in the hotel?"
"At General Dynamics and again at Carswell Air Force Base."
"I see," she said shakily. "Is that the first time this trip?"
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding his head yes. "Well, you must excuse me, Mrs. Rutledge. Duty calls. The reporter's signaling me, so I gotta split."
"Oh, I'm sorry I detained you, Mr. Lovejoy."
"No problem. Glad to oblige." He took several steps away from her, then turned back. "Mrs. Rutledge, did you ever stop to think that someone's here to see you and not, uh, your husband?"
"Me?"
"Just a thought. But worth considering." Van's eyes telegraphed a warning. Moments later he was sucked into the ebb and flow of people.
Avery stood very still and rolled the chilling theory over and over in her mind. She was impervious to the motion of the crowd, to the noise and commotion, and oblivious to someone watching her from across the room and wondering what she and the disheveled television cameraman had found to talk about for so long.
"Jack?" "Hmm?"
"Did you notice my new hairdo?"
Dorothy Rae was admiring her reflection for the first time in so long she couldn't even remember. In her youth, when she'd been the most popular girl at Lampasas High School, primping had been her number-one pastime. But for years there had been little to admire when she looked into a mirror.
Jack, reclining on the hotel room bed reading the newspaper, answered mechanically. "It looks nice."
“Today Fancy and I walked past this trendy beauty parlor in the mall. You know, the kind of place where all the stylists are dressed in black and have several earrings in each ear." Jack grunted. "On impulse, I said, 'Fancy, I'm gonna have a make-over.' So we went in and one of the girls did my hair and makeup and nails."
"Hmm."
She gazed into the mirror, turning her head to one side, then the other. “Fancy said that I should lighten my hair just a bit, right here around my face. She said it would give me a lift and take years off. What do you think?"
"I think I'd be wary of any advice coming from Fancy."
Dorothy Rae's reblossoming self-confidence wilted a little, but she resisted the temptation to go to the bar and pour herself a reviving drink. "I. . .I've stopped drinking, Jack," she blurted out.
He lowered the newspaper and looked at her fully for the first time that evening. The new hairdo was shorter and fluffier and flattering. The subtly applied cosmetics had moistened the dry gullies in her face eroded by rivers of vodka, and given color to the wasteland it had been.
"Since when?"
Her newfound confidence withered a little more at his skepticism, but she staunchly kept her head erect. "This morning."
Jack folded the newspapers and tossed them to the floor. Reaching for the switch of the reading lamp mounted to the headboard, he said, "Good night, Dorothy Rae."
She moved to the bed and clicked the lamp back on. He looked up at her with surprise. "I mean it this time, Jack."
"You've meant it every time you said you were going to quit."
"This time is different. I'm going to check myself into one of those hospitals you've wanted me to go to. After the election, that is. I know that now wouldn't be a convenient time to be committing a member of Tate's family into a hospital for drunks."
"You're not a drunk."
She smiled sadly. "Yes, I am, Jack. Yes, I am. You should have made me admit it a long time ago." She put out her hand and tentatively touched his shoulder. "I'm not blaming you. I'm the one responsible for what I've become."
Then her fine chin, which had somehow withstood the ravages of abusive drinking and unhappiness, came up another notch. Held at that proud angle, her face bore traces of the beauty queen she had been and the vivacious coed he'd fallen in love with. "I'm not going to be a useless drunk anymore."
"We'll see."
He didn't sound very optimistic, but at least she had his attention, which was something. He didn't listen to her half the time because she rarely had anything worthy of his interest.
She urged him to scoot over so she could sit at the edge of the bed beside him and primly folded her hands in her lap. "We've got to keep closer tabs on Fancy."
"Good luck," he snorted.
"I realize we can't put her on a leash. She's too old." "And too far gone."
"Maybe. I hope not. I want her to know that I care what happens to her." Her lips parted in a small smile. "We actually got along together this afternoon. She helped me pick out a new dress. Did you notice the one she was wearing tonight? It was still flashy, but conservative by her normal standards. Even Zee commented on it. Fancy needs a firm hand. That's the only way she'll know we love her." She paused, glancing at him hesitantly. "And I want to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Recover from your disappointments." "Disappointments?''
"Mostly Carole. You don't have to admit or deny anything," she said quickly. "I'm stone sober now, but I know that your desire for her wasn't a drunken delusion I had. Whether or not it's been consummated doesn't matter to me.
"I couldn't blame you for being unfaithful. There were times when I loved my next drink as much as I loved you—maybe more. I know you're in love with Carole—infatuated, anyway. She's used you and hurt you. I want to help you get over her.
"And I want to help you get over other disappointments, like the one you had this morning when Tate went against your decision to keep those consultants."
Gaining courage, she touched his face this time. Her hand only shook a little. "Whether anyone else gives you credit for the fine man you are, I do. You've always been my hero, Jack."
He scoffed at that. "Some hero."
"To me you are."
"What's all this about, Dorothy Rae?"
"I want us to love each other again."
He looked at her for a long moment, more meaningfully than he had looked at her in years. "I doubt that can happen."
His futile tonality frightened her. However, she gave him a watery smile. "We'll work on it together. Good night, Jack."
She extinguished the lamp and lay down beside him. He didn't respond when she placed her arms around him, but he didn't turn away as he usually did.
Insomnia had become the norm since Carole had returned from the hospital. Indeed, these nights of wakefulness were cherished, for the night had become the best time in which to think. No one else was around; there was no motion and noise to clutter the brain. Silence bred insight.
What it obviously failed to instill was logic. Because no matter how many times the data was analyzed, the "logical" hypothesis was preposterous.
Carole wasn't Carole.
The hows , whys, and wherefores of it mattered, but not to any extent like the indubitable fact that Carole Navarro Rutledge had been replaced by someone else. Amnesia was the only other explanation for the complete reversal from her former personality. That would explain why she had fallen in love with her husband again, but still wouldn't account for the altered personality traits. Her current persona would only make sense if she were another woman entirely.
Carole wasn't Carole.
Then who was she?
The question was tormenting because so much was at risk. The plan that had taken years to orchestrate was about to come to fruition. . .unless it was thwarted by an impostor. All the elements were in motion. It was too late to turn back, even if that was desired, which it wasn't. Sweet revenge sometimes required bitter sacrifices. Vengeance was not to be denied.
Until the moment it was realized, however, this Carole, this impostor, must be watched. She seemed innocent enough, but one could never be too careful. But who she was and why she would want to assume another woman's identity, if indeed that's what had happened, was puzzling.
As soon as they returned home, answers to these questions must be sought. Perhaps one more carrot should be dangled in front of her just to see how she would respond, whom she would run to. Yes, one more message was called for. She mustn't be put on the alert that she'd been found out. The partner in this would certainly agree. Carole's every move from here on must be scrutinized. They had to know who she was.
A starting point would be to learn who had actually died in the crash of Flight 398. . . and who had lived.
"Morning."
"Hey, Jack. Sit down." Tate motioned his brother into the chair across the breakfast table and signaled a waiter to pour him some coffee.
"You're not expecting anyone else?"
"No. Carole and Mandy slept late this morning. I got up, went out for my run, and was dressed by the time they woke up. Carole said for me not to wait on them, but to come on down. I hate eating alone, so I'm glad you're here."
"Are you?" To the waiter, he said, "The number three breakfast. Make sure the bacon's crisp and substitute hash browns for the grits, please."
"Certainly, Mr. Rutledge."
"Pays to have a famous brother," Jack commented as the waiter withdrew with his order. "Guarantees better service."
Tate was leaning back in his chair, his hands forming loose fists on either side of his plate. "Mind telling me what you meant by that crack?"
"What crack?" Jack dumped two packets of sugar into his coffee.
"Asking me if I'm really glad you're having breakfast with me."
"I just thought that after yesterday—" "Yesterday went great."
"I'm referring to the meeting with Dirk and Ralph."
"So you're still pissed because I fired them?"
"It's your campaign," Jack said with an insolent shrug.
"It's our campaign."
"The hell it is."
Tate was about to offer a rebuttal when the waiter appeared with Jack's breakfast. He waited until they were alone again, then leaned across the table and said in a soft, peacemaking tone, "I wasn't belittling your decision, Jack."
"That's what it looked like to me. To everybody else, too."
Tate stared into the cooling remains of his waffles and sausage, but didn't pick up his fork again. "I'm sorry if you took it to heart, but their tactics just weren't working for me. I listened to you, to Eddy, to Dad, but—"
"But you went with Carole's opinion."
Tate was taken aback by Jack's viciousness. "What's she got to do with this?"
"You tell me."
"She's my wife."
"That's your problem."
Tate didn't want to get into a discussion of his marriage with his brother. He addressed the real issue. "Jack, my name is the one on the ballot. I'm ultimately accountable for how my campaign is run. I'll have to answer for my performance in Congress if I'm elected. Tate Rutledge," he stressed, "not anybody else."
"I understand that."
"Then work with me, not against me." Warmed to his topic, Tate pushed his plate aside and propped his forearms on the edge of the table. "I couldn't have done this alone. Hell, don't you think I know how dedicated you are to this?"
"More than anything in the world, I want to see you elected."
"I know that, Jack. You're my brother. I love you. I appreciate your doggedness, your self-sacrifice, and all the details you see to so I won't be bothered with them. I realize, probably more than you know, that I'm sitting on the white horse while you're down there shoveling up the shit."
"I never aspired to ride the white horse, Tate. I just want to be given credit for shoveling the shit pretty damn well."
"More than pretty damn well," Tate said. "I'm sorry we disagreed on that matter yesterday, but sometimes I have to go with my gut instinct, despite what you or anybody else is advising me.
"Would you have me any other way? Would I be a worthy candidate for public office if I could be swayed to go along with something because it would be the popular, expedient, and convenient thing to do, even though I felt strongly against it?"
"I suppose not."
Tate smiled ruefully. "In the final analysis, I'm the one baring my ass to the world, Jack."
"Just don't expect me to bend over and kiss it when I think you're wrong."
The two brothers laughed together. Jack was the first to grow serious again. He summoned the waiter to take away their plates and replenish their coffee cups. "Tate, as long as we're clearing theair. . ."
"Hmm?"
"I get the impression that things are better between you and Carole."
Tate glanced at his brother sharply, then away. "Some."
"Well, that's. . .that's good, I guess. As long as it makes you happy." He fiddled with an empty sugar packet.
"Why am I waiting for the other shoe to drop?"
Jack cleared his throat and shifted uneasily in his chair. "I don't know, there's something. . ."He ran his hand over his thinning hair. "You're going to think I'm crazy."
"Try me."
"There's something out of sync with her."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Hell, you sleep with her. If you haven't noticed it, then I must be imagining it." He paused, waiting expectantly for either a confirmation or denial, neither of which he got. "Did you see her talking to that TV guy last night?"
"What TV guy?"
"The one who did the camera work for the commercial we made at the ranch."
"His name's Van Lovejoy. He's covering my campaign for KTEX."
"Yeah, I know." Jack spread his hands wide and laughed dryly. "It just seemed strange that Carole made a point to speak to him during all that hoopla last night, that's all. She made a beeline for him as soon as she left the dais. He's not exactly her type." Tate quickly averted his head. "What I mean is. . ." Jack stammered, "he's not. . .hell, you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean." Tate's voice was quiet.
"Well, I'd better get back upstairs and light a fire under Dorothy Rae and Fancy. Eddy wants everybody congregated in the lobby, packed and ready to pull out by ten-thirty." He affectionately slapped his brother's shoulder as he walked past him. "I enjoyed breakfast."
"So did I, Jack."
Tate continued to stare sightlessly out the window. Carole had been talking to Van Lovejoy again last night? Why?
He hadn't told his brother that she had had a private conversation with the video photographer once before. For all her glib explanation, their conversation on the sidewalk outside the Adolphus had appeared furtive.
She'd lied her way around it that time. He'd known she was lying, but then he'd kissed her, she'd kissed him back, and he'd forgotten what had started the argument. Things had been going so well between them. Why did this dark cloud have to show up on the horizon?
Their sex had never been as good or as satisfying. It was hot, but it had always been hot. It was dirty, but it had always been dirty. Only now it was like having dirty sex with a lady, which made it even better. She no longer rushed the foreplay. She no longer chanted gutter jargon. She didn't scream like before when she pretended to come, but took catchy little breaths that he thought were infinitely sexier. And he would swear that her orgasms were genuine. There was a newness to their lovemaking, an essence of intrigue, almost like it was illicit. He was embarrassed to even think the cliche , but each time was like the first time. He always discovered something about her that he hadn't realized before.
She'd never been modest, never given a thought to parading around unclothed. Lately, however, she artfully used lingerie rather than nudity to entice him. Yesterday morning, when they'd made love on the parlor sofa, she had insisted that he pull the drapes first. He supposed her self-consciousness stemmed from the nearly undetectable scars on her arms and hands.
The maidenly shyness excited him. She seduced by withholding. He hadn't yet seen in the light what he caressed in darkness with his hands and lips. Damned if the mystery didn't make him want her even more.
He had thought about her constantly yesterday. Prurient thoughts of her had intruded upon high-level discussions and impassioned speeches. Whenever their eyes connected, they seemed to be thinking the same thought, and that was how quickly they wanted the time to pass so they could go to bed again.
He had developed the curious habit of subconsciously knowing where she was at all times, gauging her distance from him and inventing reasons to touch her whenever she was close enough. But was she playing games with him? Was her modesty a sexual gimmick? Why did she have an unexplainable interest in this photographer?
On the one hand, Tate wanted immediate answers. But if answers meant having to give up the peace, harmony, and sex, he was prepared to wait indefinitely for an explanation.