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His collection of movies rivaled any video rental store. He studied directing and cinematographic techniques. His taste was eclectic, ranging from Orson Welles to Frank Capra, Sam Peckinpah to Steven Spielberg. Whether filmed in black and white or Technicolor, camera moves fascinated him.

Besides the movies, his collection included serials and documentaries, along with every inch of tape he had shot himself in the span of his career. It was known throughout the state that if stock footage of an event was needed and it couldn't be found elsewhere, Van Lovejoy of KTEX in San Antonio would have it.

He spent all his free time watching tapes. Tonight, his fascination was centered on the raw footage he had shot at the Rocking R Ranch a few days earlier. He'd delivered the tapes to MB Productions, but not before making copiesofthem for himself. He never knew when something he'd shot years earlier might prove useful or valuable, so he kept copies of everything.

In post-production, MBP would write scripts, edit, record voice-overs, mix music, and end up with slick, fully produced commercials of varying lengths. Van's camera work would look sterilized and staged by the time the commercials went out over the air. He didn't care. He'd been paid. What interested him were the candid shots.

Tate Rutledge was charismatic on or off camera. Handsome and affluent, he was a walking success story—the kind of man Van usually despised on principle. But if Van had been a voter, the guy would get his vote just because he seemed to shoot straight from the hip. He didn't bullshit, even when what he was saying wasn't particularly what people wanted to hear. He might lose the election, but it wouldn't be because he lacked integrity.

He kept thinking that there was something wrong with the kid. She was cute enough, although, in Van's opinion, one kid looked like another. He usually wasn't called upon to videotape children, but when he was, his experience had been that they had to be threatened or cajoled into settling down, behaving, and cooperating, especially when shooting retakes or reverse questions.

That hadn't been the case with the Rutledge kid. She was quiet and didn't do anything ornery. She didn't do anything, period, unless she was told to, and then she moved like a little wind-up doll. The one who got the most response out of her was Carole Rutledge.

It was she who really held Van enthralled.

Time and again he had played the tapes—those he'd shot of her at the ranch, and those he'd shot on the day she left the clinic. The lady knew what to do in front of a camera.

He'd had to direct Rutledge and the kid, but not her. She was a natural, always turning toward the light, knowing instinctively where to look. She seemed to know what he was about to do before he did it. Her face begged for close-ups. Her body language wasn't stilted or robotized, like most amateurs.

She was a pro.

Her resemblance to another pro he had known and worked with was damned spooky.

For hours he had sat in front of his console, replaying the tapes and studying Carole Rutledge. When she did make an awkward move, he believed it was deliberate, as if she realized just how good she was and wanted to cover it up.

He ejected one tape and inserted another, one he had shot so it could be played back in slow motion. He was familiar with the scene. It showed the threesome walking through a pasture of verdant grass, Rutledge carrying his daughter, his wife at his side. Van had planned his shot so that the sun was sinking behind the nearest hill, casting them in silhouette. It was a great effect, he thought now as he watched it for the umpteenth time.

And then he saw it! Mrs. Rutledge turned her head and smiled up at her husband. She touched his arm. His smile turned stiff. He moved his arm—slightly, but enough to shrug off her wifely caress. If the tape hadn't been in slow motion, Van might not have even noticed the candidate's subtle rejection of his wife's touch.

He didn't doubt when the post-production was done, the shot would be edited out. The Rutledges would come out looking like Ozzie and Harriet. But there was something wrong with the marriage, just like there was something wrong with the kid. Something stunk in Camelot.

Van was a cynic by nature. It came as no surprise to him that the marriage was shaky. He figured they all were, and he didn't give a flying fig.

Yet the woman still fascinated him. He could swear that she had recognized him the other day before he had introduced himself. He was constantly aware of expressions and reactions, and he couldn't have mistaken that momentary widening of her eyes or the quick rush of her breath. Even though the features weren't identical, and the hairstyle was wrong, the resemblance between Carole Rutledge and Avery Daniels was uncanny. Carole's moves were right on target and the subconscious mannerisms eerily reminiscent.

He let the tape play out. Closing his eyes, Van pinched the bridge of his nose between two of his fingers until it hurt, as if wanting to force the notion out of his head, because what he was thinking was just too weird—"Twilight Zone" time. But the idea was fucking with his mind something fierce and he couldn't get rid of it, crazy as it was.

Several days ago he'd walked into Irish's office. Dropping into one of the armchairs, he'd asked, "Getachance to watch that tape I gave you?"

Irish, as usual, was doing six different things at once. He ran his hand over his burred gray hair. "Tape? Oh, the one of Rutledge? Who've we got on that human bone pile they found in Comal County?" he had shouted through his office door to a passing reporter.

"What'd you think about it?" Van asked, once Irish's attention swung back to him.

Irish had taken up smoking again since Avery wasn't there to hound him about it. He seemed to want to make up for lost time. He lit a new cigarette from the smoldering butt of another and spoke through the plume of unfiltered smoke. "About what?"

"The tape," Van said testily.

"Why? You moonlighting as a pollster?"

"Jesus," Van had muttered and made to rise. Irish cantankerously signaled him to sit back down. "What'd you want me to look at? Specifically, I mean."

"The broad."

Irish coughed. "You got the hots for her?"

Van remembered being annoyed that Irish hadn't noticed the similarities between Carole Rutledge and Avery Daniels. That should have been an indication of just how ridiculous his thinking was, because nobody knew Avery better than Irish. He had known her for two decades before Van had ever laid eyes on her. Mulishly, however, Irish's flippancy compelled him to prove himself right.

"I think she looks a lot like Avery."

Irish had been pouring himself a cup of viscous coffee from the hot plate on his littered credenza. He gave Van a sharp glance. "So, what else is new? Somebody remarked on that as soon as Rutledge got into politics and we started seeing him and his wife in the news."

"Guess I wasn't around that day."

"Or you were too stoned to remember."

"Could be."

Irish returned to his desk and sat down heavily. He worked harder than ever, putting in unnecessarily long hours. Everybody in the newsroom talked about it. Work was a panacea for his bereavement. A Catholic, he wouldn't commit suicide outright, but he would eventually kill himself through too much work, too much booze, too much smoking, too much stress—all the things about which Avery had affectionately berated him.

"You ever figure out who sent you her jewelry?" Van asked. Irish had confided that bizarre incident to him, and he had thought it strange at the time, but had forgotten about it until he had stood eyeball to eyeball with Carole Rutledge.

Irish thoughtfully shook his head. "No."

"Ever try?"

"I made a few calls."

Obviously, he didn't want to talk about it. Van was persistent. "And?"

"I got some asshole on the phone who didn't want to be bothered. He said that following the crash, things were so chaotic just about anything was possible."

Like mixing up bodies?Van wondered.

He wanted to ask that question, but didn't. Irish was coping as best he could with Avery's death, and he still wasn't doing very well. He didn't need to hear Van's harebrained hypothesis. Besides, even if it were possible, it made no sense. If Avery were alive, she'd be living her life, not somebody else's.

So he hadn't broached the possibility with Irish. His imagination had run amok, that's all. He'd compiled a bunch of creepy coincidences and shaped them into an outlandish, illogical theory.

Irish would probably have said that his brains were fried from doing too much dope, which was probably the truth. He was nothing but a bum—a washout. A reprobate. What the fuck did he know?

But he loaded another of the Rutledge tapes into the VCR anyway.

The first scream woke her. The second registered. The third prompted her to throw off the covers and scramble out of bed.

Avery grabbed a robe, flung open the door to her bedroom, and charged down the hall toward Mandy's room. Within seconds of leaving her bed, she was bending over the child's. Mandy was thrashing her limbs and screaming.

"Mandy, darling, wake up." Avery dodged a flailing fist.

"Mandy?"

Tate materialized on the other side of the bed. He dropped to his knees on the rug and tried to restrain his daughter. Once he had captured her small hands, her body bucked and twisted while her head thrashed on the pillow and her heels pummeled the mattress. She continued to scream.

Avery placed her hands on Mandy's cheeks and pressed hard. "Mandy, wake up. Wake up, darling. Tate, what should we do?"

"Keep trying to wake her up."

"Is she having another nightmare?" Zee asked as she and Nelson rushed in. Zee moved behind Tate. Nelson stood at the foot of his granddaughter's bed.

"We could hear her screams all the way in our wing," he said. "Poor little thing."

Avery slapped Mandy's cheeks lightly. "It's Mommy. Mommy and Daddy are here. You're safe, darling. You're safe."

Eventually, the screams subsided. As soon as she opened her eyes, she launched herself into Avery's waiting arms. Avery gathered her close and cupped the back of her head, pressing the tear-drenched face into her neck. Mandy's shoulders shook; her whole body heaved with sobs.

"My God, I had no idea it was this bad."

"She had them nearly every night while you were still in the hospital," Tate told her. "Then they started tapering off. She hasn't had one for several weeks. I was hoping that once you got home they would stop altogether." His face was drawn with concern.

"Is there anything you want us to do?"

Tate glanced at Nelson. "No. I think she'll calm down now and go back to sleep, Dad, but thanks."

"You two need to put a stop to this. Immediately." He took Zee's arm and propelled her toward the door. She seemed reluctant to leave and looked at Avery anxiously.

"She'll be all right," Avery said, rubbing Mandy's back She was still hiccuping sobs, but the worst was over.

"Sometimes they come back," Zee said uneasily.

"I'll stay with her for the rest of the night." When she and Tate were left alone with the child, Avery said, "Why didn't you tell me her nightmares were this severe?"

He sat down in the rocking chair near the bed. "You had your own problems to deal with. The dreams stopped happening with such regularity, just like the psychologist predicted they would. I thought she was getting over them."

"I still should have known."

Avery continued to hold Mandy tight against her, rocking back and forth and murmuring reassurances. She wouldn't let go until Mandy indicated that she was ready. Eventually, she raised her head.

"Better now?" Tate asked her. Mandy nodded.

"I'm sorry you had such a bad dream," Avery whispered, wiping Mandy's damp cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. "Do you want to tell Mommy about it?"

"It's going to get me," she stammered on choppy little breaths.

"What is, darling?"

"The fire."

Avery shuddered with her own terrifying recollections. They seized her sometimes unexpectedly and it often took several minutes to recover from them. As an adult, she found it hard to deal with her memories of the crash. What must it be like for a child?

"I got you out of the fire, remember?" Avery asked softly. "It's not there anymore. But it's still scary to think about, isn't it?" Mandy nodded.

Avery had once done a news story with a renowned child psychologist. During the interview she recalled him saying that denying the authenticity of a child's fears was the worst thing a parent could do. Fears had to be acknowledged before they could be dealt with and, hopefully, overcome.

"Maybe a cool, damp cloth would feel good on her face," Avery suggested to Tate. He left the rocker, and returned shortly with a washcloth. "Thank you."

He sat down beside her as she bathed Mandy's face. In a move that endeared him to Avery, he picked up the Pooh Bear and pressed it into Mandy's arms. She clutched it to her chest.

"Ready to lie back down?" Avery asked her gently.

"No." Apprehensively, her eyes darted around the room. "Mommy's not going to leave you. I'll lie down with you."

She eased Mandy back, then lay down beside her, facing her as their heads shared the pillow. Tate pulled the covers over both of them, then bridged then pillow with his arms and leaned down to kiss Mandy.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. His body looked exceptionally strong and beautiful in the soft glow of the night-light. As he started to stand up, his eyes locked with Avery's. Acting on impulse, she laid her hand on his furry chest and raised her head to lightly kiss his lips, "Good night, Tate."

He straightened up slowly. As he did, her hand slid down his chest; over the hard, curved muscles; across the nipple; through the dense, crisp hair; to the smoother plane of his belly; until her fingertips brushed against the elastic waistband of his briefs before falling away.

"I'll be right back," he mumbled.

He was gone only a few minutes, but by the time he returned, Mandy was sleeping peacefully. He had pulled on a lightweight robe, but had left it unbelted. As he lowered himself into the rocking chair, he noticed that Avery's eyes were still open. "That bed's not meant for two. Are you comfortable?"