Mirror Image (2 page)

"Mr. Rutledge, please give us a few—"

"Carole?"

She was suddenly aware of him. He was very close, bending over her, speaking to her with soft reassurance. "You're going to be fine. I know you're frightened and worried, but you're going to be all right. So is Mandy, thank God. She has a few broken bones and some superficial burns on her arms. Mom's staying in the hospital room with her. She's going to be fine. Hear me, Carole? You and Mandy survived, and that's what's important now."

There was a bright fluorescent light directly behind his head, so his features were indistinct, but she could piece together enough strong features to form a vague impression of what he looked like. She clung to each comforting word he spoke. And because he spoke them with such conviction, she believed them.

She reached for his hand—or rather, tried to. He must have sensed her silent plea for human contact because he placed his hand lightly upon her shoulder.

Her anxiety began to wane at his touch, or perhaps because the powerful sedative that had been injected into her IV began to take effect. She allowed herself to be lured, feeling safer somehow by having this stranger with the compelling voice beside her, within reach.

"She's drifting off. You can leave now, Mr. Rutledge."

"I'm staying."

She closed her eye, blotting out his blurred image. The drug was seductive. It gently rocked her like a small boat, lulling her into the safe harbor of uncaring.

Who is Mandy?she wondered.

Was she supposed to know this man who referred to her as Carole? Why did everyone keep calling her Mrs. Rutledge? Did everybody think she was married to him? They were wrong, of course. She didn't even know him.

He was there when she woke up again. Minutes, hours, days could have elapsed for all she knew. Since time had no relevance in an intensive care unit, her disorientation was augmented further.

The moment she opened her eye, he leaned over her and said, "Hi."

It was nerve-racking, not being able to see him clearly. Only one of her eyes would open. She realized now that her head was swathed in bandages and that's why she couldn't move it. As the doctor had warned her, she couldn't speak. The lower portion of her face seemed to have solidified.

"Can you understand me, Carole? Do you know where you are? Blink if you can understand me."

She blinked.

He made a motion with his hand. She thought he raked it through his hair, but she couldn't be certain. "Good," he said with a sigh. "They said you shouldn't be upset by anything, but knowing you, you'll want all the facts. Am I right?"

She blinked.

"Do you remember boarding the airplane? It was the day before yesterday. You and Mandy were going to shop in Dallas for a few days. Do you remember the crash?"

She tried desperately to convey to him that she wasn't Carole and didn't know who Mandy was, but she blinked in response to his question about the crash.

"Only fourteen of you survived."

She didn't realize that her eye was shedding tears until he used a tissue to blot them away. His touch was gentle for a man with such strong-looking hands.

"Somehow—God knows how—you were able to get out of the burning wreckage with Mandy. Do you remember that?"

She didn't blink.

"Well, it doesn't matter. However you managed it, you saved her life. She's upset and frightened, naturally. I'm afraid her injuries are more emotional than physical, and therefore harder to deal with. Her broken arm has been set. No permanent damage was done. She won't even need skin grafts for the burns. You," and here he gave her a penetrating stare, "you protected her with your own body."

She didn't comprehend his stare, but it was almost as though he doubted the facts as he knew them. He was the first to break the stare and continue with his explanation.

"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."

"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 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. Unlikehisbrother, 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, andhissleeves were rolled back. The slacks were wrinkled acrosshislap 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. Eachcasualty had a story, a reason for being on that particular flight. Each obituary was poignant.