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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 mywife,"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 sacrifice 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?"

"Atentative 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."

Addressing Jack again, he said, "You should see to getting help for Dorothy Rae before it's too late."

"Maybe after the election," he mumbled. Looking at his brother, he added, "I'll only be an hour's drive away if you need me."

"Thanks, Jack. I'll call as developments warrant."

"Did the doctor give you any indication when they'd do the surgery?"

"Not until the risk of infection goes down," Tate told them. "The smoke inhalation damaged her lungs, so he might have to wait as long as two weeks. For him it's a real dilemma, because if he waits too long, the bones of her face will start to heal the way they are."

"Jesus," Jack said. Then, on a falsely cheerful note, he said, "Well, give her my regards. Dorothy Rae's and Fancy's, too."

"I will."

Jack went down the hall toward his own room. Nelson lingered. "I talked to Zee this morning. While Mandy was asleep, she slipped down to the ICU. Zee said Carole was a sight to behold."

Tate's wide shoulders drooped slightly. "She is. I hope to God that surgeon knows what he's talking about."

Nelson laid a hand on Tate's arm in a silent gesture of reassurance. For a moment, Tate covered his father's hand with his own. "Dr. Sawyer, the surgeon, did the video imaging today. He electronically painted Carole's face onto a TV screen, going by the pictures we'd given him. It was remarkable."

"And he thinks he can reproduce this video image during surgery?"

"That's what he says. He told me there might be some slight differences, but most of them will be in her favor." Tate laughed dryly. "Which she should like."

"Before this is over, she might believe that every woman in America should be so lucky," Nelson said with his characteristic optimism.

But Tate was thinking about that single eye, bloodshot and swollen, yet still the same dark coffee brown, looking up at him with fear. He wondered if she was afraid of dying. Or of living without the striking face that she had used to every advantage.

Nelson said good night and retired to his own room. Deep in thought, Tate turned off the TV and the lights, stripped, and slid into bed.

Lightning flashes penetrated the drapes, momentarily illuminating the room. Thunder crashed near the building, rattling panes of glass. He stared at the flickering patterns with dry, gritty eyes.

They hadn't even kissed good-bye.

Because of their recent, vicious argument, there had been a lot of tension between them that morning. Carole had been anxious to be off for a few days of shopping in Dallas, but they'd arrived at the airport in time to have a cup of coffee in the restaurant.

Mandy had accidentally dribbled orange juice on her dress. Naturally, Carole had overreacted. As they left the coffee shop, she blotted at the stained, ruffled pinafore and scolded Mandy for being so careless.

"For crissake , Carole, you can't even see the spot," he had said.

"I can see it."

"Then don't look at it."

She had shot her husband that drop-dead look that no longer fazed him. He carried Mandy through the terminal, chatting with her about all the exciting things she would see and do in Dallas. At the gate, he knelt and gave her a hug. "Have fun, sweetheart. Will you bring me back a present?"

"Can I, Mommy?"

"Sure," Carole replied distractedly.

"Sure," Mandy told him with a big smile.

"I'll look forward to that." He drew her to him for one last good-bye hug.

Straightening up, he asked Carole if she wanted him to wait until their plane left the gate. "There's no reason for you to."

He hadn't argued, but only made certain they had all their carryon luggage. "Well, see you on Tuesday then."

"Don't be late picking us up," Carole called as she pulled Mandy toward the jetway , where an airline attendant was waiting to take their boarding passes. "I hate hanging around airports."

Just before they entered the passageway, Mandy turned and waved at him. Carole hadn't even looked back. Self-confident and assured, she had walked purposefully forward.

Maybe that's why that single eye was filled with such anxiety now. The foundation of Carole's confidence—her looks—had been stolen by fate. She despised ugliness. Perhaps her tears hadn't been for those who had died in the crash, as he had originally thought. Perhaps they had been for herself. She might wish that she had died instead of being disfigured, even temporarily.

Knowing Carole, he wouldn't be surprised.

In the pecking order of assistants to the Bexar County coroner, Grayson was on the lowest rung. That's why he checked and rechecked the information before approaching his immediate supervisor with his puzzling findings.

"Got a minute?"

An exhausted, querulous man wearing a rubber apron and gloves gave him a quelling glance over his shoulder. "What'd you have in mind—a round of golf?"

"No, this."

"What?" The supervisor turned back to his work on the charred heap of matter that had once been a human body.

"The dental records of Avery Daniels," Grayson said. "Casualty number eighty-seven."

"She's already been IDed and autopsied." The supervisor consulted the chart on the wall, just to make certain. A red line had been drawn through her name. "Yep."

"I know, but—"

"She had no living relatives. A close family friend IDed her this afternoon."

"But these records—"

"Look, pal," the supervisor said with asperity, "I got bodies with no heads, hands without arms, feet without legs. And they're on my ass to finish this tonight. So if somebody's been positively IDed , autopsied, and sealed shut, don't bother me with records, okay?"

Grayson stuffed the dental X-rays back into the manila

envelope they had arrived in and sailed it toward a trash barrel. "Okay. Fine. And in the meantime, fuck you."

"Sure, sure—any time. As soon as we get all these stiffs IDed ."

Grayson shrugged. They weren't paying him to be Dick Tracy. If nobody else gave a damn about a mysterious inconsistency, why should he? He went back to matching up dental records with the corpses as yet to be identified.

THREE

The weather seemed to be in mourning, too.

It rained the day of Avery Daniels's funeral. The night before, thunderstorms had rumbled through the Texas hill country. This morning, all that was left of them was a miserable, cold, gray rain.

Bareheaded, impervious to the inclement weather, Irish McCabe stood beside the casket. He had insisted on a spray of yellow roses, knowing they had been her favorite. Vivid and flamboyant, they seemed to be mocking death. He took comfort in that.

Tears rolled down his ruddy checks. His fleshy, veined nose was redder than usual, although he hadn't been drinking so much lately. Avery nagged him about it, saying an excessive amount of alcohol wasn't good for his liver, his blood pressure, or his expanding midsection.