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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The last line had been her addition to Eddy's prepared speech. Boldly, she slipped her hand into Tate's. After a moment's hesitation, which only she was aware of, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Mrs. Rutledge, do you hold AireAmerica responsible for the crash?"

"We can't comment until the investigation is completed and the results have been announced by the NTSB,'' Tate said.

"Mrs. Rutledge, do you plan to sue for damages?"

"We have no plans to pursue litigation at this time."

Again, Tate answered for her.

"Mrs. Rutledge, do you remember saving your daughter from the burning wreckage?"

 "I do now," she said before Tate could speak. "But I didn't at first. I responded to survival instinct.  I don't remember making a conscious decision."

"Mrs. Rutledge, at any point during the reconstructive procedure on your face, did you doubt it could be done?"

"I had every confidence in the surgeon my husband selected."

Tate leaned into the mike to make himself heard above the din.  "As you might guess, Carole is anxious to get home. If you'll excuse us, please."

He ushered her forward, but the crowd surged toward them. "Mr. Rutledge, will Mrs. Rutledge be going with you on the campaign trail?" A particularly pushy reporter blocked their path and shoved a microphone into Tate's face.

''A few trips for Carole have been scheduled. But there will be many times when she'll feel it's best to stay at home with our daughter.''

"How is your daughter, Mr. Rutledge?"

 "She's well, thank you. Now, if we could—"

"Is she suffering any aftereffects of the crash?"

''What does your daughter think of the slight alterations in your appearance, Mrs. Rutledge?"

"No more questions now, please."

With Eddy clearing a path for them, they made their way through the obstinate crowd. It was friendly, for the most part, but even so, being surrounded by so many people gave Avery a sense of suffocation.

Up till now, she'd always been on the other side, a reporter poking a microphone at someone in the throes of a personal crisis. The reporter's job was to get the story, get the sound bite that no one else got, take whatever measures were deemed necessary. Little consideration was ever given to what it was like on the other side of the microphone. She'd never enjoyed that aspect of the job. Her fatal mistake in broadcasting hadn't arisen from having too little sensitivity, but from having too much.

From the comer of her eye she spotted the KTEX logo stenciled on the side of a Betacam. Instinctively, she turned her head in that direction. It was Van!

For a split second she forgot that he was supposed to be a stranger to her. She came close to calling out his name and waving eagerly.  His pale, thin face and lanky ponytail looked wonderfully familiar and dear! She longed to throw herself against his bony chest and hug him hard.

Thankfully, her face remained impassive. She turned away, giving no sign of recognition. Tate ushered her into the limo. Once inside the backseat and screened by the tinted glass, she looked out the rear window. Van, like all the others, was shoving his way through the throng, video camera riding atop his shoulder, his eye glued to the viewfinder.

How she missed the newsroom, with its ever present pall of tobacco smoke, jangling telephones,  squawking police radios, and clacking teletypes. The constant ebb and flow of reporters, cameramen and gofers seemed to Avery to be light years in the past.