Acts of Mercy (17 page)

We stop listening to the wheels and turn for the door.

Miles to go before
we
sleep.

Miles to go before we sleep.

Harper said, “Have you seen Wexford this morning, Nicholas?”

Augustine had been loading a pipe from a humidor of tobacco, but now he paused. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

“I stopped by his compartment a little while ago. I wanted to talk to him—”

“Talking to him won’t do any good, Maxwell.”

Harper repressed an annoyed sigh. “The point is,” he said, “Wexford wasn’t in his compartment. Nor was he there last night when I first went to talk to him. Nor was I able to find him anywhere else.”

Augustine frowned. “That’s odd.”

“I’d say so, yes.”

There was a moment of silence as Augustine put the cold pipe between his teeth, gnawed reflectively on the stem. It was just past seven A.M. and they were sitting in the President’s office, where Harper had found him sipping coffee and scribbling what he said were “campaign notes” on a scratch pad. Pale sunlight gave the compartment a dusty, almost elegiac aura. Beyond the windows patterns of early-morning mist drifted among the mountain evergreens like smoke from smoldering fires; the view made Harper feel cold.

His lips curving in a faint smile, Augustine said finally, “Maybe the bastard fell off the train during the night.”

Harper stiffened. “That’s not at all humorous, Nicholas. We have enough problems without any more of your ill-timed wit.”

The words came out more sharply than he had intended, but Augustine seemed to take no offense. He said only, “Yes, I expect you’re right,” and made sucking sounds on the pipe stem, as if it were lighted and he was trying to get it to draw. “Well then, he’s around somewhere. He’ll turn up by the time we arrive at The Hollows at nine.”

“I can’t wait until then,” Harper said. “There’ll be press people at the station. And you told me yourself you’d disinvited him to join us at the ranch.”

“All right. If it will make you happy, ask Christopher to find him for you. Tell him I said to take care of it.”

“I’ll do that,” Harper said. He stood, paused. “If you want to be present when I talk to Julius, I can have Justice bring him here—”

“No,” Augustine said. “Definitely not. I don’t want to see or listen to that son of a bitch today.”

Now he’s turned petulant, Harper thought. He said, “Just as you say, Nicholas,” in a neutral voice, and went to the door and out into the corridor,

Maybe the bastard fell off the train during the night.

The President’s words echoed in his mind as he made his way forward to the security’s Pullman. God, suppose something like that
had
happened to Wexford? Ridiculous, of course. And yet, was it really any more ridiculous than some of the other things which had happened of late? When matters degenerated toward chaos, anything was possible. Anything at all.

But Weacford hadn’t had an accident, wasn’t dead; he was alive and well somewhere in the bowels of this damned mechanical serpent. Of course he was.

Maybe the bastard fell off the train during the night....

At first Justice did not think much about Maxwell Harper’s—and the President’s—request that he locate the attorney general. It was routine enough: Wexford wasn’t immediately available and either Harper or Augustine wanted to talk to him, so someone had to be dispatched to fetch him. And where routine was concerned, you didn’t stop to draw conclusions. You just went ahead and did what you were told.

He went first to Wexford’s compartment, but the room steward was there making up the berth and told him that he hadn’t seen the attorney general since last night. From there he went down to the dining car and spoke with two of the waiters; both of them said Wexford had neither come in for breakfast nor sent for it. Frowning a little then, Justice entered the club car. It was empty, shades drawn against the thin sunlight. He walked through it to the observation car, where Ed Dougherty was sitting alone with the current issue of the
Congressional Record
When Justice asked him about Wexford, Dougherty shook his head and said that the last he’d seen of him had been after midnight, out on the observation platform, just before he himself had retired. He’d been alone then, having a smoke and taking some air because he couldn’t sleep.

Justice stepped out onto the platform and stood for a moment with his hands on the iron railing. Apprehension had begun to grow in him—a fearful suspicion that he did not want to believe. He took several deep breaths of mountain air that was bracingly cold, damp with mist that drifted across the right-of-way and curled sinuously along the surrounding slopes. In the distance the snow-draped shoulders of the Sierra Nevada peaks were visible beneath clouds of sunlit fog; Justice stared at them without really seeing them.

What could have happened to Wexford? he thought.

He returned to the aides’ Pullman and spoke with another steward, with Frank Tanaguchi, with Elizabeth Miller. Negative. He went into the security’s Pullman and asked two agents if they had seen the attorney general. Negative. He went forward and looked through the train staffs car, the baggage car. Negative. He came back and checked the communal lavatories in the staff car and in each of the Pullmans. Negative.

That left him only one option—to begin knocking on compartment doors. He did that, and each time there was a response he was careful to keep his questions casual so as not to arouse curiosity. At those compartments where no one answered his knock, he opened the door just long enough to make a visual check of the interior. He even glanced into the President’s private drawing room, and through the open door of the First Lady’s drawing room as a steward delivered a tray of coffee and toast.

Negative.

His stomach was knotted with tension by the time he finished. He stood uncertainly in the swaying corridor of the aides’ Pullman, trying to decide what to do next. Inform the President? No; he had to be absolutely
sure
the attorney general was nowhere on board before he said anything, raised even that much of an alarm. Go over the train again, each of the cars in turn. But no more Inquiries—and no alerting the other agents, at least not yet, not until the President was consulted.

He hurried down to the observation car, started there and worked his way forward to the baggage room. His search was careful, thorough. And it yielded nothing.

There could no longer be any doubt: Wexford had vanished from the Presidential Special.

What had happened to him?

Then his mind closed, as if defensively sealing itself off from the question. Through the baggage car window he became aware of a familiar landmark: a large lumber mill, plumes of wood-smoke fanning upward from its chimney stacks, and a series of smaller rustic buildings surrounding It—the village of Greenspur, situated less than ten miles from The Hollows. Justice glanced at his watch, confirmed that it was a quarter of nine. They would reach The Hollows station in less than fifteen minutes.

He left the baggage car and began to hurry through the corridors to U.S. Car Number One.

Augustine was about to leave his office and join Claire when Maxwell returned and asked if Justice had reported back.

“No,” Augustine said. “You mean he hasn’t turned up Wexford for you yet?”

“Certainly that’s what I mean,” Harper said. “I’ve been waiting in my compartment for the last hour. Nicholas, I’m frankly becoming concerned about—”

And there was a sudden sharp, urgent rapping on the office door.

They exchanged a brief look, and immediately Harper went to the door and slid it open. Justice. He seemed to hesitate at the sight of Harper, then came quickly into the compartment and stood uneasily with his arms flat against his sides. Looking at him, at the distressed planes of his face, Augustine thought with cold alarm: My God, there is something wrong—

“Mr. President,” Justice said, “may I speak to you privately?”

Harper shut the door and came over in front of him. “Is it about Wexford?”

Justice hesitated.

“Is it about Wexford?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then for Christ’s sake, man, spit it out.”

“Mr. President?”

“Yes, yes,” Augustine said, “go ahead, Christopher.”

Justice took a breath, let it out sibilantly. “I couldn’t find him,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s ... disappeared.”

A tic began to flutter Augustine’s left eyelid. “Disappeared?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you
sure
of that?”

“Positive, sir. I’ve been through the entire train twice; I looked everywhere.”

Harper said, “Jesus.”

The same kind of shock Augustine had felt two nights ago in Washington, when Justice brought him the news of Briggs’s fatal accident, seemed to take hold of him again. “It isn’t possible,” he heard himself say. “How could a thing like that
happen?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Justice said. “But Mr. Dougherty told me he saw Mr. Wexford out on the observation platform last night, after midnight. Maybe he lost his balance when the train lurched, or had a stroke or something, and ... well, fell off the platform.”

Harper pivoted and stared at Augustine as if in accusation. But I was only joking earlier, Augustine thought numbly. I never imagined it might be true. How could I imagine anything like that would be true?

“What should we do, sir?” Justice asked him.

“Do?”

“Yes sir.”

Harper said, “There’s nothing to do,” in a curiously dull, hollow voice—a tone Augustine had never heard him use before.

“But there’s a chance he might still be alive, badly hurt somewhere along the tracks—”

“Don’t be a fool, Justice. A man Wexford’s age could never survive a plunge from a speeding train.”

“I guess you’re right, Mr. Harper. Still, shouldn’t a search party be sent out right away?”

“Yes,” Augustine said. “A search party.”

He went behind his desk, sank heavily into the chair. I hated Julius, he thought, I hated him for what he tried to do to me—but he was a friend for twenty years, I never wanted him dead. I never wanted Briggs dead either. Briggs. And now Wexford. One is bad enough, but two; two. No way to cover this one up, even if I wanted to. And Briggs will be found anytime now back in Washington.

Why did they have to die? Goddamn them, why did they have to do this to me?

Outside, the train’s air horn echoed loudly through the quiet morning. Augustine lifted his head, realized that the Presidential Special had slackened speed and that they were passing through the long limestone-walled cut into the narrow valley where The Hollows station was located. Less than five minutes now before arrival.

He also realized Justice was speaking to him. “ ... all right, sir?”

“What did you say?”

“I asked if you were all right, Mr. President.”

“Yes. A little shell-shocked, that’s all.”

“Do you want me to have Communications radio in a report to the FBI?”

“No,” Harper said.

Justice shifted his gaze. “Sir?”

“What’s happened is terrible enough without risking an immediate leak to the media. We can contact the FBI directly from The Hollows; a half-hour or so isn’t going to make any difference to Wexford. And there’ll be time to prepare an official announcement for when the body is found.” He looked at Augustine. “Don’t you agree, Mr. President?”

“Yes,” Augustine said.

“Then that’s how we’ll handle it.” And to Justice, “Not a word to anyone, do you understand?”

Justice seemed to want to say something; instead he nodded grimly, silently.

Augustine thought: Why couldn’t they all have been as strong and as loyal as Maxwell and Christopher? And Claire too ... Claire. God, what will
she
say? I’ve got to tell her—but not right away, not until we get to The Hollows. I can’t face her with it until then.

“We’ll be at the station any minute,” Harper said. “Can you put up a front for the media, Nicholas?”

Augustine looked across at the liquor cabinet, then imme. diately pulled his eyes away from it again. “Don’t worry about the media,” he said.

The air horn sounded another time and the train lost more of its speed, coasting as they neared the station.

Augustine got slowly to his feet. “We’ve all got things to do before we disembark,” he said. “We’d better do them.”

Harper nodded. “Just the amenities at the station and straight to The Hollows. All right?”

“Yes. All right.”

When they were gone Augustine stood staring at the closed door. How can I beat them now that Wexford is dead too? he thought, and felt a coldness settle on the back of his neck.