Acts of Mercy

Eight

At dusk Saturday night, after a quiet and somewhat mechanical dinner with Claire, Augustine sat out on one of the iron-filigree patio chairs, worrying the bit of a billiard briar and waiting for Justice.

When he and Harper and the bodyguards had returned from their ride at four-thirty, Christopher had approached him outside the stable, looking worried, and asked to speak with him. But he himself had been abstracted and weary of Maxwell’s querulous complaints and questions, and he had only wanted to get away quickly to the manor house for a shower and a drink. So he had told Justice he would see him here tonight and then left him there with Maxwell.

He would keep this meeting as brief as possible, Augustine thought. Because it seemed obvious to him what was on Justice’s mind, and discussing it endlessly served no constructive purpose. He had already concluded what must be done, while sitting in his study this morning and watching the toy train board, and he was not about to invite painful dialogue by confiding what it was to anyone. Not Justice, not Harper, not any of his other aides. Not even Claire (although he knew she intuited exactly what his decision was). They would all find out at the press conference tomorrow.

Augustine leaned back in the chair and watched a faint breeze ripple the water in the swimming pool. This was the best time of night in the mountains, he thought. Quiet except for the steady fiddling hum of crickets, the air clean and sharp and piney, the sky just turning a glossy purpleblack, the pale face of a full moon hanging above the tops of the trees on the western ridge. But it wasn’t the same as it once was; there was something missing, something lost and irreplaceable. As there was with trains. Trains still ran across the country, you still saw them, you could still ride on them, but the spirit of railroading had been taken away…

Justice appeared then, walking rapidly through the garden on the far side of the patio. Augustine watched him come up onto the flagstones and cross past the diving board. There was the same nervous anxiety in his face and in his manner that Augustine had noticed peripherally at the stable earlier.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” he said.

“Christopher. Sit down if you like.”

“Thank you, sir.” Justice took another patio chair to Augustine’s left and placed his hands on his knees.

Augustine said, “Am I correct in assuming you want to talk about Briggs and the attorney general?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, before you ask, there has been no word as yet on either of them. I don’t understand why Briggs, at least, hasn’t been found by now-unless he had made prior arrangements to take yesterday off and to go away for the weekend. That would explain it. In any case, taking everything into account, the fact that he has not been found is best for all concerned.”

Justice nodded.

“Did Mr. Harper tell you I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow morning?”

“No sir. Press conference?”

“Yes. And please don’t ask me why or what statement I intend to make.”

“Just as you say, Mr. President.” With reluctance.

Augustine softened his voice. “I dislike being brusque with you, Christopher. I don’t have to tell you that I appreciate all you’ve done for me, and your concern, and your support; I think you know how grateful I am. It’s just that this is a very difficult time and I don’t feel in the least comradely.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. Now then-do you have anything specific to discuss? If not, I-”

“There is something specific, yes sir.”

“What is it?”

Justice moved uneasily in his chair; night shadows gave his face a brooding cast. “I don’t know how to say it, sir. It’s… well, it’s incredible.”

“Incredible?”

“Mr. President,” Justice said, and stopped, and then blurted, “Mr. President, I think Mr. Briggs and Mr. Wexford may have been murdered.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I think they were deliberately and coldbloodedly killed by someone who wanted us to believe their deaths were accidents, someone with an unstable mind-”

Astonishment and utter disbelief. Augustine came convulsively to his feet, stood over Justice. “A homicidal maniac? For God’s sake, are you trying to tell me there’s a homicidal maniac among the people on my staff?”

“That’s what I suspect, sir.”

“It’s monstrous!”

Miserably Justice nodded.

“What proof do you have?”

“None, sir.”

“None? You mean you have no evidence at all?”

“No sir. It’s just a feeling, an intuition-”

“Christ Almighty, Christopher!”

“Two men have died in two days, Mr. President,” Justice said, “that’s just too much coincidence; I’ve been a policeman a long time and I’ve learned to trust my Instincts-”

“Instincts!” The astonishment was gone now; only the unbelief remained. “Do these instincts tell you who it could be?”

“No sir.”

“Or why even a lunatic would murder two men?”

Justice shook his head. “I could be wrong, sir, I know that. But I don’t think I am. And I’m afraid something might happen here at The Hollows, that someone else’s life may be in danger.”

“Whose life?”

“I don’t know. But… it could even be yours, sir.” Augustine stared down at him. He had always considered Justice to be the prototype police officer: cool, disciplined, precise to a fault, incapable of wild or unreasonable speculation. But it seemed the strain of the past few days had affected him much more severely than could have been imagined; had filled him with irrational paranoid fantasies. Two murders made to look like accidents, one of the people Augustine had worked closely with for three and a half years a deranged psychopath-preposterous! A potential third murder, another person’s life in jeopardy, his own life in jeopardy-unthinkable!

He sat down carefully and said to Justice, “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No sir.”

“I see. Well you’d best not. I’ll handle it.”

Justice’s eyes were imploring. “You do believe me, don’t you, Mr. President? About the potential danger, I mean.”

“I believe that you believe.”

“What should we do?”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Tighten security, first of all. Beyond that… I’m not sure, sir.”

“I’ll know,” Augustine said gently. “After I’ve given it some thought I’ll know just what to do.”

“We don’t have much time, sir. I’m sure of that.”

Augustine looked away. So am I, Christopher, he thought. We don’t have much time left at all.