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she was born. I was there at the hospital, sweating it out with her father. Waiting. Pacing. Now I’ll have to remember the day she died.”

He slammed back a shot of whiskey and refilled his glass. “You know, it never occurred to me that it was her plane that went down. I was only thinking

about the story, the goddamn news story. It was such a piss-ant story that I didn’t even send a photographer along. She was going to borrow one from a

station in Dallas.”

“Hey, man, don’t blame yourself for doing your job. You couldn’t have known.”

Irish stared into the amber contents of his glass. “Ever had to identify a body, Van?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “They had them all lined up, like…” He

released an unsteady sigh. “Hell, I don’t know. I never had to go to war, but it must have been like that.

“She was zipped up in a black plastic bag. She didn’t

have any hair left,” he said, his voice cracking. “It was all burned off. And her skin…oh, Jesus.” He covered his eyes with his stubby fingers. Tears leaked

through them. “If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have been on that plane.”

“Hey, man.” Those two words exhausted Van’s repertoire of commiserating phrases. He refreshed Irish’s drink, lit another cigarette, and silently passed it

to the grieving man. For himself, he switched to marijuana.

Irish drew on his cigarette. “Thank God her mother didn’t have to see her like that. If she hadn’t been clutching her locket in her hand, I wouldn’t even have

known the corpse was Avery.” His stomach almost rebelled when he recalled what the crash had done to her.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Rosemary Daniels isn’t alive. A mother should never have to see her child in that condition.”

Irish nursed his drink for several minutes before lifting his tearful eyes to his companion. “I loved her Rosemary, I mean. Avery’s mother. Hell, I couldn’t help

it. Cliff, her father, was gone nearly all the time, away in some remote hellhole of the world. Every time he left he asked me to keep an eye on them. He

was my best friend, but more than once I wanted to kill him for that.”

He sipped his drink. “Rosemary knew, I’m sure, but there was never a word about it spoken between us. She loved Cliff. I knew that.”

Irish had been a surrogate parent to Avery since her seventeenth year. Cliff Daniels, a renowned photojournalist, had been killed in a battle over an

insignificant, unpronounceable village in Central America. With very little fuss, Rosemary had ended her own life only a few weeks after her husband’s

death, leaving Avery bereft and without anyone to turn to except Irish, a steadfast family friend.

“I’m as much Avery’s daddy as Cliff was. Maybe more. When her folks died, it was me she turned to. I was the one she came running to last year after she

got herself in that mess up in D.C.”

“She might have fucked up real bad that one time, but she was still a good reporter,” Van commented through a cloud of sweet, pungent smoke.

“It’s just so tragic that she died with that screwup on her conscience.” He drank from his glass. “See, Avery had this hang-up about failing. That’s what she

feared most. Cliff wasn’t around much when she was a kid, so she was still trying to win his approval, live up to his legacy.

“We never discussed it,” he continued morosely. “I just know. That’s why that snafu in D.C. was so devastating to her. She wanted to make up for it, win

back her credibility and self-esteem. Time ran out before she got a chance. Goddammit, she died thinking of herself as a failure.”

The older man’s misery struck a rare, responsive chord in Van. He gave the task of consoling Irish his best shot. “About that other you know, how you felt

about her mother? Well, Avery knew.”

Irish’s red, weepy eyes focused on him. “How do you know?”

“She told me once,” Van said. “I asked her just how long you two had known each other. She said you were in her memory as far back as it went. She had

guessed that you secretly loved her mother.”

“Did she seem to care?” Irish asked anxiously. “I mean, did it seem to bother her?”

Van shook his long, stringy hair.

Irish withdrew the wilting rose from the breast pocket of his dark suit and rubbed his pudgy fingers over the fragile petals. “Good. I’m glad. I loved them

both.”

His heavy shoulders began to shake. He curled his fingers into a tight fist around the rose. “Oh, hell,” he groaned, “I’m going to miss her.”

He lowered his head to the table and sobbed brokenly while Van sat across from him, nursing his own grief in his own way.

FOUR

Avery woke up knowing who she was.

She had never exactly forgotten. It was just that her medication, along with her concussion, had left her confused.

Yesterday or at least she guessed it had been yesterday, since everyone who had recently come within her range of vision had greeted her with a “good

morning” she had been disoriented, which was understandable. Waking after having been comatose for several days to find that she couldn’t move,

couldn’t speak, and couldn’t see beyond a very limited range would confound anyone. She was rarely ill, certainly not seriously, so being this injured was

shocking.

The ICU, with its constant light and activity, was enough to hamper anyone’s mental process. But what really had Avery puzzled was that everyone was

addressing her incorrectly. How had she come to be mistaken for a woman named Carole Rutledge? Even Mr. Rutledge seemed convinced that he was

speaking to his wife.

Somehow, she must communicate this mistake to them. But she didn’t know how, and that frightened her.

Her name was Avery Daniels. It was clearly printed on her driver’s license, her press pass, and all the other forms of identification in her wallet. They had

probably been destroyed in the crash, she thought.

Memories of the crash tended to panic her still, so she determinedly put them aside to be dealt with later, when she was stronger and had this temporary

mix-up straightened out.

Where was Irish? Why hadn’t he come to her rescue?

The obvious answer startled her unexpectedly. Her whole body reacted as though it had been electrically charged. It was unthinkable, untenable, yet it was

glaringly apparent. If she had been mistaken for Mrs. Rutledge, and Mrs. Rutledge was believed alive, then Avery Daniels was believed dead.

She imagined the anguish Irish must be going through. Her “death” would hit him hard. For the present, however, she was helpless to alleviate his

suffering. No! As long as she was alive, she wasn’t helpless. She must think. She must concentrate.

“Good morning.”

She recognized his voice immediately. The swelling in her eye must have gone down some because she could see him more clearly. His previously

blurred features were now distinct.

His heavy, well-shaped brows almost met above the bridge of a long, straight nose. He had a strong, stubborn jawline and chin, yet it fell short of being

pugnacious, despite the vertical cleft at the edge of it. His lips were firm, wide, and thin, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper.

He was smiling, but not with his eyes, she noted. He didn’t really feel the smile. It didn’t come from his soul. Avery wondered why not.

“They said you had a restful night. Still no sign of pulmonary infection. That’s terrific news.”

She knew this face, this voice. Not from yesterday. It was before that, but she couldn’t recall when she had met this man.

“Mom left Mandy’s room long enough to come say hello to you.” He turned his head and signaled someone to move closer. “You have to stand here, Mom,

or she can’t see you.”

An exceptionally pretty, middle-aged face materialized in Avery’s patch of vision. The woman’s soft, dark hair had a very flattering silver streak that waved

up and away from her smooth, unlined forehead.

“Hello, Carole. We’re all very relieved that you’re doing so well. Tate said the doctors are pleased with your progress.”

Tate Rutledge! Of course.

“Tell her about Mandy, Mom.”

Dutifully, the stranger reported on another stranger. “Mandy ate most of her breakfast this morning. They sedated her last night so she would sleep better.

The cast on her arm bothers her, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. She’s the sweetheart of the pediatric wing, and has the entire staff wrapped around

her little finger.” Tears formed in her eyes and she blotted at them with a tissue. “When I think of what…”

Tate Rutledge placed his arm across his mother’s shoulders. “But it didn’t happen. Thank God it didn’t.”

Avery realized then that it must have been Mandy Rutledge she had carried from the plane. She remembered hearing the child’s screams and frantically

trying to unfasten her jammed seat belt. When it came free, she had gathered the terrified child against her and, with the assistance of another passenger,

had plunged through the dense, acrid smoke toward an emergency exit.

Because she had had the child, they had assumed she was Mrs. Carole Rutledge. But that wasn’t all they had been in each other’s seats.

Her mind clumsily pieced together a puzzle of which only she was aware. She recalled that her boarding pass had designated the window seat, but when

she had arrived, a woman was already sitting there. She hadn’t pointed out the error, but had taken the seat on the aisle instead. The child had been

sitting in the seat between them.

The woman had worn her dark hair shoulder length, much like Avery wore hers. She also had dark eyes. They bore a resemblance to each other. In fact,

the flight attendant, who had made a fuss over the little girl, had asked who was the mother and who was the aunt, implying that Avery and Carole

Rutledge were sisters.

Her face had been smashed beyond recognition. Mrs. Rutledge had probably been burned beyond recognition. They had misidentified her on the basis

of the child and a seating rearrangement that no one knew about. My God, she had to tell them!

“You’d better go back now before Mandy becomes anxious, Mom,” Tate was saying. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.”

“Good-bye for now, Carole,” the woman said to her. “I’m sure when Dr. Sawyer’s done, you’ll be as pretty as ever.”

Her eyes don’t smile either, Avery thought as the woman moved away.

“Before I forget it,” Tate said, stepping close to the bed so that she could see him again, “Eddy, Dad, and Jack send their regards. I think Dad’s coming to

the meeting with the plastic surgeon this afternoon, so you’ll see him then.

“Jack went home this morning.” Tate continued talking, not knowing he wasn’t speaking to his wife. “I’m sure he’s worried about Dorothy Rae. God only

knows what Fancy is up to without any supervision, although Eddy has got her working as a volunteer at the headquarters. None of them will be allowed to

see you until you’re moved to a private room, but I don’t think you’ll miss them, will you?”

He assumed that she knew who and what he was talking about. How could she convey that she hadn’t the foggiest idea? These people were unknown to

her. Their comings and goings were no concern of hers. She must contact Irish. She must let this man know that he was a widower.

“Listen, Carole, about the campaign.” By the motion his shoulders made, she thought he had probably slid his hands into his hip pockets. He bowed his

head for a moment, almost resting his chin on his chest, before looking at her again. “I’m going ahead with it as planned. Dad, Jack, and Eddy agree.

They’ve pledged their support. It was going to be a tough fight before, but nothing I was afraid to tackle. Now, with this, it’s going to be even tougher. Still,

I’m committed.”

Tate Rutledge had been making news recently. That’s why his name and face were familiar to her, though she had never met him personally. He was

hoping to win the primary election in May and then go up against an incumbent senator in the November election.

“I won’t shirk any of my responsibilities to you and Mandy while you’re recovering, but going to Congress is what I’ve been preparing for all my life. I don’t

want to wait another six years to run or I’ll lose the momentum I’ve built. I need to do it now.”

After consulting his wristwatch, he said, “I’d better get back to Mandy. I promised to feed her some ice cream. With her arms bandaged and all, well,” he

added, glancing toward her bandaged hands, resting in their splints, “you can understand. The psychologist has the first session with her today. Nothing to

worry about,” he rushed to say. “More precautionary than anything. I don’t want her to be permanently traumatized.”

He paused, looking down at her meaningfully. “That’s why I don’t think she should see you just yet. I know that sounds cruel, but these bandages would

scare her half to death, Carole. Once the surgeon rebuilds your face and you start looking like yourself, I’ll bring her in for short visits. Besides, I’m sure

you don’t feel up to seeing her now, either.”

Avery struggled to speak, but her mouth had the breathing tube taped inside it. She had overheard a nurse say that smoke inhalation had rendered her

vocal cords temporarily inoperable. She couldn’t move her jaw anyway. She batted her eye to convey her distress.

Misconstruing the reason for it, he laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. “I promise that your disfigurement is temporary, Carole. Dr. Sawyer says it looks

much worse to us than it actually is. He’ll be in later today to explain the procedure to you. He knows what you looked like before and guarantees that you’ll

look the same when he gets finished.”

She tried to shake her head no. Tears of panic and fear overflowed her eye. A nurse came in and edged him aside. “I think you’d better let her rest now,

Mr. Rutledge. I’ve got to change her bandages anyway.”

“I’ll be with my daughter.”

“We’ll call if you’re needed,” the nurse told him kindly. “Oh, and while I’m thinking of it, they called from downstairs to remind you that Mrs. Rutledge’s

jewelry is in the hospital safe. They took it off her when she arrived in the emergency room.”

“Thanks. I’ll get it later.”

Now! Get it now, Avery’s mind screamed. It wouldn’t be Carole Rutledge’s jewelry in the hospital safe it would be hers. Once they saw it, they would realize

that a horrible mistake had been made. Mr. Rutledge would learn that his wife was dead. It would come as a blow to him, but it would be better that he

discover the error now rather than later. She would lament the Rutledges’ tragic loss, but Irish would be overjoyed. Dear Irish. His bereavement would end.

But what if Mr. Rutledge failed to retrieve his wife’s jewelry before the plastic surgeon began to change her face into Carole Rutledge’s?

That was her last conscious thought before the pain-relieving medication claimed her once again.

Tate will never live to take office.

She was reliving the nightmare again. She tried desperately to ward it off. Again, she couldn’t see him, but she could feel his sinister presence hovering

above her, just beyond her field of vision. His breath fanned across her exposed eye. It was like being taunted in the dark with a sheer veil unseen but felt,

ghostly.

There will never be a Senator Tate Rutledge. Tate will never live. Senator Tate Rutledge will die first. There’ll never be … Never live…

Avery woke up screaming. It was a silent scream, of course, but it reverberated through her skull. She opened her eye and recognized the lights

overhead, the medicinal smell she associated with hospitals, the hissing sound of her respirator. She had been asleep, so this time it had been a

nightmare.

But last night it had been real. Last night she hadn’t even known Mr. Rutledge’s first name! She couldn’t have dreamed it if she hadn’t known it, but she

distinctly remembered hearing that menacing, faceless voice contemptuously whispering it into her ear.

Was her mind playing games with her, or was Tate Rutledge in real danger? Surely she was becoming panicked prematurely. After all, she had been

heavily sedated and disoriented. Maybe she wasn’t keeping the chronology straight. Was she getting events out of order? Who could possibly want him

dead?

God, these were staggering questions. She had to know the answers to them. But her powers of deductive reasoning seemed to have deserted her,

along with her other faculties. She couldn’t think logically.

The threat to Tate Rutledge’s life had far-reaching and enormous ramifications, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She was too woozy to

formulate an explanation or solution. Her mind was operating sluggishly. It wouldn’t, couldn’t function properly, even though a man’s life was at stake.

Avery almost resented this intrusion into her own problem. Didn’t she already have enough to cope with without worrying about a senatorial candidate’s

safety?

She was incapable of motion, yet on the inside she was roiling with frustration. It was exhausting. Eventually, it was no match for the void that continued to

remain at the fringes of her consciousness. She combated it, but finally gave up the struggle and was sucked into its peacefulness again.

FIVE

“I’m not at all surprised by her reaction. It’s to be expected in accident victims.” Dr. Sawyer, the esteemed plastic surgeon, smiled placidly. “Imagine how

you would feel if your handsome face had been pulverized.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Tate said tightly.

At that moment, he would have liked to crush the surgeon’s complacent face. Despite his sterling reputation, the man seemed to have ice water flowing

through his veins.

He had done fine-tuning on some of the most celebrated faces in the state, including debutantes who possessed as much money as vanity, corporate

executives who wanted to stay ahead of the aging process, models, and TV stars. Although his credentials were impressive, Tate didn’t like the cocky

way he dismissed Carole’s apprehensions.

“I’ve tried to put myself in Carole’s place,” he explained. “Under the circumstances, I think she’s bearing up very well better than I would ever have guessed

she could.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Tate,” Nelson remarked. He was sitting beside Zee on a sofa in the ICU waiting room. “You just told Dr. Sawyer that Carole

seemed terribly upset at the mention of the surgery.”

“I know it sounds contradictory. What I mean is that she seemed to take the news about Mandy and the crash itself very well. But when I began telling her

about the surgery on her face, she started crying. Jesus,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “You can’t imagine how pitiful she looks when she cries

out of that one eye. It’s like something out of ‘The Twilight Zone.’ “

“Your wife was a beautiful woman, Mr. Rutledge,” the doctor said. “The damage to her face panics her. Naturally, she’s afraid of looking like a monster for

the rest of her life. Part of my job is to assure her that her face can be reconstructed, even improved upon.”

Sawyer paused to make eye contact with each of them. “I sense hesitation and reluctance from you. I can’t have that. I must have your cooperation and

wholehearted confidence in my ability.”

“If you didn’t have my confidence, I wouldn’t have retained your services,” Tate said bluntly. “I don’t think you’re lacking in skill, just sympathy.”

“I save my bedside manner for my patients. I don’t waste time or energy bullshitting their families, Mr. Rutledge. I leave that to politicians. Like you.”

Tate and the surgeon stared each other down. Eventually Tate smiled, then laughed dryly. “I don’t bullshit either, Dr. Sawyer. You’re necessary. That’s why

you’re here. You’re also the most pompous son of a bitch I’ve ever run across, but by all accounts, you’re the best. So I’ll cooperate with you in order to

see Carole returned to normal.”

“Okay, then,” the surgeon said, unaffected by the insult, “let’s go see the patient.”

When they entered the ICU, Tate moved ahead, arriving first at her bedside. “Carole? Are you awake?”

She responded immediately by opening her eye. As best he could tell, she was lucid. “Hi. Mom and Dad are here.” He moved aside. They approached

the bed.

“Hello again, Carole,” Zee said. “Mandy said to tell you she loves you.”

Tate had forgotten to caution his mother against telling Carole about Mandy’s initial session with the child psychologist. It hadn’t gone well, but thankfully,

Zee was sensitive enough not to mention it. She moved aside and let Nelson take her place.

“Hi, Carole. You gave us all a fright. Can’t tell you how pleased we are that you’re going to be okay.”

He relinquished his position to Tate. “The surgeon’s here, Carole.”

Tate exchanged places with Dr. Sawyer, who smiled down at his patient. “We’ve already met, Carole. You just don’t remember it. At the request of your

family, I came in to examine you on your second day here. The staff plastic surgeon had done all the preliminary treatment in the emergency room when

you arrived. I’ll take over from here.”

She registered alarm. Tate was gratified to see that Sawyer had noticed it. He patted her shoulder. “The bone structure of your face was seriously

damaged. I’m sure you’re aware of that. I know your husband has already told you that it will be fully restored, but I want you to hear it from me. I’ll make

you look like a better Carole Rutledge than you were before.”

Beneath the bandages, her body tensed. She tried to shake her head vigorously, and she began to make desperate guttural sounds.

“What the hell is she trying to say?” Tate asked the doctor.

“That she doesn’t believe me,” he calmly replied. “She’s frightened. That’s customary.” He leaned over her. “Most of the pain you’re experiencing is from

the burns, but they’re superficial. The burn specialist here at the hospital is treating them with antibiotics. I’m going to delay surgery until the risk of

infection both to your skin and your lungs is minimal.

“It will be a week or two before you can move your hands. You’ll start physical therapy then. The damage isn’t permanent, I assure you.”

He bent down closer. “Now, let’s talk about your face. X-rays were taken while you were still unconscious. I’ve studied them. I know what must be done. I

have a staff of excellent surgeons who will assist me during the operation.”

He touched her face with the tip of his ballpoint pen, as though tracing over the bandages. “We’ll rebuild your nose and cheekbones by using bone grafts.

Your jaw will be put back into place with pins, screws, and wires. I’ve got a whole bag of tricks.

“You’ll have an invisible scar across the top of your head from temple to temple. We’ll also make incisions beneath each eye at the lash line. They’re

invisible, too. Some of the work on your nose will be done from inside, so there will be no scars at all there.

“After the surgery you’ll be swollen and bruised and you’ll generally look like hell. Be prepared for that. It will take a few weeks before you’re a raving

beauty again.”

“What about her hair, Dr. Sawyer?” Zee asked.

“I’ll have to shave off a patch because I’ll be taking a graft from her skull to use as part of her new nose. But if you’re asking if the hair that was burned off

will grow back, the burn specialist says yes. That’s the least of our problems,” he said, smiling down into the bandaged face.

“You won’t be eating solid foods for a while, I’m afraid. A prosthodontist will take out the roots of your teeth during the surgery and install implants. Two or

three weeks later, you’ll get your new teeth, which he’ll make to look exactly like the ones you lost. Until you get the replacements, you’ll be fed through a

tube from your mouth to your stomach, then progress to a soft diet.”

Tate noticed, even if the surgeon failed to acknowledge it, that Carole’s eye was roving as though looking for a friend among them, or possibly a means of

escape. He kept telling himself that Sawyer knew what he was doing. The surgeon might be accustomed to anxiety like this among his patients, but it was

as disturbing as hell to Tate.

Sawyer extracted a glossy eight-by-ten color photograph from the folder he had carried in with him. “I want you to look at this, Mrs. Rutledge.” It was a

picture of Carole. She was smiling the beguiling smile that had caused Tate to fall in love with her. Her eyes were shining and mischievous. Glossy dark

hair framed her face.

“It’ll be an all day, bring-your lunch operation,” he told her, “but my staff and I will fix you up. Give us eight to ten weeks from the day of your surgery and this

is what you’ll look like, only younger and prettier, and with shorter hair. Who could ask for more than that?”

Apparently Carole could. Tate noticed that, rather than assuaging her fears, the surgeon’s visit had seemed to heighten them.

Avery tried moving her extremities and coaxing motion out of her fingers and toes, but her limbs still felt too heavy to lift. She couldn’t move her head at all.

Meanwhile, each passing minute brought her closer to a disaster she seemed incapable of preventing.

For days it was difficult to calculate exactly how many, but she guessed around ten she had tried to figure out a means of letting everyone else in on the

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