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“The NTSB’s investigating. They found the black recorder box. Everything seemed normal, then one of the engines just blew up. That ignited the fuel. The plane became a fireball. But before the fuselage was completely engulfed in flames, you managed to get out through an emergency exit onto the wing, carrying Mandy with you.

  “One of the other survivors said he saw you struggling to unlatch her seat belt. He said the three of you found your way to the door through the smoke. Your face was already covered with blood, he said, so the injuries to it must have happened on impact.”

  She remembered none of these details. All she recalled was the terror of thinking she was going to die the suffocating death of smoke inhalation, if she didn’t burn to death first. He was giving her credit for operating courageously during a disaster. All she had done was react to every living creature’s survival instinct.

  Perhaps the memories of the tragedy would unfold gradually. Perhaps they never would. She wasn’t certain she wanted to remember. Reliving those terrifying minutes following the crash would be like experiencing hell again.

  If only fourteen passengers had survived, then scores had died. That she had survived perplexed her. By a twist of fate, she had been selected to live, and she would never know why.

  Her vision grew blurry and she realized that she was crying again. Wordlessly, he applied the tissue to her exposed eye. “They tested your blood for gases and decided to put you on a respirator. You’ve got a concussion, but there was no serious head injury. You broke your right tibia when you jumped from the wing.

  “Your hands are bandaged and in splints because of burns. Thank God, though, that all your injuries, except for the smoke inhalation, were external.

  “I know you’re concerned about your face,” he said uneasily. “I won’t bullshit you, Carole. I know you don’t want me to.”

  She blinked. He paused, gazing down at her with uncertainty. “Your face sustained serious damage. I’ve retained the best plastic surgeon in the state. He specializes in reconstructive surgery on accident and trauma victims just like you.”

  Her eye was blinking furiously now, not with understanding, but with anxiety. Feminine vanity had asserted itself, even though she was lying flat on her back in a hospital ICU, lucky to be alive. She wanted to know just how badly her face had been damaged. Reconstructive surgery sounded ominous.

  “Your nose was broken. So was one cheekbone. The other cheekbone was pulverized. That’s why your eye is bandaged. There’s nothing there to support it.”

  She made a small sound of pure terror. “No, you didn’t lose your eye. That’s a blessing. Your upper jawbone was also broken. But this surgeon can repair it—all of it. Your hair will grow back. You’ll have dental implants that will look exactly like your front teeth.”

  She had no teeth and no hair.

  “We’ve brought him pictures of you—recent pictures, taken from every angle. He’ll be able to reconstruct your features perfectly. The burns on your face affected only the outer skin, so you won’t have to have grafts. When the skin peels, it will be like taking off ten years, the doctor said. You should appreciate that.”

  The subtle inflections in his speech slipped past her comprehension while she focused on key words. The message that had come through loud and clear was that beneath the bandages, she looked like a monster.

  Panic welled up inside her. It must have communicated itself to him because he laid his hand on her shoulder again. “Carole, I didn’t tell you the extent of your injuries to upset you. I know that you’re worried about it. I thought it best to be frank so you could mentally prepare yourself for the ordeal ahead of you.

  “It won’t be easy, but everybody in the family is behind you one hundred percent.” He paused and lowered his voice. “For the time being, I’m laying personal considerations aside and concentrating on putting you back together again. I’ll stick by you until you are completely satisfied with the surgeon’s results. I promise you that. I owe it to you for saving Mandy’s life.”

  She tried to shake her head in denial of everything he was saying, but it was no use. She couldn’t move. Making an effort to speak around the tube in her throat caused pain to her chemically scorched esophagus.

  Her frustration increased until a nurse came in and ordered him to leave. When he lifted his hand off her shoulder, she felt forsaken and alone.

  The nurse administered a dose of narcotic. It stole through her veins, but she fought its anesthetizing effects. It was stronger than she, however, and gave her no choice but to submit.

  * * *

  “Carole, can you hear me?”

  Roused, she moaned pitiably. The medication made her feel weighted down and lifeless, as though the only living cells in her entire body resided in her brain and the rest of her was dead.

  “Carole?” the voice hissed close to her bandaged ear.

  It wasn’t the man named Rutledge. She would have recognized his voice. She couldn’t remember if he had left her. She didn’t know who was speaking to her now. She wanted to shrink from this voice. It wasn’t soothing, 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.�
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  “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 imagine what it would feel like to have them burned and bandaged. “Do you think she remembers the crash?”

  “She indicated that she did, although I’m not sure how much she remembers. I left out the grisly details and only told her that she and Mandy and twelve others had survived.”

  “They said on the news tonight that they’re still trying to match up charred pieces and parts of bodies and identify them.”

  Tate had read the accounts in the newspaper. According to the report, it was a scene straight out of hell. Hollywood couldn’t have created a slasher picture more gruesome than the grim reality that faced the coroner and his army of assistants.

  Whenever Tate remembered that Carole and Mandy could have been among those victims, his stomach became queasy. He couldn’t sleep nights for thinking about it. Each casualty had a story, a reason for being on that particular flight. Each obituary was poignant.

  In his imagination, Tate added Carole’s and Mandy’s names to the list of casualties: The wife and three-year-old daughter of senatorial candidate Tate Rutledge were among the victims of Flight 398.

  But fate had dictated otherwise. They hadn’t died. Because of Carole’s surprising bravery, they had come out of it alive.

  “Good Lord, it’s coming down in buckets out there.” Nelson’s voice boomed through the silence as he came in, balancing a large, square pizza box on his shoulder and shaking out a dripping umbrella with his other hand.

  “We’re famished,” Jack said.

  “I got back as soon as I could.”

  “Smells great, Dad. What’ll you have to drink?” Tate asked as he moved toward the small, built-in refrigerator that his mother had stocked for him his first night there. “Beer or something soft?”

  “With pizza? Beer.”

  “Jack?”

  “Beer.”

  “How were things at the hospital?”

  “He told Carole about her injuries,” Jack said before Tate had a chance to answer.

  “Oh?” Nelson lifted a wedge of steaming pizza to his mouth and took a bite. Around it, he mumbled, “Are you sure that was wise?”

  “No. But if I were where she is, I’d want to know what the hell was going on, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose.” Nelson took a sip of the beer Tate had brought him. “How was your mother when you left?”

  “Worn out. I begged her to come back here and let me stay with Mandy tonight, but she said they were into their routine now, and for Mandy’s sake, she didn’t want to break it.”

  “That’s what she told you,” Nelson said. “But she probably took one look at you and decided that you needed a good night’s sleep more than she does. You’re the one who’s worn out.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Jack said.

  “Well, maybe the pizza will help revive me.” Tate tried to inject some humor into his voice.

  “Don’t make light of our advice, Tate,” Nelson warned sternly. “You can’t let your own health deteriorate.”

  “I don’t intend to.” He saluted them with his can of beer, drank from it, then solemnly added, “Now that Carole’s regained consciousness and knows what’s ahead of her, I’ll rest better.”

  “It’s going to be a long haul. For everybody,” Jack remarked.

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Jack.” Tate blotted his mouth with a paper napkin and mentally braced himself. He was about to test their mettle. “Maybe I should wait another six years to run for office.”

  For the beat of several seconds, there was an air of suspended animation around the table, then Nelson and Jack spoke simultaneously, each trying to make himself heard over the other.

  “You can’t make a decision like that until you see how her operation goes.”

  “What about all the work we’ve put in?”

  “Too many folks are counting on you.”

  “Don’t even think of quitting now, little brother. This election is the one.”

  Tate held up his hands for silence. “You know how badly I want it. Jesus, all I’ve ever wanted to be was a legislator. But I can’t sacrifice the welfare of my family to anything, even my political career.”

  “Carole doesn’t deserve that kind of consideration from you.”

  Tate’s razor-sharp gray eyes found his brother’s. “She’s my wife,” he enunciated.

  Another taut silence ensued. Clearing his throat, Nelson said, “Of course, you must be at Carole’s side as much as possible during the ordeal she’s facing. It’s admirable of you to think of her first and your political career second. I would expect that kind of unselfishness from you.”

  To emphasize his next point, Nelson leaned across the ravaged pizza that had been opened over the small, round table. “But remember how much Carole herself encouraged you to throw your hat into the ring. I think she would be terribly upset if you withdrew from the race on her account. Terribly upset,” he said, jabbing the space between them with his blunt index finger.

  “And looking at it from a very cold and crass viewpoint,” he went on, “this unfortunate accident might be turned to our advantage. It’ll generate free publicity.”

  Disgusted by the observation, Tate tossed down his wadded napkin and left his chair. For several moments he prowled aimlessly around the room. “Did you confer with Eddy on this? Because he said virtually the same thing when I called him earlier to discuss it.”

  “He’s your campaign manager.” Jack had turned pale and speechless at the thought that his brother might give up before his campaign even got off the ground. “He’s paid to give you good advice.”

  “Harp on me, you mean.”

  “Eddy wants to see Tate Rutledge become a United States senator, just like all the rest of us, and his desire for that has nothing to do with the salary he draws.” Smiling broadly, Nelson got up and slapped Tate on the back. “You’ll run in the November election. Carole would be the first in line to encourage you to.”

  “All right then,” Tate said evenly. “I had to know that I could depend on your unqualified support. The demands placed on me in the coming months will be all I can handle, and then some.”

  “You’ve got our support, Tate,” Nelson said staunchly.

  “Will I have your patience and understanding when I can’t be two places at once?” Tate divided his inquiring look between them. “I’ll do my best not to sacrifi
ce one responsibility to the other, but I’m only one person.”

  Nelson assured him, “We’ll take up the slack for you.”

  “What else did Eddy say?” Jack asked, greatly relieved that the crisis had passed.

  “He has volunteers stuffing questionnaires into envelopes to be mailed later this week.”

  “What about public appearances? Has he scheduled any more?”

  “A tentative speech to a high school in the valley. I told him to decline.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “High school kids don’t vote,” Tate said reasonably.

  “But their parents do. And we need those Mexicans in the valley on our side.”

  “We’ve got them on our side.”

  “Don’t take anything for granted.”

  “I don’t,” Tate said, “but this is one of those instances where I have to weigh my priorities. Carole and Mandy are going to require a lot of my time. I’ll have to be more selective about where I go and when. Each speech will have to count, and I don’t think a high school audience would be that beneficial.”

  “You’re probably right,” Nelson said, diplomatically intervening.

  Tate realized that his father was humoring him, but he didn’t care. He was tired, worried, and wanted to go to bed and at least try to sleep. As tactfully as possible, he conveyed that to his brother and father.

  As he saw them out, Jack turned and gave him an awkward hug. “Sorry I badgered you tonight. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  “If you didn’t, I’d get fat and lazy in no time. I rely on you to badger me.” Tate flashed him the engaging smile that was destined to appear on campaign posters.

  “If it’s okay with y’all, I think I’ll go home tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “Somebody needs to check on things at the house, and see how everybody is making out.”

  “How is everything there?” Nelson asked.

  “Okay.”

  “It didn’t look okay the last time I was home. Your daughter Francine hadn’t been heard from in days, and your wife… well, you know the state she was in.” He shook his finger at his elder son. “Things have come to a sad pass when a man doesn’t exercise any more influence over his family than you do.” He glanced at Tate. “Or you, either, for that matter. Both of you have let your wives do as they damn well please.”