MIRROR IMAGE

CHAPTER SIX

 "I don't understand what you're so upset about."

Tate spun around and angrily confronted his campaign manager. Eddy Paschal suffered the glare with equanimity. Experience had taught him that Tate's temper was short, but just as short-lived.

As Eddy expected, the fire in Tate's eyes downgraded to a hot glow. He lowered his hands from his hips, making his stance less antagonistic.

"Eddy, for crissake, my wife had just come out of a delicate operation that had lasted for hours."

"I understand."

"But you can't understand why I was upset when hordes of reporters surrounded me, asking questions?" Tate shook his head, incredulous. "Let me spell it out for you. I was in no mood for a press conference."

"Granted, they were out of line."

"Way out of line."

''But you got forty seconds of airtime on the six and ten o'clock news—all three networks. I taped them and played them back later. You appeared testy, but that's to be expected, considering the circumstances. All in all, I think it went in our favor. You look like a victim of the insensitive media. Voters will sympathize. That's definitely a plus."

Tate laughed mirthlessly as he slumped into a chair. "You're as bad as Jack. You never stop campaigning: measuring which way this or that went—in our favor, against us." He dragged his hands down his face. "Christ, I'm tired."

"Have a beer." Eddy handed him a cold can he'd taken from the compact refrigerator. Taking one for himself, he sat down on the edge of Tate's hotel room bed. For a moment they drank in silence. Finally, Eddy asked, "What's her prognosis, Tate?"

Tate sighed. "Sawyer was braying like a jackass when he came out of the operating  room.  Said he was perfectly satisfied with the results—that it was the finest work his team had ever done."

"Was that P.R. bullshit or the truth?"

"I hope to God it's the truth."

''When will you be able to see for yourself?''

"She doesn't look like much now. But in a few weeks ..." He made a vague gesture and slouched down deeper into the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His boots almost came even with Eddy's polished dress shoes. The jeans Tate had on were at the opposite end of the wardrobe scale from Eddy's creased and pressed navy flannel slacks.

For the present, Eddy didn't badger his candidate about his casual attire. The political platform they were building was one that common folk—hardworking middle class Texans—would adhere to. Tate Rutledge was going to be the champion of the downtrodden. He dressed the part—not as a political maneuver, but because that's the way he had dressed when Eddy had met him at the University of Texas.

''One of the crash survivors died today,'' Tate informed him in a quiet voice. "A man my age, with a wife and four kids. He had a lot of internal injuries, but they had patched him up and they thought he was going to make it. He died of infection. God," he said, shaking his head, "can you imagine making it that far and then dying from infection?"

Eddy could see that his friend was sinking into a pit of melancholia. That was bad for Tate personally and for the campaign. Jack had expressed his concern for Tate's mental attitude. So had Nelson. An important part of Eddy's  job was to boost Tate's morale when it flagged.

"How's Mandy?" he asked, making his voice sound bright. "All the volunteers miss her."

''We hung that get well banner they had all signed on her bedroom wall today. Be sure to thank them for me."