Acts of Mercy

Five

Justice spent the morning in his room at the security quarters-drinking cup after cup of black coffee, pacing the room, sitting in one of the chairs, mechanically unpacking his suitcase after it was delivered by one of The Hollows’ staff. But by noon the passive waiting, and the caffeine, had set his nerves to jangling so badly that getting out of there became a matter of self-defense.

He wandered over to the manor house, circled it without seeing any sign of the President. As he walked toward the guest houses it occurred to him to seek out Maxwell Harper; he needed desperately to discuss his suspicions with someone and Harper was a logical choice. But then he thought: What if he’s the psychopath? It could be him; it could be anyone. Justice shivered faintly in the warm sunlight, veered away toward the patio and the swimming pool. He had never felt more alone in his life.

There was no one by the pool except for a maintenance man cleaning leaves from the water with a long-handled screen. Three gardeners worked among the flowers and shrubs in the surrounding gardens. An almost breathless hush seemed to envelop the ranch, as it almost always did in spring and summer. Even the cries of birds, the drone of insects was muted.

Justice walked past the tennis courts, through the wall of black oaks to the east fence, back along the fence behind the guest cottages. Through the east gate he saw what appeared to be three men on horseback, making their way along the northeast riding trail. He went across to the paddock. Three more horses moved lazily inside the split-log fencing; the smell of their manure was pungent here. He walked around past the stable, looked in through the open double doors and noticed three ranch hands in Western garb working inside.

And came to an abrupt halt. Threes, he thought. Three gardeners, three riders, three horses, three ranch hands. Clusters of three. Things happen in threes.

He was not a superstitious man; he did not believe in omens. And yet he felt a sudden portent, a vivid and overpowering intimation of tragedy and violence. There’s going to be another murder here at The Hollows. The hairs on his neck prickled; he could feel the staccato throb of his pulse. And the victim could be anyone too. It could even be… God, it could evens the President himself.

Chills capered along Justice’s back. He could not keep his suspicions to himself, not any longer; he couldn’t take the risk or the responsibility. He had to tell the President.

Justice hurried back to the manor house. No one answered his knock on the front door; everybody was apparently either at the back of the house or gone out elsewhere. Maybe the President is in his study, he thought, and came down off the porch and started back along the north wall.

The French doors to the family room were open now, to admit the faint noonday breeze, and when he reached them he heard the voice of the First Lady from inside, carried clearly on the still air. He hesitated, glancing inside, thinking that she might be talking to the President. But she was alone in the room; she stood with her back to the French doors, speaking into the telephone.

“.. stress too strongly how important this is,” she was saying. “No, I don’t care to go into details on the phone. How soon can you locate him and have him fly out to California?” Pause. “Yes, all right, I understand. Do whatever you can.” Pause. “Yes. Good-bye.”

She replaced the receiver, turned immediately before Justice could move, and saw him standing outside. She blinked twice in surprise, put a hand to her breast.

Justice said quickly, “I didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs. Augustine. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him for a long silent moment, then lowered her hand and came across to the French doors. “What are you doing prowling around out here?”

“I wasn’t prowling, ma’am.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Looking for the President,” he said.

“He’s not here. He left fifteen minutes ago-to go riding, he said.”

“Oh, I see.”

She gave him a long probing look, and Justice began to fidget under the scrutiny. He felt awkward in her presence, as he always seemed to; she was such an imposing, inscrutable woman that she made him aware of his inadequacies, his inconsequentiality. It was not a conscious domination on her part, but it was a domination nonetheless. He could understand at moments such as this exactly why she was and had been such a powerful motivating force in the President’s life.

At length she said,“I suppose you overheard me on the phone.”

“Only for a moment, Mrs. Augustine.”

“Do you know to whom I was talking?”

“No ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I was talking to the FBI in Washington. Director Saunders isn’t available, but I’ve asked that he be located and requested to join us here as soon as possible.”

“Because of the search for the attorney general?”

“Among other reasons.”

“Other reasons?”

“They don’t concern you, Christopher.”

“Yes ma’am.” It was plain to Justice that she wanted to terminate the conversation. “I won’t bother you any longer, Mrs. Augustine,” he said. “I’ll see the President later, after he returns.”

He pivoted away, walked back to the front of the house. He sensed that she had stepped out through the French doors and was looking after him, but because he was frowning in contemplation he did not glance back. Why had she asked Saunders to come to The Hollows? he was thinking. What were those other reasons she had spoken of?

Did she also suspect that Briggs and Wexford had been murdered?