Acts of Mercy

Twelve

In the Green Room, where predinner cocktails had become something of a ritual, Nicholas Augustine swallowed the last of his bourbon-and-soda and wondered if he ought to have another one. But he had had two already, and Claire was still only half-finished with her first glass of sherry, and it had only been ten minutes since they had come downstairs. Still, another drink would be pleasant; he was just beginning to feel the first two, just starting to lose some of the hard edge of tension that had built up inside him.

The glistening ice cubes in the glass drew and held his eyes. They were like precious stones, he thought; they had beauty and symmetry and elegance; and yet they were ephemeral: when you reached for them, they melted away. Like most things in life, for most people. You could look at them, covet them, even touch them, but you could never possess them. Alcohol, on the other hand, was something substantial, something attainable by everyone from peasants to kings. Alcohol — could lead to serious problems, he thought then, one of which was maudlin philosophizing. He wondered if he had been drinking too much lately, letting himself become too dependent on liquor. The wine at dinner last night that had gotten him through the meal but had given him the headache that still hadn’t quite disappeared; the five bourbon-and-sodas at the reception for the Iranian prime minister last week that had put a faint slur on his words; the half-dozen other instances in recent weeks when he had taken one or two drinks more than necessary. If he was not careful, word would leak out to the press, and before he knew it the columnists would be comparing him to Nixon in the final days. And wouldn’t Wexford and Briggs and Kineen and the rest of them love that.

Augustine smiled wryly to himself, leaned forward on his Duncan Phyfe chair to set the glass on his tray stand. As he did so he became aware that Claire was watching him from the settee opposite. She had been quiet tonight, withdrawn, as if something was weighing heavily on her mind. Her eyes, he saw, were wide and dark and fathomless. There had been a time when he felt he could perish in those eyes, that her gaze could somehow absorb him, and he had a reflection of that feeling now. But before the illusion had been sexual; now it was something else, an unknown factor.

She seemed to want to say something to him. Several seconds passed and then she sighed softly and sat forward with her hands clasped on her thighs. “Nicholas,” she said, “why haven’t you told me about the meeting you had with Julius Wexford this afternoon?”

Augustine stared at her. “How did you know about that?”

“Austin Briggs called me at five o’clock.”

He felt an immediate surge of anger, felt heat rise on his face. He got to his feet. “Briggs,” he said. “What the hell right did he have to call you?”

“He felt I should know-”

“Why? Does he want you to start working on me, too?”

“Nicholas, please.”

“Answer my question. Is that why he called?”

“I suppose it was, yes.”

“Well? What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

“But you’re going to try convincing me to go along with the goddamn National Committee, aren’t you.”

“If I am it’s not because of Austin. Or Julius, or the party, or anyone except you.”

“I’m not going to withdraw,” he said.

“I’m your wife, Nicholas. You’ve always consulted with me before, we’ve always made the important decisions together. Why are you excluding me this time?”

“I’m not going to withdraw,” he said again. “I can’t withdraw, I can’t let them put that bastard Kineen in the White House.”

“Do you really believe you can win in Saint Louis, that you can fight the National Committee and the special-interest groups and the media?”

“I overcame greater odds four years ago.”

“Haven’t you done enough fighting? Isn’t it time to let someone else take over the battle-”

“I don’t want to listen to any more of this,” Augustine said. “I’ve had enough aggravation for one day.”

“Nicholas, I’m only trying to make you understand-”

“Understand? I’m beginning to understand, all right. You’re starting to turn against me too, just like the rest of them.”

She flinched as if he had struck her, stood quickly and came to him and gripped his arms. He wanted to pull away from her, but her eyes held him as much as her hands. “I’m not turning against you,” she said. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever think it.”

He could feel the anger starting to give way; as so many times before, the nearness of her, her touch, was a kind of emotional tranquilizer. “I’m sorry, Claire, I didn’t mean that. But I’ve taken all the pushing and shoving I can stand. My mind is made up; I need support, not dissent.”

“You won’t change it even for me?”

“I won’t because I can’t. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“We have to talk about it. We… have to.”

“No,” Augustine said. The anger in him was completely gone now; he felt nothing but weariness. “You asked me not to doubt you, you say you only want what’s best for me-all right, then tell me you’ll stand by my decision.”

“Nicholas…”

“Will you stand by me?” he said.

Her throat worked as if she were swallowing something painful. Her eyes moved on his face, gentle, stroking, and he knew again the illusion of being absorbed in their depths. She said, “Do you really have to ask a question like that?”

Impulsively, almost fiercely, he drew her to him, held her in a tight embrace. Felt the solid unyielding strength of her flow into him and cement his own strength. “God, how I need you,” he said against the softness of her hair.

“I know,” she said. “I know. I know.”

Bill Pronzini Barry N. Malzberg

Acts of Mercy

Thirteen

We have gathered more evidence now against the man we believe to be the leader of the conspiracy against Nicholas Augustine-almost but not quite enough evidence to fully convict him in our eyes. We cannot afford to wait too long, and yet we must continue to be careful and cunning. The last necessary proof will come to us shortly, we are growing more and more certain of that; it can only be a matter of a day or two.

The clock ticks slowly, but it ticks inexorably too: ticks away the minutes of life that are left to this viper in the President’s bosom.