Bill Pronzini - Acts of Mercy

But then she had met Augustine at one of those social gatherings-at that time he had been considered one of Washington’s more eligible bachelors-and there was no way of telling if she had simply fallen in love with him or had seen in him a means to further her own ambitions. In either case, they had had one of those whirlwind courtships that culminated in marriage after four short months.

Augustine’s father, Philip-a millionaire who had made his fortune as a pioneer in television electronics and who had served one term as governor of California in the mid-1940s-had died of a brain embolism during that courtship, just as Augustine was preparing to mount his campaign for reelection. Philip had been the architect of his son’s political career, and it had seemed to many that Augustine might be in trouble without that strong-willed guidance. Despite her youth, however, Claire had taken an active role in the campaign, and it was generally conceded that she had made the difference between victory and defeat in a close race decided by less than ten thousand votes. Two years later she had worked tirelessly to help him win a senatorial seat-and reelection to the senate twice after that-and she had been instrumental in his successful drive for the presidency.

From all indications their marriage, too, was a happy one. When they were together publicly they interacted with ease and grace and affection, Claire remaining somewhat in the background but in such a way that her presence was always felt. The difference in their ages, as well as the difference in their emotional tendencies, appeared to be insignificant. Even the fact that they had not had any children seemed to have been by mutual consent; there had never been a hint of any incapacity in either of them.

So the upshot was that their two decades of marriage had a storybook kind of gloss: the devoted wife assisting her husband in every way to achieve his goals; the indomitable spirit and faith of the woman behind the successful man. If she had ever done anything or said anything that was in any way a negative influence on Augustine, there was no intimation of it.

And yet Harper could not quite shake the feeling that there was something different about her recently, that that difference might be working against the President. It was nothing to which he could point conclusively. An impression, that was all; a word here, a phrase there, an action or reaction that was somehow inconsistent. Still, those were things he could have misinterpreted.

He wondered if he was imagining a problem where none existed. If he was guilty of witch-hunting. It could be that: the status quo getting to him, leading him into illogical speculation Or was he imagining a problem because at some inner level he wanted one to exist between the President and the First Lady?

That thought was unsettling, but only for a moment. He was attracted to Claire Augustine, he could not deny that-and bewildered and fascinated by her. But the attraction was not that deep or that strong; it would never distort his thinking or affect his intellectual control. He was above that sort of childish emotionalism; he was incapable of it.

Harper pushed the thought away, pushed what remained of his salad away and called for the check. What he had to do, he told himself firmly, was to concentrate on facts, on finding positive measures to counteract the crisis. Action, consequence, machinery.

Before things got out of hand.

Before it was too late.

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.”