Mirror Image

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.

One
    She clawed her way up through the gray mist.
    The clearing beyond it must exist, she reassured herself, even if she couldn’t see it yet. For a minute, she thought that reaching it couldn’t possibly be worth the struggle, but something behind her was so terrifying it propelled her ever forward.
    She was steeped in pain. With increasing frequency she emerged from blessed oblivion into a glaring awareness that was accompanied by pain so intense, so encompassing, she couldn’t localize it. It was everywhere—inside her, on the surface. It was a saturating pain. Then, just when she didn’t think she could stand it an instant longer, she would be flooded with a warm rush of numbness—a magic elixir that washed through her veins. Soon after, the prayed-for oblivion would embrace her again.
    Her conscious moments became extended, however. Muffled sounds reached her despite her muzziness. By concentrating very hard, she began to identify them: the incessant whooshing of a respirator, the constant bleeping of electronic machinery, rubber soles squeaking on tile floors, ringing telephones.
    Once when she surfaced from unconsciousness, she overheard a hushed conversation taking place nearby.
    ���… incredibly lucky… with that much fuel splashed on her… burns, but they’re mostly superficial.”
    “How long… to respond?”
    “… patience… trauma like this injures more… the body.”
    “What will… look like when… is finished?”
    “… surgeon tomorrow. He’ll… procedure with you.”
    “When?”
    “… no longer danger… infection.”
    “Will… effects on the fetus?”
    “Fetus? Your wife wasn’t pregnant.”
    The words were meaningless. They hurtled toward