Bill Pronzini - Acts of Mercy

Tight-lipped, Wexford said, “I’m warning you, Nicholas, if you keep on this way you’ll wind up broken and humiliated.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

“It will happen,” Wexford said grimly, “because it’ll be all gloves off. If you force us to take harsh measures to keep the party in power, we’re prepared to do it.”

“Are you threatening me, Julius?”

“No. I’m just telling you you mustn’t and you won’t be renominated. For the good of all of us.”

“Personalities, smear tactics?” Augustine said. “Would you really go that far?”

“I hope to God you don’t make me find out.” Wexford turned to the door, opened it, stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll be in my compartment if you want to talk again after you’ve calmed down a little-”

Augustine caught the door and slammed it shut.

Bastard, he thought. Bastard! And went immediately to the bar cabinet to pour himself another drink.

Harper let a full forty minutes pass before he left his compartment and went again to the President’s office. When he knocked on the satinwood panel there were several seconds of silence, and then Augustine’s voice said thickly, “Who is it?”

“Maxwell.”

Another few moments of silence. “All right, come on in. The door’s open.”

Harper entered. The office was dark, but an elongation of light from the corridor reached across to where Augustine sat behind his desk. He had both elbows propped on the blotter and he was holding the stem from one of his pipes up in front of the window, peering through it as though it were a telescope. There was a glass of whiskey in front of him and his cheeks were flushed, peppered with flecks of perspiration. He looked tense and angry.

Harper’s edginess increased as he closed the door. First the sudden decision to leave for California, then Claire’s inexplicable behavior a little while ago, and now Augustine looking as though something had disturbed him since they’d last spoken. The crisis and the way it kept escalating was bad enough, but at least he could deal with that on an intellectual level; it was the undercurrents, the dark and hidden complexities that seemed to be developing, which worried him most.

Augustine lowered the pipe stem, picked up the glass instead and sipped from it. Then he made a face, appeared to shudder, and took his elbows off the desk and set the glass down again. He fixed Harper with a slightly bleary look. “Well, Maxwell?”

Harper took a chair opposite the desk. “I’d like to know,” he said slowly, “why you decided to come to The Hollows today.”

“I told you that in Washington. I need a few days’ rest.”

“Yes, but you also told me you planned to leave on Sunday. Why did you move it up two days?”

“Do I have to have specific reasons for everything I do? I’m in California because I want to be in California.”

“But it’s a matter of timing. The media-”

“Damn the media! I’m sick unto death of the media.”

“We all are,” Harper said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you’ve further jeopardized your position for no good reason that I can see. Or is there a reason, something you’re keeping from me? You’ve been acting strangely all day.”

For a moment, lips pursed, Augustine stared at him with sudden enmity; but then it seemed to fade from his eyes-or into them, like something sinking in dark water-until they were clear again. He picked up his glass but did not drink from it, only peered at the dark liquid as if searching for something within its depths.

“I have nothing to tell you about my moods or my private decisions,” he said. “There are some things I choose not to share with even my closest advisors; you understand that, I hope.”

I do not understand it, Harper thought. He watched the President take another sip of whiskey. “Will you at least tell me why you’re drinking so much at this time of day?”

“It happens to be five o’clock. The cocktail hour.”

“You’ve had more than one or two drinks.”

“And what if I have? I don’t have to justify my drinking habits to you, do I?”

“I suppose you don’t,” Harper said stiffly.

Augustine made an abrupt slicing gesture with one hand. “Oh all right,” he said, “you might as well know. You’d find it out anyway before long.”

“Find what out?”

“Wexford is here on the train,” the President said. “He flew out to Los Angeles this afternoon and came aboard just before we left. I finished talking to him not ten minutes ago.”

Harper’s hands clenched. “Why did he come?”

“A goddamn search-and-destroy mission, that’s why.”

“Don’t give me metaphors, Nicholas-”

“He wants my resignation,” Augustine said. Matter-offactly, as if he were delivering an irritating but not particularly important bit of news. “On behalf of the National Committee and the party-at-large. They’re not requesting now, they’re issuing ultimatums.”

My God, Harper thought. Oh my God…

Elizabeth.

Yes, Mrs. Augustine?

Are you familiar with the twenty-fifth amendment?

To the Constitution?

That’s right.

I know what it says, yes.

What does it say?

Well, it empowers the President to nominate a successor if the Vice-President should die or resign from office. And it stipulates what’s to be done if the President himself should die or be incapacitated But you know that as well as I do, Mrs. Augustine.

Yes. How long has it been since you read it closely?

Not since college. Why are you asking me about the twenty-fifth amendment?

This is really terrible coffee. I can’t understand why the kitchen staff can’t make better coffee.

Mrs Augustine, why did you ask me about the twenty-fifth amendment?

I was just thinking of Vice-President Conroy, that’s all. He has a weak heart, you know, and there are reports that he’s been having palpitations after what happened in Phoenix. I understand he’s returning to Washington and will be checking into Walter Reed for a few days.

Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious.

So do I. But it gives one pause to reflect.

It does, doesn’t it. Would you like me to have the kitchen make you a fresh pot of coffee?

No, I’ve had enough coffee. I think I’ll lie down again. I shouldn’t have asked you in again we haven’t anything to do that can’t wait until we get to The Hollows

You do look exhausted, Mrs. Augustine. Haaen’t you been sleeping well?

Not very well, no. I’ve had insomnia.

You should have seen Doctor Whiting and had him give you something.

Maybe you’re right, Elizabeth. Yes, I should have seen Doctor Whiting. Elizabeth?

Yes?

Draw those window shades, would you, before you leave? It’s much too bright in here. Much too bright.

Justice entered the dining car a few minutes before eight and took a seat at an empty table at the far end. The car was less than half full, mostly with staff aides and a few Secret Servicemen; white-jacketed waiters glided along the center aisle, balancing trays and silver ice buckets and bottles of California wine. Conversation was muted, and there was none of the relaxed camaraderie, the easy laughter, which normally prevailed at dinnertime on the Presidential Special. The faces of the diners were as sober as they had been on the flight from Washington; it was obvious that each of them, too, was deeply concerned about the negative trend of recent events.

A pitcher of ice water stood on the table. Justice poured some into a glass, drank a little of it and then opened the menu that lay across the place setting in front of him. Crabmeat cocktail, Crenshaw melon, liver pate; roast beef, abalone steak, chicken baked in wine sauce; salad and vegetables; strawberries in cream or three different kinds of cheese. A good selection-but none of it appealed to him. He closed the menu again, put it aside. He was simply not hungry.