The City of Mirrors (35 page)

“People will miss you.”

“I doubt they’ll even notice.”

Peter thought she might ask him about Michael. What had he heard? Was her brother okay at least? They avoided the details, a painful reality. Michael on the trade, rumors of some crazy project, Greer in cahoots with Dunk, an armed compound on the ship channel with trucks full of lick and God knew what else leaving every day.

But she didn’t. Instead Sara asked, “What does Vicky think?”

The question pierced him with guilt. He’d been meaning to visit the woman for weeks, months even.

“I need to go see her,” he said. “How is she doing?”

The two of them were still standing shoulder to shoulder as their eyes traced the course of the wagon. It was little more than a speck now. It crested a small rise, began to sink, then was gone. Sara turned toward him.

“I wouldn’t wait,” she said.

His day dissolved into the customary duties. A meeting with the collector of taxes to decide what to do about homesteaders who refused to pay; a new judicial appointment to make; an agenda to set for the upcoming meeting of the territorial legislature; various papers to sign, which Chase placed in front of him with only cursory description. At three o’clock, Apgar appeared in Peter’s door. Did the president have a minute? Everybody else on the staff simply called him by his first name, as he preferred, but Gunnar, a stickler for protocol, refused. Always he was “Mr. President.”

The subject was guns—specifically, a lack of them. The Army had always run on a combination of reconditioned civilian and military weaponry. A lot had come from Fort Hood; plus, the old Texas had been a well-armed place. Virtually every house, it seemed, had a gun cabinet in it, and there were weapon-manufacturing facilities throughout the state, offering a bountiful supply of parts for repair and reloading. But a lot of time had passed, and certain guns lasted longer than others. Metal-framed pistols, like the old Browning 1911, SIG Sauer semiautos, and army-issue Beretta M9s, were close to indestructible with adequate maintenance. So were most revolvers, shotguns, and bolt-action rifles. But polymer-framed pistols, like Glocks, as well as M4 and AR-15 rifles, the bread and butter of the military, did not enjoy the same indefinite shelf life. As their plastic casings cracked with fatigue, more and more were retired; others had leaked via the trade into civilian hands; some had simply vanished.

But that was only part of the problem. The more pressing issue was a dwindling supply of ammunition. Decades had passed since a prewar cartridge had been fired; except for the stockpiles in Tifty’s bunker, which were vacuum-sealed, the primer and cordite didn’t last more than twenty years. All of the army’s rounds had been either reloaded from spent brass or manufactured with empty casings taken from two munitions plants, one near Waco and a second in Victoria. Casting lead for bullets was easy; far trickier was engineering a propellant. Weapons-grade cordite required a complicated cocktail of highly volatile chemicals, including large quantities of nitroglycerine. It could be done, but it wasn’t easy, and it necessitated both manpower and expertise, both of which were in very short supply. The Army was down to just a couple thousand soldiers—fifteen hundred spread throughout the townships, and a garrison of five hundred in Kerrville. They had no chemists at all.

“I think we both know what we’re talking about here,” Peter said.

Apgar, seated across the paper-stacked expanse of Peter’s desk, was looking at his nails. “I didn’t say I liked it. But the trade has the manufacturing capacity, and it’s not like we haven’t dealt with them before.”

“Dunk’s not Tifty.”

“What about Michael?”

Peter frowned. “Sore subject.”

“The guy was an OFC. He knows how to cook oil—he can do this.”

“What about this boat of his?” Peter asked.

“He’s
your
friend. You tell me what it’s all about.”

Peter took a long breath. “I wish I could. I haven’t seen the guy in over twenty years. On top of which, we tell the trade we’re out of ammo, we’ve tipped our hand. Dunk will be sitting in this chair in a weekend.”

“So threaten him. He comes through for us or that’s it, the deal’s off, we storm the isthmus and put him out of business.”

“Across that causeway? It’d be a bloodbath. He’ll smell a bluff before I stop talking.”

Peter leaned back in his chair. He imagined himself laying out Apgar’s terms to Dunk. What could the man do but laugh in his face?

“This is all stick. There’s no way it’s going to work. What can we offer him?”

Gunnar scowled. “What, besides money, guns, and whores? Last time I checked, Dunk had all of those in plentiful supply. Plus, the guy’s practically a folk hero. You know what happened last Sunday? Out of the blue, a five-ton full of women shows up at the encampment in Bandera where they’re housing the road crews. The driver has a note. ‘Compliments of your good friend Dunk Withers.’ On a fucking
Sunday.
”

“Did they send them away?”

Gunnar snorted through his nose. “No, they took them to church. What do you think?”

“Well, there has to be something.”

“You could ask him yourself.”

A joke, but not entirely. There was also Michael to consider. Despite everything, Peter liked to think that the man would at least agree to talk to him.

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

As Gunnar rose, Chase appeared in the doorway.

“What is it, Ford?” Peter asked.

“We’ve got another sinkhole. A big one. Two houses this time.”

This had been happening all spring. A rumbling in the earth; then, within moments, the ground would collapse. The largest hole had been over fifty feet wide.
This place really is falling apart,
Peter thought.

“Anybody hurt?” he asked.

“Not this time. Both houses were empty.”

“Well, that’s lucky.” Ford was still looking at him expectantly. “Is there something else?”

“I’m thinking we should make a statement. People are going to want to know what you’re doing about it.”

“Such as what? Telling the ground to behave itself?” When Ford said nothing, Peter sighed. “Fine, write something up, and I’ll sign it. Engineering on the case, situation in hand, et cetera.” He raised an eyebrow at Ford. “Okay?”

Apgar looked like he was about to laugh.
Jesus,
Peter thought,
it never ends.
He got to his feet.

“Come on, Gunnar. Let’s get some air.”

He had become president not because he desired the job particularly but as a favor to Vicky. Right after her election to a third term, she had developed a tremor in her right hand. This was followed by a series of accidents, including a fall on the capitol steps that had broken her ankle. Her handwriting, always precise, decayed to a scrawl; her speech adopted a weirdly monotonic quality, lacking all inflection; the tremors spread to her other hand, and she began to make involuntary rocking motions with her neck. Peter and Chase had managed to hide the situation by keeping her public schedule to a minimum, but halfway into her second year, it became clear that she could no longer continue. The Texas Constitution, which had superseded the Code of Modified Martial Law, allowed her to name a president pro-tem.

At the time, Peter was serving as secretary of territorial affairs, a position he had taken on midway through her second term. It was one of the most visible jobs in the cabinet, and Vicky made no secret of the fact that she was grooming him for something more. Still, he had assumed that Chase would be the one to step in; the man had been with her for years. When Vicky called Peter to her office, he wholly expected a meeting to discuss the transition to Chase’s administration; what he found was a judge with a Bible. Two minutes later, he was president of the Texas Republic.

This was, he came to understand, what the woman had intended from the start: to create her successor from the ground up. Peter had stood for election two years later, won easily, and ran unopposed for his second term. Some of this was his personal popularity as a chief executive; as Vicky had predicted, his stock was very high. But it was also true that he had assumed the office at a time when it was easy to make people happy.

Kerrville itself was on its way to becoming irrelevant. How long before it was just one more provincial town? The farther out people settled, the less the idea of centralized authority held sway. The legislature had relocated to Boerne and almost never met. Financial capital had followed human capital to the townships; people were opening businesses, trading commodities at market-established prices, negotiating life on their own terms. In Fredericksburg, a group of private investors had pooled their money to open a bank, the first of its kind. There were still problems, and only the federal administration possessed the resources for major infrastructure projects: roads, dams, telegraph lines. But even this wouldn’t last indefinitely. When Peter was being honest with himself, he understood that he was not so much running the place as guiding it into port. Let Chase have his chance, he thought. Two decades in public life, with its endless closed-door bickering, was plenty for any man. Peter had never farmed; he’d never so much as planted a tomato. But he could learn, and best of all, a plow had no opinions.

Vicky had retired to a small, wood-frame house on the east side of town. A lot of the neighborhood was empty, folks having cleared out long ago. It was getting dark when he stepped onto the porch. A single light was burning in the front parlor. He heard footsteps; then the door opened to reveal Meredith, Vicky’s partner, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“Peter.” About sixty, she was a petite woman with sharp blue eyes. She and Vicky had been together for years. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I’m sorry, I should have sent word.”

“No, come in, of course.” She stepped back. “She’s awake—I was just about to feed her some supper. I know she’ll be happy to see you.”

Vicky’s bed was in the parlor. As Peter entered, she glanced his direction, her head jerking side to side against the elevated pillows.

“Ssss … bout tahm … Misss … ter … P … p … reeee … sa … dent.”

It was as if she were swallowing the words, then spitting them out again. He drew a chair to the side of her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Toooo … day … n … not ssso … b … b … a-duh.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been away.”

Her hands were moving about restlessly on the blanket. She gave a crooked smile. “Thasss … oh … k … 
kay.
Aaas you … caaan see … I … fff … been … bizzz … ee.”

Meredith appeared in the door with a tray, which she placed on the bedside table. On the tray were bowl of clear broth and a glass of water with a straw. She cupped the back of Vicky’s head to lift it forward from the pillow and tied a cotton bib around her neck. Night had fallen, making mirrors of the windows.

“Do you want me to do it?” Peter asked Meredith.

“Vicky, do you want Peter to help you with dinner?”

“W … w … why … n … n … not.”

“Small sips,” Meredith told him, and patted him on the arm. She gave him the faintest of smiles; her face was heavy with fatigue. The woman probably hadn’t slept a solid night in months and was simply grateful for the help. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Peter began with the water, holding the straw to Vicky’s lips, which were flaked with dryness, then moved on to the broth. He could see the tremendous effort it required for her to swallow even the tiniest amount. Most of it dribbled from the corners of her mouth; he used the bib to wipe her chin.

“Sss … sss … fun … neee.”

“What’s that?”

“You … ffff … fff … eed … ing … me. Like … a … bay … beeee.”

He gave her more of the broth. “The least I could do. You spoon-fed me more than once.”

Her neck made a sinewy pumping motion as she tried to swallow. It exhausted him, just watching it.

“How … ssss … the … cam … p … p … aign?”

“Not really gotten started yet. Been a bit tied up.”

“Yyyyy … you’re … f … full of … sh … sh … shit.”

She had him dead to rights, but of course she always did. He fed her another spoonful, without much luck. “Caleb and Pim left for the townships today.”

“You’re … j … j … ust … blue. It … will … lll … passss.”

“What? You don’t think I can farm?”

“I … I kn … know … you … P … eter. You’lllll … go … c … c … craze … ee.”

She said nothing else. Peter put the bowl aside; she’d consumed only a fraction. When he looked up again, Vicky’s eyes were closed. He doused the lamp and watched her. Only in sleep did the restless turmoil of her body cease. A few minutes passed; he heard a sound behind him and saw Meredith standing in the kitchen doorway.

“It happens like that,” the woman said quietly. “One minute she’s there, the next …” She left the thought unfinished.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Meredith placed one hand on his arm and met his eye. “She was so proud of you, Peter. It made her so happy, watching all you’ve done.”

“Will you call me if you need me? Anything at all.”

“I think this was a perfect visit, don’t you? Let’s let it be the last one.”

He returned to Vicky’s bedside and lifted one of her hands from the blanket. The woman didn’t stir. He held it for a minute, thinking about her, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, something he had never done before.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He followed Meredith to the porch. “She loved you, you know,” the woman said. “It wasn’t the kind of thing she said very often, not even to me. That’s just how she was. But she did.”

“I loved her, too.”

“She knows you did.” They embraced. “Goodbye, Peter.”

The street was silent, no lights burning. He touched a finger to his eye; it came away wet. Well, he was the president, he could cry if he wanted to. His son was gone; others would follow. He had entered the era of his life when things would drop away. Peter tipped his face to the sky. It was true, what they said about the stars. The more you looked, the more you saw. They were a comfort, their watchful presence a force of reassurance; yet this had not always been so. He stood and looked at them, remembering a time when the sight of so many stars had meant something else entirely.