Acts of Mercy by Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg

premeditation, acted with too much passion and not enough foresight in our planning. We might have chosen a better place for Briggs’s execution than his own office, than the White House. But it is too late to worry about that now. What is done is done.
    We roll up the blinds, bind them into place, then unlatch the window and open it. Carefully we put our head out into the muggy night air. Floodlights illuminate the rose garden, the trees and shubbery on the south lawn, but the oleander bushes beneath the window are wrapped in shadow. Over by the south balcony, we see one of the security people walking his patrol—but after a moment he disappears around the east corner. There is no one else within the range of our vision; night security on the grounds is considerable, but it is also concentrated at the perimeters to guard against illegal entry.
    We open the window all the way, return quickly to where Briggs lies sprawled on the carpet. We grasp him under the armpits, struggle with his inert weight to the window, and manage to lift him across the sill. Perspiration spots our forehead; the effort of moving Briggs has left us panting. We take a moment to catch our breath, looking out again at the grounds. They still appear deserted in all directions.
    Leaning our shoulder against Briggs’s hip, we push him over the sill.
    He falls loosely, making a whispery rustling sound in the oleanders and then a barely audible thump as he strikes the ground—not heavy enough to register on the sound-sensor equipment monitored by Security. When we peer down we see him lying in a pocket of heavy shadow, his arms folded under him, his head resting near one of several large decorative stones which border the oleanders. Our plan will work after all, we think. It will appear as though he was leaning out of the window, lost his balance, fell and struck his head on one of those stones. A tragic accident.
    We turn from the window, leaving it open, and glance around the office. There is nothing out of place, no signs of violence. Satisfied, we cross to the door, open it, slip into the anteroom; and a moment later our steps echo hollowly in the empty corridor as we hurry away from the scene of our execution.
    The scene of our act of mercy.

Seventeen
     
    It was 10:25 when the telephone rang in the Oval Study.
    The sudden sound made Augustine jerk his head up from Fred Fearnot and the Rioters, the Hal Standish railroad dime novel he was paging through. He looked at the Seth Thomas wall clock, noted the time. Pretty late for someone to be calling, he thought, unless it’s important business. He let the phone ring three more times while he rubbed at his tired eyes, took a sip of water from the tumbler on his desk blotter. Then he reached out and caught up the receiver.
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. President? This is Christopher Justice, sir. I have to see you right away. It’s urgent.”
    “Urgent? At this time of night?”
    “Yes sir, very urgent.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Downstairs in the press secretary’s office.”
    “All right—come up then.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Augustine replaced the receiver. Justice’s voice had sounded grim, shaken, as if he were the harbinger of tragic news; and it would have to be something tragic, Augustine thought, to rattle someone of Christopher’s nature. A foreboding touched him, but it was ephemeral, directionless. He could not imagine what might have happened.
    He picked up the dime novel again, carried it around his desk and across the room, and put it away in one of the glass-fronted cabinets. Restlessly he began to roam the study. Two minutes passed; three. He had stopped in front of the shelves of railroad lanterns and was running his fingers over the flared reflectors on one of them when the knock, soft but hurried, sounded on the door.
    When he opened the door, the sense of foreboding deepened. Justice’s face was tightly set; his eyes, shadowed because of the dim light in both the hallway and the