The President glanced around at him. “Magnificent sight, isn’t it.”
“If you say so.”
“Like one of those rare dreams,” Augustine said, “where everything is beauty and peace.” His eyes were bright, as distant as the valleys. “The Hollows has always seemed that way to me, you know.”
Harper said, “Nicholas-”
“When my father was alive, we had two thousand head of cattle out there. Did I ever tell you that, Maxwell? Two thousand head of the finest Herefords and Aberdeen Angus in the world. The Hollows was a working ranch in those days. But it got to be too expensive to maintain the herd, and when we lost a couple hundred head during a disastrous winter I decided to sell it off. It’s odd, but looking out there I can almost see the ghosts of those lost cattle-red-and-white and black ghosts grazing in the valleys.”
God, Harper thought. He said, “Why did you call a press conference for tomorrow morning?”
“What?”
“I said, why did you call a press conference?”
Augustine released an audible breath. The brightness in his eyes seemed to dull, and he blinked. “And I told you,” he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m entitled to know.”
“Are you? I think not.”
“Does it have something to do with Israel? With Oberdorfer? With domestic issues? With your campaign?”
“It has something to do with everything,” Augustine said. There was a sudden sharpness in his voice. “Now that’s all I’m going to say. I’m the President, Maxwell; I’ll thank you to remember that.” And he turned back to the gorge and his view of the valleys and the ghosts of his vanished cattle.
Harper realized his hands were clenched, flattened them out again. When he pivoted himself he saw the Secret Service bodyguards, all four of them present now, staring over at him and at the President with blank Justice-like faces. He ignored them, walked stiff-backed to where a fallen log formed a bench at the far end of the clearing. He sat on the log and tried not to look at Augustine standing at the rim of the gorge. And kept looking at him in spite of himself.
Press conference, he thought.
Secrecy, he thought.
Christ!
Seven
Yes, Elizabeth, what is it?
You asked me to come by at three o’clock, Mrs. Augustine. Don’t you remember?
Three o’clock. Yes.
Is everything all right?
Why shouldn’t everything be all right?
Well-you seem preoccupied…
Do I? It’s because painful decisions have been made in this house today, Elizabeth. Terribly painful decisions.
What decisions?
And they should have been made long before this. Now I pray to God it’s not too late.
I don’t understand You’re not supposed to understand.
Mrs Augustine…
No. I’ve said too much already; I’m talking too much. I suppose it’s because you inspire confidence. You always have.
Are you sure you don’t want to discuss it?
I can’t discuss it. Don’t press me, Elizabeth. Please.
All right, Mrs. Augustine.
You’ll find out soon enough-part of it, anyway. Everyone will find out soon enough.
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?”