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He purchased cigarettes, a six-pack of beer, and enough stamps to cover the postage—if not, Irish could make up the difference—and dropped the package into the mailbox. The schedule posted on the outside said that there was a pickup at midnight. The tape could feasibly be in Irish's hands by tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, though, Van planned to keep calling Irish every five minutes until he contacted him. Mailing the duplicate tape was only insurance.

Where could the old coot be at this hour, if not at home or the TV station? He had to show up sooner or later. Then the two of them would decide how to warn Avery of just how real the threat on Rutledge's life was.

Sipping one of the beers en route, Van sauntered back to his apartment, went in, shrugged off his jacket, and resumed his seat at the video console. He reloaded one of the tapes that had solved the mystery for him and began replaying it.

Midway through, he reached for the phone and dialed Irish's number. It rang five times before he heard the click severing the connection. He glanced quickly at his phone and saw that a gloved hand had depressed the button. His eyes followed an arm up to a pleasantly smiling face.

"Very interesting, Mr. Lovejoy," his visitor said softly, nodding at the flickering monitor. "I couldn't quite remember where I'd seen you before."

Then a pistol was raised and fired at point blank range into Van's forehead.

Irish rushed through his front door and caught his telephone on the sixth ring, just as the caller hung up. " Dammit!" He had stayed late in the newsroom in preparation for the hellish day the news team would have tomorrow.

He had checked and rechecked schedules, reviewed assignments, and consulted with the anchors to make certain everybody knew where to go and what to do when. It was this kind of news day that Irish loved. But it was also the kind that gave him heartburn as hot as smoldering brimstone in his gut. He shouldn't have stopped to wolf down that plate of enchiladas on his way home.

He drank a glass of antacid and returned to his telephone. He called Van, but hung up after the phone rang a couple dozen times. If Van was out carousing, getting hopped up on a controlled substance, he'd kill him. He needed him up bright and early in the morning.

He would dispatch Van with a reporter to record the Rutledges voting in Kerrville, then install him at the Palacio Del Rio for the rest of the day and long evening while they waited for the returns to come in.

Irish wasn't convinced that anybody would be so stupid as to attempt an assassination on Election Day, but Avery seemed to believe that's when it would happen. If seeing Van in the crowd alleviated her anxiety, then Irish wanted him there, visible and within easy reach should she need him.

Contacting her by telephone was impossible. He had already tried to call her earlier today, but he had been told that Mrs. Rutledge wasn't feeling well. At least that's the story that had come out of the Rutledge camp when she failed to accompany Tate on his final campaign swing through North Texas.

In a later effort to speak with her, he had been told that the family was out to dinner. Still uneasy, he'd stopped by the post office on the way home and checked his box. There'd been nothing in it, which allayed his concerns somewhat. He supposed that no news was good news. If Avery needed him, she knew where to find him.

He prepared for bed. After his prayers, he tried calling Van once more. There was still no answer.

Avery spent Election Eve in tormenting worry. Tate told her peremptorily that she would not be going with him on his last campaign trip, and he stuck to it, heedless of her pleas.

When he returned safely, her relief was so profound that she was weak with it. As they convened for dinner, Jack sidled up to her and asked, "Do you still have the cramps?"

"What?"

"Tate said you weren't up to making the trip today because you got your period."

"Oh, yes," she said, backing his lie. "I didn't feel well this morning, but I'm fine now, thanks."

"Just make sure you're well in the morning." Jack wasn't the least bit interested in her health, only in how her presence or absence might effect the outcome of the election. "You've got to be at your peak tomorrow."

"I'll try."

Jack was then claimed by Dorothy Rae, who hadn't touched a drink in weeks. The changes in her were obvious. She no longer looked frightened and frail, but took pains with her appearance. More self-assertive, she rarely let Jack out of her sight, and never when Avery was around. Apparently she still considered Carole a threat, but one she was prepared to combat for her husband's affections.

Thanks to Tate's ingrained charm, Avery didn't think anyone noticed the schism in their relationship. The family traveled en masse to a restaurant for dinner, where they were seated and served in a private dining room.

For the duration of the meal, Tate treated her with utmost politeness. She plagued him with questions about his day and how he was received in each city. He answered courteously, but without elaboration. The steely coldness from his eyes chilled her to the marrow.

He played with Mandy. He related anecdotes of the trip to his attentive mother and father. He gently teased Fancy and engaged her in conversation. He listened to Jack's last few words of counsel. He argued with Eddy over his Election Day attire.

"I'm not dressing up to go vote—no more than the average guy—and I'll change into a suit and tie only if I have to make an acceptance speech."

"Then I'd better arrange to have the hotel valet press your suit overnight," Avery said with conviction.

"Hear, hear!" Nelson heartily thumped his fist on the table.

Tate looked at her sharply, as though wanting to strip away her duplicity. If he suspected treachery of anyone in this convivial inner circle, it was she. If he harbored any doubts as to where his family's loyalty and devotion lay, he masked it well. For a man whose life could be radically altered the following day, he appeared ludicrously calm.

However, Avery guessed that his composure was a facade. He exuded confidence because he wanted everyone else to remain at ease. That would be typical of Tate.

She longed for a private moment with him upon their return to the hotel, and was glad when his conference with Jack and Eddy concluded quickly.

"I'm going out for a stroll along the Riverwalk ," Jack told them as he pulled on his jacket. "Dorothy Rae and Fancy are watching a movie on the TV in our room. It's the kind of sentimental crap I can't stomach, so until it's over I'm going to make myself scarce."

"I'll ride the elevator down with you," Eddy said. "I want to check the lobby newsstand for papers we might have missed."

They left. Mandy was already asleep in her room. Now, Avery thought, she would have time to plead her case before Tate. Maybe his judgment wouldn't be so harsh this time. To her dismay, however, he picked up his room key and moved toward the door.

"I'm going to visit with Mom and Dad for a while."

"Tate, did you notice Van at the airport? I tried calling him at home, but he wasn't back yet. I wanted him to bring the tapes over so—"

"You look tired. Don't wait up."

He left the suite and stayed gone a long time. Finally, because it had been such a long, dreary day, which she'd spent largely confined to the suite, she went to bed.

Tate never joined her. She woke up during the night. Missing his warmth, panicked because she didn't hear him breathing beside her, she quickly crossed the bedroom and flung open the door.

He was sleeping on the sofa in the parlor.

It broke her heart.

For months he had been lost to her because of Carole's deceit. Now he was lost to her because of her own.

FORTY-SEVEN

The bellyache Irish had when he went to bed the night before was mild in comparison to the raging one he had by seven o'clock Election Day morning.

It had dawned clear and cool. Heavy voter turnout was predicted statewide because of the perfect autumn weather.

The climate in the KTEX news department wasn't soclement. Its chief was on the warpath. "Sorry, worthless son of a bitch," Irish mouthed as he slammed down the telephone receiver. When Van failed to show up in the newsroom at six-thirty as scheduled, Irish had started telephoning his apartment. There was still no answer. "Where could he be?"

"Maybe he's on his way," another photographer volunteered, trying to be helpful.

"Maybe," Irish grumbled as he lit a cigarette, which he'd only planned to hold between his lips. "In the meantime, I'm sending you. If you hurry, you can catch the Rutledges as they leave the hotel. If not, drive like hell to catch up with them in Kerrville. And report in every few minutes," he yelled after the cameraman who scrambled out with the reporter. Both were grateful to escape with their scalps intact.

Irish snatched up the telephone and punched out a number he had memorized by now. "Good morning," a pleasant voice answered, "Palacio Del Rio."

"I need to speak to Mrs. Rutledge."

"I'm sorry, sir.Ican't put your call—"

"Yeah, I know,Iknow, but this is important."

"If you'll leave your name and num—"

He hung up on her saccharine spiel and immediately called Van's number. It rang incessantly while Irish paced as far as the telephone cord would reach. "When I get my hands on him, I'm gonna hammer his balls to mush."

He collared a gofer who had the misfortune to collide with him. "Hey, you, drive over there and haul his skinny ass out of bed."

"Who, sir?"

"Van Lovejoy. Who the fuck do you think?" Irish bellowed impatiently. Why had everybody chosen today to turn up either missing or stupid? He scrawled Van's address on a sheet of paper, shoved it at the terror-stricken kid, and ordered ominously, "Don't come back without him."

Avery emerged from the hotel, holding Mandy by one sweating hand. The other was tucked into the crook ofTate's elbow. She smiled for the myriad cameras, wishing her facial muscles would stop cramping and quivering.

Tate gave the cameras his most engaging smile and a thumbs-up sign as they moved toward the waiting limousine parked in the brick paved porte cochere . Microphones were aimed toward them. Bleakly, Avery thought they resembled gun barrels. Tate's voice carried confidently across the city racket and general confusion. "Great Election Day weather. Good for the voters and for the candidates in each race."

He was bombarded with questions regarding more serious topics than the weather, but Eddy ushered them into the backseat of the limo. Avery was distressed to learn that he was riding with them to Kerrville. She wouldn't have Tate to herself, as she had hoped. They hadn't been alone all morning. He was already up and dressed by the time she woke up. He breakfasted in the dining room on the river level of the hotel while she got Mandy and herself dressed.

As the limo pulled away from the curb, she glanced through the rear window, trying to locate Van. She spotted a two-man crew from KTEX, but Van wasn't the photographer behind the Betacam .Why not?she wondered.Where is he?

He wasn't among the media waiting for them at their polling place in Kerrville, either. Her anxiety mounted, so much so that at one point, Tate leaned down at her and whispered, "Smile, for God's sake. You look like I've already lost."

"I'm afraid, Tate."

"Afraid I'll lose before the day is out?"

"No. Afraid you'll die." She held his gaze for several seconds before Jack intruded on them with a question for Tate.

The ride back to San Antonio seemed interminable. Freeway and downtown traffic was heavier than normal. As they alighted from the limo at the entrance of the hotel, Avery's eyes scanned the milling crowd again. She sighted a familiar face, but it wasn't the one she wanted to see. The gray-haired man was standing in front of the convention center across the street. Van, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight.

Irish had promised. Something was wrong.

The moment they reached their suite, she excused herself and went into the bedroom to use the telephone. The direct line into the newsroom was answered after ten rings. "Irish McCabe, please," she said with breathless urgency.

"Irish? Okay, I'll go find him."

Having worked election days, she knew what nightmares, and yet what challenges, they presented to the media. Everybody operated on a frantic frequency.

"Come on, come on, Irish," she whispered while waiting. She kept remembering how still and intent Gray Hair had stood, as though maintaining a post.

"Hello?"

"Irish!" she exclaimed, going limp with relief.

"No. Is that who you're holding for? Just a sec."

"This is Av—" When she was abruptly put on hold again, she nearly sobbed with anxiety.

The phone was picked up a second time. "Hello?" a man asked hesitantly. "Hello?"

"Yes, who is-—Eddy, is that you?"

"Yeah."

"This is, A—uh, Carole." "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm in the bedroom. I'm using this line." Evidently, he had picked up the extension in the parlor.

"Well, make it snappy, okay? We've got to keep these lines open."

He hung up. She was still on hold. Her call to the newsroom had been ignored by people with better things to do than track down the boss on the busiest news day of the year. Distraught, she replaced the telephone and went to join the family and a few key volunteers who had assembled in the other room.

Though she smiled and conversed as it was expected of her, she tried to imagine where Van could be. She comforted herself by picturing him downstairs in the ballroom, setting up his tripod and camera to cover what would hopefully be Tate's victory celebration later in the evening.

For the time being there was nothing more she could do. There must be a logical explanation for the switch in plans. Because she hadn't been apprised, she had let her imagination run away with her. Irish and Van knew where she was if they needed to contact her. Resolving to keep her panic at bay, she moved toward the sofa where Tate was sprawled.

True to his word, he'd gone to the polls dressed casually, wearing a leather sports jacket over his jeans. He appeared perfectly relaxed as he told Zee, who was taking orders, what he wanted for lunch.