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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

From Houston the campaign went to Waco, and from Waco to El Paso, where Tate was the undisputed champion of the Hispanic voters. The Rutledges were received like visiting royalty. At the airport, Avery was handed a huge bouquet of fresh flowers. "Senora Rutledge, como está ?" one of their greeters asked.

''Muy bien, gracias. Y usted? Como se llama?''

Her smile over the cordial welcome faltered when the man turned away and she happened to lock gazes with Tate. "When did you learn to speak Spanish?"

For several heartbeats, Avery couldn't think of a credible lie in any language. She had minored in Spanish in college and was still comfortable with it. Tate spoke it fluently. It had never occurred to her to wonder if Carole had spoken it or not.

"I ... I wanted to surprise you."

"I'm surprised."

''The Hispanic vote is so important,'' she continued, limping through her explanation. ''I thought it would help if I could at least swap pleasantries, so I've been studying it on the sly."

For once, Avery was glad they were surrounded by people. Otherwise, Tate might have pressed her for details on where and when she had acquired her knowledge of Spanish. Thankfully, no one else had overheard their conversation. Tate was the only one she could trust completely.

Being with Jack, Eddy, and a few of the campaign volunteers as they traveled from city to city had provided her with no more clues as to who Carole's co-conspirator was.

Carefully placed questions had revealed little. Innocently, she had asked Jack how he had managed to get into the ICU the night she regained consciousness. He had looked at her blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. Sometimes the sequence of events still confuses me."

He was either innocent or an adroit liar.

She had tried the same ploy with Eddy. He had answered by saying, "I'm not family. What would I be doing in the ICU?''

Making threats on Tate's life, she had wanted to say.

She couldn't say that, so she had mumbled something about her confusion and let it go at that, turning up nothing in the way of opportunity for either of them.

She hadn't been luckier in discerning a motive. Even when Tate disagreed with his confidants and advisers, as he often did, they all seemed devoted to him and his success at the polls.

In lieu of a campaign contribution, a private businessman had loaned the entourage his private jet. As they flew from El Paso to Odessa, where Tate was scheduled to speak to independent oil men, the key personnel aired some of their differences.

"At least talk to them, Tate." Eddy was being his most persuasive. "It won't hurt to listen to their ideas."

"I won't like them."

The argument over whether or not to hire professional campaign strategists was becoming a frequent one. Weeks earlier, Eddy had suggested retaining a public relations firm that specialized in getting candidates elected to public office. Tate had been vehemently opposed to the idea and remained so.

''How do you know you won't like their ideas until you've heard what they are?" Jack asked.

"If the voters can't elect me for what I am—"

"The voters, the voters," Eddy repeated scoffingly. "The voters don't know shit from Shinola. What's more, they don't want to. They're lazy and apathetic. They want somebody to tell them who to vote for. They want it drummed into their feeble little minds so they won't have to make a decision on their own."