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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, “Get a chance 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?”
