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CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

 The Corte Real was a lovely facility but a poor selection to host Tate Rutledge's victory celebration because it had only one entrance. Between a pair of massive Spanish doors and the ballroom itself was a short, narrow passageway. It formed an inevitable bottleneck.

The newly elected senator was propelled through that channel by a surge of family, friends, and supporters, all raucous, all jubilant over his win. Television lights created an aura around his head that shone like a celestial crown. His smile blended confidence with humility, that mix that elevated good men to greatness.

Tate's tall, gray-haired observer weaved his way toward the decorated platform at the opposite end of the room from the entrance. He elbowed aside media and Rutledge enthusiasts, somehow managing to do so without drawing attention to himself.  Over the years, he'd mastered that kind of maneuver.

Recently, he had wondered if his skills weren't getting rusty. He was almost certain Mrs. Rutledge had picked him out of the crowd on more than one occasion.

Having thought of her, he suddenly realized that she wasn't among the group following Tate toward the dais. Incisive eyes swung toward the entrance. Ah, there she was, bringing up the rear, looking distraught, obviously because she'd become separated from the rest of the family.

He turned his attention back to the charismatic young man, whose appearance in the ballroom had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. As he climbed the steps of the dais, balloons were released from a net overhead. They contributed to the confusion and poor visibility.

On the stage, Rutledge paused to shake hands with some of his most influential supporters—among them, several sports heroes and a Texas-bred movie actress. He waved to his disciples and they cheered him.

Gray Hair dodged the corner of a bouncing placard that nearly caught him on the forehead and kept his eyes trained on the hero of the hour. In the midst of this orgy of celebration, his face alone was grave with resolution.

Purposefully, he continued  to move steadily  forward, toward the platform. The pandemonium would have intimidated most, but it didn't faze him. He considered it a nuisance, nothing more. His progress was undeterred. Nothing could stop him from reaching Tate Rutledge.

 *          *          *

Avery arrived breathless at the door of the ballroom. The walls of her heart felt as thin as a balloon about to burst. The muscles of her legs were burning. She'd run down twenty flights of stairs.

She hadn't even attempted to take an elevator to the hotel's mezzanine level but, together with Jack, who'd only been told that his brother's life was in imminent danger, had dashed for the stairs. Somewhere in the stairwell, Jack was still trying to catch up with her.

Pausing only a fraction of a moment to draw breath and get her bearings, she madly plunged through the crowd toward the dais. Wall-to-wall bodies formed a barricade, but Avery managed to plow through it.

She saw his head rise above the throng as he took the steps leading to the platform. "Tate!"

He heard her shout and swiveled his head around, but he missed seeing her when someone on the temporary stage grabbed his arm and began pumping his hand enthusiastically. Avery frantically sought Eddy and found him positioning Nelson, Zee, Dorothy Rae, and Fancy in a semicircle behind the podium. He then motioned Tate toward the speaker's stand, where a dozen microphones were mounted and ready to amplify his first words as a newly elected senator.

Tate moved toward the podium.

"Tate!" It was impossible for her to be heard over the blaring band. At the sight of their hero, the crowd had gone mad. "Oh, God, no. Let me through. Let me through."

A blast of adrenalin strengthened Avery's flagging energy and rubbery legs. With no regard to courtesy, she kicked and clawed her way forward, batting aside drifting balloons. Jack finally caught up with her. "Carole," he panted,"what do you mean Tate's life is in danger?"

"Help me get to him. Jack, For God's sake, help me." He did what he could to create a furrow through the crowd. When she saw a space opening up in front •of her, she jumped into the air and frantically waved her arms. "Tate! Tate!"

Gray Hair!

He stood near the edge of the dais, partially hidden behind a Texas state flag.

"No!" she screamed. "Tate!"

Jack gave her a boost from behind. She stumbled up the steps, almost fell, caught herself. "Tate!"

Hearing her cry, he turned, wearing his glorious smile, and extended his hand. She rushed across the platform, but not toward Tate.

Her eyes were fixed on his enemy. And his were on her.

And the sudden realization that she knew about him caused his eyes to crystallize.

As though in slow motion, Avery saw Eddy reach into his jacket. Her lips formed the word, but she didn't know that she actually screamed "No!" as he withdrew the pistol and took aim at the back of Tate's head.

Avery lunged for Tate and knocked him aside. A millisecond later, Eddy's bullet slammed into her, throwing her into Tate's unsuspecting arms.

She heard the screams, heard Tate's bellowing denial that this was happening, saw Jack's and Dorothy Rae's and Fancy's blank expressions of horror and incredulity.

Her eyes connected with Nelson Rutledge's the same instant Eddy's second bullet struck him in the forehead. It made a neat hole, but its rear exit was messy. Zee was showered with blood. She screamed.

Nelson's face registered surprise, then anger, then outrage. That was his death mask. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Eddy leaped from the dais into the crowd of hysterical spectators.  The Lone Star flag fluttered. A man stepped from behind it and fired his previously concealed weapon. Eddy Paschal's head exploded upon impact.

It was Zee's voice that Avery heard from afar.

"Bryan! My God. Bryan!"