FORTY-SIX
Van's search came to an end on the eve of Election Day. For several seconds, he stared at the color monitor screen, not believing that he'd finally found what he had been looking for all this time.
He had taken a catnap at daybreak, realizing when he saw light leaking around the tattered shades in his apartment windows that he had been up all night, viewing one videotape after another. After he had slept for about an hour, he'd drunk a pot of strong, caffeine-rich coffee and returned to his console. The desk area was littered with junk food wrappers, empty soda cans, empty cigarette packs, and rank, overflowing ashtrays.
Van hadn't noticed the untidiness. He didn't care. Nor did it matter to him that he hadn't eaten a square meal or showered in over forty-eight hours. His compulsion to watch videotapes had become his obsession. His passion had grown into a mission.
He accomplished it at nine-thirtyp.m. as he sat looking at a tape he had shot three years earlier while working at an NBC affiliate station in Washington state. He didn't even remember the station's call letters, but he remembered theassignment. He had used four tapes in all, each containing twenty minutes of unedited video. The reporter had compressed those eighty minutes into a five-minute special feature for the evening news during a ratings sweep week. It was the kind of piece people shuddered over and woefully shook their heads at, but consumed like popcorn.
Van watched all eighty minutes several times to make certain there was no mistake. When he was positive he was right, he flipped the necessary switches, inserted a blank tape, and began to make a duplicate of the most important, and most incriminating, one of the four.
Since it had to be duplicated at real time, that left him with twenty minutes to kill. He searched through the crumpled packets littering the console and finally produced a lone, bent cigarette, lit it, then picked up the phone and called the Palacio Del Rio.
"Yeah, I need to talk to Mrs. Rutledge. Mrs. Tate Rutledge."
"I'm sorry, sir," the switchboard operator said pleasantly, "I can't put that call through, but if you leave your name and number—"
"No, you don't understand. This is a personal message for Av. . . uh, Carole Rutledge."
"I'll give your message to their staff, who is screening—"
"Look, bitch, this is important, got that? An emergency."
"Regarding what, sir?"
"I can't tell you. I've got to speak to Mrs. Rutledge personally."
"I'm sorry, sir," the unflappable operator repeated. "I can't put that call through. If you leave your—"
"Shit!"
He slammed down the receiver and dialed Irish's number. He let it ring thirty times before giving up. "Where the hell is he?"
While the tape was still duplicating, Van paced, trying to figure out the best way to inform Irish and Avery of what he'd found. It was essential that he get this tape into Avery's hands, but how? If he couldn't even get the hotel operator to ring her suite, he couldn't possibly get close enough tonight to place the tape into her hands. Shehadto see it before tomorrow.
By the time the duplication was completed, Van still hadn't thought of a solution to his dilemma. The only possible course of action was to try to locate Irish. He would advise him what to do.
But after keeping the phone lines hot for half an hour between his apartment, KTEX's newsroom, and Irish's house, he still hadn't spoken to his boss. He decided to take the damn tape to Irish's house. He could wait for him there. It would mean driving clear across town, but what the hell? This was important.
It wasn't until he reached the parking lot of his apartment complex that he remembered his van was in the shop. His companion reporter had had to drive him home after they'd covered Rutledge's return to the San Antonio airport earlier that evening.
"Shit. Now what?"
The post office box. If contact couldn't be made any other way, that was the conveyance he'd been told to use. He went back inside. Among a heap of scrap papers, he found the one he'd scribbled the post office box number on. He sealed the videotape into an addressed, padded envelope, slipped on a jacket, and struck out on foot, taking his package with him.
It was only two blocks to the nearest convenience store, where there was also a mailbox, but even that represented more exercise than Van liked.
He purchased cigarettes, a six-pack of beer, and enough stamps to cover the postage—if not, Irish could make up the difference—and dropped the package into the mailbox. The schedule posted on the outside said that there was a pickup at midnight. The tape could feasibly be in Irish's hands by tomorrow morning.
In the meantime, though, Van planned to keep calling Irish every five minutes until he contacted him. Mailing the duplicate tape was only insurance.
Where could the old coot be at this hour, if not at home or the TV station? He had to show up sooner or later. Then the two of them would decide how to warn Avery of just how real the threat on Rutledge's life was.
Sipping one of the beers en route, Van sauntered back to his apartment, went in, shrugged off his jacket, and resumed his seat at the video console. He reloaded one of the tapes that had solved the mystery for him and began replaying it.
Midway through, he reached for the phone and dialed Irish's number. It rang five times before he heard the click severing the connection. He glanced quickly at his phone and saw that a gloved hand had depressed the button. His eyes followed an arm up to a pleasantly smiling face.
"Very interesting, Mr. Lovejoy," his visitor said softly, nodding at the flickering monitor. "I couldn't quite remember where I'd seen you before."
Then a pistol was raised and fired at point blank range into Van's forehead.
Irish rushed through his front door and caught his telephone on the sixth ring, just as the caller hung up. " Dammit!" He had stayed late in the newsroom in preparation for the hellish day the news team would have tomorrow.
He had checked and rechecked schedules, reviewed assignments, and consulted with the anchors to make certain everybody knew where to go and what to do when. It was this kind of news day that Irish loved. But it was also the kind that gave him heartburn as hot as smoldering brimstone in his gut. He shouldn't have stopped to wolf down that plate of enchiladas on his way home.
He drank a glass of antacid and returned to his telephone. He called Van, but hung up after the phone rang a couple dozen times. If Van was out carousing, getting hopped up on a controlled substance, he'd kill him. He needed him up bright and early in the morning.
He would dispatch Van with a reporter to record the Rutledges voting in Kerrville, then install him at the Palacio Del Rio for the rest of the day and long evening while they waited for the returns to come in.
Irish wasn't convinced that anybody would be so stupid as to attempt an assassination on Election Day, but Avery seemed to believe that's when it would happen. If seeing Van in the crowd alleviated her anxiety, then Irish wanted him there, visible and within easy reach should she need him.
Contacting her by telephone was impossible. He had already tried to call her earlier today, but he had been told that Mrs. Rutledge wasn't feeling well. At least that's the story that had come out of the Rutledge camp when she failed to accompany Tate on his final campaign swing through North Texas.
In a later effort to speak with her, he had been told that the family was out to dinner. Still uneasy, he'd stopped by the post office on the way home and checked his box. There'd been nothing in it, which allayed his concerns somewhat. He supposed that no news was good news. If Avery needed him, she knew where to find him.
He prepared for bed. After his prayers, he tried calling Van once more. There was still no answer.
Avery spent Election Eve in tormenting worry. Tate told her peremptorily that she would not be going with him on his last campaign trip, and he stuck to it, heedless of her pleas.
When he returned safely, her relief was so profound that she was weak with it. As they convened for dinner, Jack sidled up to her and asked, "Do you still have the cramps?"
"What?"
"Tate said you weren't up to making the trip today because you got your period."
"Oh, yes," she said, backing his lie. "I didn't feel well this morning, but I'm fine now, thanks."
"Just make sure you're well in the morning." Jack wasn't the least bit interested in her health, only in how her presence or absence might effect the outcome of the election. "You've got to be at your peak tomorrow."
"I'll try."
Jack was then claimed by Dorothy Rae, who hadn't touched a drink in weeks. The changes in her were obvious. She no longer looked frightened and frail, but took pains with her appearance. More self-assertive, she rarely let Jack out of her sight, and never when Avery was around. Apparently she still considered Carole a threat, but one she was prepared to combat for her husband's affections.
Thanks to Tate's ingrained charm, Avery didn't think anyone noticed the schism in their relationship. The family traveled en masse to a restaurant for dinner, where they were seated and served in a private dining room.
For the duration of the meal, Tate treated her with utmost politeness. She plagued him with questions about his day and how he was received in each city. He answered courteously, but without elaboration. The steely coldness from his eyes chilled her to the marrow.
He played with Mandy. He related anecdotes of the trip to his attentive mother and father. He gently teased Fancy and engaged her in conversation. He listened to Jack's last few words of counsel. He argued with Eddy over his Election Day attire.
"I'm not dressing up to go vote—no more than the average guy—and I'll change into a suit and tie only if I have to make an acceptance speech."
"Then I'd better arrange to have the hotel valet press your suit overnight," Avery said with conviction.
"Hear, hear!" Nelson heartily thumped his fist on the table.
Tate looked at her sharply, as though wanting to strip away her duplicity. If he suspected treachery of anyone in this convivial inner circle, it was she. If he harbored any doubts as to where his family's loyalty and devotion lay, he masked it well. For a man whose life could be radically altered the following day, he appeared ludicrously calm.
However, Avery guessed that his composure was a facade. He exuded confidence because he wanted everyone else to remain at ease. That would be typical of Tate.
She longed for a private moment with him upon their return to the hotel, and was glad when his conference with Jack and Eddy concluded quickly.
"I'm going out for a stroll along the Riverwalk ," Jack told them as he pulled on his jacket. "Dorothy Rae and Fancy are watching a movie on the TV in our room. It's the kind of sentimental crap I can't stomach, so until it's over I'm going to make myself scarce."
"I'll ride the elevator down with you," Eddy said. "I want to check the lobby newsstand for papers we might have missed."
They left. Mandy was already asleep in her room. Now, Avery thought, she would have time to plead her case before Tate. Maybe his judgment wouldn't be so harsh this time. To her dismay, however, he picked up his room key and moved toward the door.
"I'm going to visit with Mom and Dad for a while."
"Tate, did you notice Van at the airport? I tried calling him at home, but he wasn't back yet. I wanted him to bring the tapes over so—"
"You look tired. Don't wait up."
He left the suite and stayed gone a long time. Finally, because it had been such a long, dreary day, which she'd spent largely confined to the suite, she went to bed.
Tate never joined her. She woke up during the night. Missing his warmth, panicked because she didn't hear him breathing beside her, she quickly crossed the bedroom and flung open the door.
He was sleeping on the sofa in the parlor.
It broke her heart.
For months he had been lost to her because of Carole's deceit. Now he was lost to her because of her own.