“But who’s going to run if you don’t?”
“Does it matter? We’re half a government now. Another ten years, this place will be empty, a relic. People will be making their own ways. My guess is, the next guy to sit in that chair will be the one to turn the lights off. Personally, I’m glad it won’t be you. I’m your adviser, so let this be my last piece of advice: go out strong, get rich, leave a fortune behind. Have a life, Peter. You’ve earned it. The rest will take care of itself.”
Peter couldn’t argue the point. “How soon do you need my answer?”
“I’m not Vicky. Take time to think it over. It’s a big step, I know that.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“What for?”
“All of it.”
From Chase, a grin. “You’re welcome. The letter’s on your desk, by the way.”
After Chase had gone, Peter lingered in the kitchen; he emerged a few minutes later to find that nearly everyone had left. He said goodbye to Meredith and stepped onto the porch, where Apgar was waiting with his hands in his pockets.
“Chase bowed out.”
An eyebrow went up. “Did he now?”
“You wouldn’t by any chance feel like running for president?”
“Ha!”
A young officer jogged up the path. He was out of breath and sweating hard, evidently having run a great distance.
“What is it, son?” Peter said.
“Sirs,” he said between gulps of air, “you need to see something.”
The truck was parked in front of the capitol. Four soldiers were standing guard. Peter unlatched the tailgate and drew the canvas aside. Military crates filled the space, packed to the ceiling. Two of the soldiers extricated a crate from the first row and lowered it to the ground.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” Apgar said.
The crates had come from Dunk’s bunker. Inside, vacuum-sealed in plastic strips, lay ammunition: .223, 5.56, 9mm, .45 ACP.
Apgar broke the seal on a round, held it up to the light, and whistled admiringly. “This is the good stuff. Original Army.” He rose and turned to one of the soldiers. “Corporal, how many rounds do you have in your sidearm?”
“One and one, sir.”
“Give it here.”
The soldier handed it over. Apgar dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, and topped the magazine off with a fresh cartridge. He racked the slide and held out the gun to Peter. “You want the honors?”
“Be my guest.”
Apgar aimed the pistol at a square of earth ten feet away and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying boom as dirt leapt up.
“Let’s see what else we’ve got,” Peter said.
They removed a second crate. This one contained a dozen M16s with extra thirty-round magazines, similarly sealed, looking fresh as they day they were made.
“Did anybody see the driver?” Peter asked.
Nobody had; the truck had simply appeared.
“So why would Dunk be sending us this?” Apgar asked. “Unless you brokered some kind of deal you didn’t tell me about.”
Peter shrugged. “I didn’t.”
“Then how do you explain it?”
Peter couldn’t.
36
She crossed into Texas on old Highway 20. The morning of the forty-third day; Alicia had traveled the half the breadth of a continent. The going had been slow at the start—cutting her way through the detritus of the coast, working inland across the rocky folds of the Appalachians, then the way had loosened and she’d begun to make good time. The days grew warmer, the trees burst into flower, springtime spread over the land. Whole days passed in heavy rain; then the sun exploded over the earth. Unbelievable nights, wide and starlit, the moon rolling through its cycle as she rode.