Acts of Mercy by Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg Page B

here that he was aware of since President Harrison had succumbed to pneumonia in 1841. The story would make national headlines, would have the country buzzing for weeks. Members of the press and his political enemies would use it as a weapon to further attack the viability of the Augustine administration; some of the more vicious, muckraking types might even hint at Christ knew what type of scandal.
    Augustine passed a hand roughly over his face. Time to think, time to think—but what was there to be done? Briggs was already dead. Still, the real problem was not the death itself, it was where and how he had died. If the accident had happened somewhere else, in his own house in Cleveland Park, for instance, the repercussions might not be so—
    Somewhere else, he thought.
    Justice had not told anyone about finding Briggs; suppose it were possible to move the body, to take it away from the White House, to put it in another place where an accidental fall might have happened, a place such as Briggs’s home? Could a dead man be transported off the grounds with all the security guards and security devices in operation? Maybe, he thought. If the man who moved the body was a Secret Serviceman himself, whose presence on the grounds at night would arouse no suspicion, would not be questioned; if the man was Christopher Justice—
    No, he thought then, angry with himself, it’s a criminal offense, for God’s sake, I won’t be a party to a thing like that. All his life he had prided himself on his honesty, on his steadfast code of decency in government. If he compromised his principles now, how could he live with his conscience?
    And what if Justice were caught? He would have to be sworn to absolute silence in any event, which meant that if he were caught, he would be forced to accept full and sole responsibility—and that would lead to public disgrace, an end to his career, and to repercussions that would be just as bad as if Briggs’s death were simply reported as it ought to be. Ordering him to take that kind of risk was a terrible inequity.
    And yet ...
    If Justice were careful, he would not be caught; he was a resourceful man, a cautious man; the odds were good that he could get away with it. Wasn’t it worth the risk, then, in the long run? After all, a cover-up of this sort wasn’t really so awful; he would only be taking steps to counteract a bitter turn of fate, to save the country from disruptive hue and cry, to save himself and his administration from the kind of attacks that could cost him renomination and reelection. Didn’t all of that vindicate a minor transgression, a minor distortion of the truth? And where Justice was concerned, wasn’t it a simple if painful matter of priority? The sacrifice of one common man meant little enough compared to the welfare of the country and of the President; Justice would understand that without having to be told, and because he was both loyal and trusting, he would accept the order without question.
    Augustine stood for a while longer, struggling with himself; but at a deeper level he had already made his decision, right or wrong. Still, even when he admitted it to himself finally, he knew he would have to talk to Claire. This was one decision he could not act on without discussing it with her first.
    He pushed away from the desk, saw Justice standing uneasily by the hall door. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Wait here, Christopher. Don’t do anything until I come back.”
    “Yes sir.”
    Claire was in her bedroom, and when Augustine entered he was surprised to find her just hanging up the telephone extension there. She seemed more composed now; the stricken look was gone and some of the rocklike stability that was the cornerstone of her personality had returned. It was always that way with her: no matter what crisis might arise, she never allowed it to disturb her poise for long.
    He said, “Whom were you talking to?”
    “The appointments secretary,” she