The Distance Beacons

by Richard Bowker

She stopped at the front door and watched as I walked over to the van, where Mickey was waiting nervously for me. "Can go?" he asked.

  "We can go."

  She was still watching as Mickey started the van and quickly headed down the dirt road toward the ruined highway.

  Chapter 7

  The sun was setting as we made our way slowly back down Route 2 toward Boston. It had been a long day.

  Mickey and I discussed the Church of the New Beginning as he drove. The very idea of the place appalled him. "Nothing from the old days?" he asked in disbelief. "No motors or anything?"

  For Mickey, a world without motors is a world without meaning. "I guess maybe if someone there invents a motor on his own, it'd be okay," I said. "If he could prove it wasn't something he remembered from before."

  "Weirdoes," Mickey muttered.

  I thought of Marva: By comparison, this is paradise. "They seem happy."

  "Well they shouldn't be."

  There didn't seem to be any response to that. I thought about Flynn Dobler. Henry was right: Dobler certainly seemed smart enough to pull off something against the president, and he certainly had the motivation. He hadn't taken the bait when I started bad-mouthing the government, but no one with any brains would have, I supposed. And if Marva was any indication, he had followers who would be more than willing to do his bidding.

  Unfortunately, none of this added up to very much. Maybe he was a fiendish plotter against the government, or maybe he was just another one of the many sincere people around nowadays who carry their ideas a little too far. I had no real basis for deciding which was the truth.

  And I also couldn't decide how I felt about his ideas. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/The way to dusty death, I thought. But would Flynn Dobler's tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow be any better? I had no idea.

  Mickey turned on the headlights. "Didn't get very far on your case, huh?" he remarked.

  "Afraid not. But I've got time."

  "I know you can do it, Wally. And look on the bright side. You've got Bobby all worried. You told him we'd be back by dark."

  I smiled. "There's that," I said. But if driving in general made me nervous, driving after the dark outside the city terrified me. And it didn't make me any calmer when Mickey pulled the van over to the side of the road and stopped. "What's the problem?" I asked.

  "Oh, I dunno. Radiator hose, maybe."

  "Can you fix it?"

  "Have to take a look."

  Mickey didn't sound worried, but his response wasn't particularly encouraging, either. He got out of the van and went around to the back, where he rummaged for tools and parts. I Picked up the shotgun and stared out into the darkness. Shortly before I went to England, Mickey and Bobby and I had been ambushed by a couple of O'Malley's men on another highway.

  It had not been a pleasant experience. I doubted that anything so well planned would happen out here, but there were enough crazies lurking in the woods and the abandoned suburbs to make me long to be anywhere else—even Charlestown.

  Mickey came around to the front of the van and started tinkering under the hood. His flashlight cast a feeble gleam in the darkness. "How's it going?" I called out to him.

  "Okay, I guess," he said.

  This did not greatly encourage me. Wild dogs started howling somewhere nearby. And then a car approached, chugging mufflerless along the road. It slowed as it pulled alongside us, and I tensed. Then it speeded up and roared past, leaving us to our fate. That was okay with me. I had a feeling I would have done the same thing, if I had been in the car. Good Samaritans can too easily end up dead Samaritans.

  "Going any better?" I asked Mickey.

  "Maybe."

  He tinkered for a few more minutes, then closed the hood and got back into the van. "Fixed?" I asked, daring to hope.

  "Well, let's give it a try." Mickey started the van, and we headed slowly forward. After a couple of minutes he said, "I guess we'll make it," and I allowed myself to exhale. We crept back to the city without incident.

  Mickey dropped me off in Louisburg Square. "Thanks, Mickey," I said. "I owe you one."

  "Happy to help. Those people gave me the creeps, though."

  "Try not to think about them. And tell Bobby I'll pay him for the use of the van."

  Mickey merely grinned. I got out, and Mickey drove off to South Boston.

  It felt good to be back in the city, on my home turf. The square was deserted and dark, except for the flickering yellow beams of lamps in a few windows; but the square was not the wilds of Concord, and my town house and my little family were just a few steps away. I turned to take those steps, and perhaps I relaxed a little too soon—you should never relax in this world—or perhaps it was a little too dark.

  Whatever the reason, I didn't see the two men until it was too late.

  They came out of the shadows by the front steps. They wore masks. They were silent and very efficient. One of them grabbed me from behind, clamped a gloved hand over my mouth, and twisted my right arm behind my back. The other set to work on me. I tried fending off his blows with my free arm and even kicking out at him, but the first guy just increased the pressure on my arm, and pretty soon it seemed easier just to take my punishment.

  I don't know how long the punishment lasted—a few seconds, a few years. But when it was over, the square was still dark and silent, and the men were gone, and the steps to my house seemed like a mountain I would never be able to climb.

  I tried to call for help, but all that came out was a kind of strangled whimper. I thought about staying where I was; perhaps I would get lucky and die soon. But finally I decided I would probably linger in agony for hours, so I started up the mountain. In a way, this was even harder than the attack, because the pain was self-inflicted: my ribs didn't have to feel quite this bad; a little rest would do my shoulder a world of good. But somehow I made it to the top.

  And then what? Reaching the knob was out of the question; the door would have been locked, anyway. I knocked, but my knuckles barely had the strength to scrape the wood. So I lay on the cold stone and started to think about whimpering in earnest.

  And then I heard someone whistling "Good Day Sunshine."

  It could only have been Stretch, home from another sewer meeting.

  "retch," I managed to mumble.

  I heard light footsteps, and then saw Stretch's tiny form hovering like an angel of mercy above me. "Holy Jesus," he gasped. Stretch never swears. And that swear was the last thing I heard for quite a while.

  * * *

  I opened an eye and saw Gwen staring down at me. "wen," I said.

  "Soon," she replied. "You'll be better soon. Nothing's broken."

  That wasn't what I meant. I tried to shake my head, but that didn't turn out to be such a good idea. Gwen leaned over and kissed my cheek, and that was a very good idea indeed. It didn't matter what I had meant. I closed my eye.

  "Is he conscious?" I could hear Stretch whisper.

  "Yes."

  "Should we show him?"

  "Not now, Stretch."

  I reluctantly opened the eye again. "Wha'?" I asked.

  Stretch came into view. "It's just, well, this paper was tacked to the door, Walter."

  He held up something white in front of my face. I opened my other eye and tried to focus. Finally the piece of paper came clear, along with the message typed on it.

  Stop meddling, or next time you die.

  Boston is ours.

  THE FEDS MUST GO!

  The Second American Revolution

  I closed my eyes once more. I was not happy.

  "I guess you made too much progress on your case, Walter," Stretch said.

  Funny, I hadn't noticed much progress myself. I tried to think, but my brain wasn't interested. I felt myself drifting away—from the pain and from the thinking. I would have to face it all soon enough, but not now, not now.

  * * *

  When I awoke again, Gwen was still there, and my brain seemed to hav
e returned as well. I was lying on the sofa in the downstairs parlor. Sunshine streamed in through the bay window. I tried to move. I failed.

  "Take it easy, Walter."

  "There were two of them," I explained, feeling a need. At least I was talking better. "I didn't have a prayer."

  "Don't think about it. You're safe now."

  Was I? I felt safe enough in daylight, with Gwen by my side. But my bruises were happy to tell me the kind of trouble I was in. Whoever had beaten me up knew where I lived; if they had come here once, they could come here again. Gwen held some juice up to my lips, and I managed to swallow a little. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this kind of work," I said.

  "No one's cut out to be beaten up."

  "I should've known I was in danger." But how? Between sips of juice I told Gwen what had happened. "So who could have done it?" I asked her. "For that matter, who knew I was on the case? Henry Fisher, of course, but he isn't going to hurt me. And Flynn Dobler suspects I'm not really looking to be a convert, but how could he know where I lived—and how could he get his people down from Concord before Mickey and I got here in the van, if he doesn't believe in automobiles?"

  "Well, he could've read my article about you," Gwen suggested. "And if he really is behind TSAR, he's obviously willing to bend his religious beliefs to fight the government."

  I thought about that. And I thought about Mickey's problem with the radiator hose, and the car that had passed us in the night. Someone could've gotten from Concord to Boston ahead of us. What was a clue, I wondered, and what was just life happening to you?

  "Or," Gwen went on, "if your theory is right about someone in the government being involved, it might be easy enough for whoever it is to find out you'd been put on the case, and arrange to give you a warning."

  I closed my eyes and half-sighed. Sighing hurt. Gwen was just trying to help. But instead she was just depressing me. "What do you think I should do?" I asked.

  "Rest."

  "Will you—"

  "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Thanks," I said. I held her hand, and I tried not to worry.

  Gradually I improved. By the end of the day I was able to sit up. By the end of the evening I was able to stagger upstairs to bed. By the next morning I was able to shoo Gwen and Stretch off to work and face the day alone. There was nothing to be afraid of, after all. TSAR had no reason to beat me up again, because I had stopped meddling.

  Hadn't I?

  I was not in a particularly good position, I realized. Bolton would not be happy if he found out I was sitting at home all day staring out my bay window instead of carrying on the investigation. In fact, I should already have reported the incident to him. I didn't relish the thought of becoming Private Sands again.

  On the other hand, I didn't want to die.

  If I went back to work, there were things I could look into, I supposed. And a private eye has his professional ethics. I had taken Bolton's ten dollars. I owed him more than one day's work (no matter how difficult the work had been). Still, I couldn't see putting my life on the line for the Feds. I could always refund them the eight dollars I hadn't earned.

  This was not an easy decision.

  At supper that night Gwen helped me make up my mind. "Two masked men beat up a soldier early this morning," she told Stretch and me. "He was off-duty, going back to the compound after sneaking a visit to his local girlfriend. They left a note pinned to his jacket. It had the usual message: Boston is ours. The Feds must go."

  "Those—those—" Stretch couldn't find the words to express his anger.

  "Is the Globe running a story about it?" I asked Gwen.

  "Front page," she replied.

  "Um, it doesn't mention what happened to me, does it?"

  She shook her head. "Of course not, Walter."

  I looked down at my scrambled eggs. "I think," I said, "that I'm going to take a vacation from being a private eye."

  Gwen reached out and covered my hand with hers. "Are you sure?" she asked.

  "No," I said.

  "But Walter, someone's got to stop these people," Stretch said. "We're talking about America here. We're talking about the president."

  "All she has to do is stay home in Atlanta," I pointed out.

  "But then what happens to the referendum?"

  "That's her problem, not mine."

  Stretch looked disappointed in me. "It's everyone's problem, Walter."

  We let it drop. You don't argue with Stretch about something like that. Gwen and I lay in bed together later, staring into the darkness and thinking. "If I were working for anyone but the Feds," I said, "I wouldn't be doing this."

  "Bolton will come and get you, you know."

  "I know." Damn case. "Are you ever assigned stories you just don't want to write?"

  "All the time. No one threatens my life, though."

  There was that difference. But having your life threatened came with the career I had chosen. If I didn't like it, I had made the wrong choice. We were silent for a while.

  "How are your bruises?" Gwen asked.

  "Getting better, I guess."

  "Do you think they could stand some kissing?"

  I smiled. "I think kissing would do them a world of good."

  Gwen rustled in the darkness, and suddenly she was naked. I lay back and let Gwen take care of what ailed me. She gently kissed the bruises on my face and chest, then moved down and started licking some parts of me that hadn't been bruised. I groaned with pleasure. Her treatment was doing wonders for me. Pretty soon I pulled her over onto her back and did some licking of my own, until we were both so wet and slippery that the next step in the treatment seemed to come on its own. Her legs were wrapped around me, and I was thrusting into her, and for a few moments there were no problems, there were no threats, just Gwen and me—one single point of fire in a dark, cold world.

  * * *

  The next day I stayed at home again and waited for the summons that would end my brief vacation. I didn't have to wait long. That afternoon an ancient jeep pulled up outside, and my buddies Danny Smith and Gus Ziegler got out. They climbed the front steps and pounded on the front door.

  I heaved myself off the sofa and went to let them in.

  "We've been looking for you, Mr. Sands," Danny said. "You weren't at your office."

  "Lucky thing you knew where I lived, then. Call me Walter, by the way."

  "W-w-what happened to your face?" Gus asked from behind Smith.

  "You know the soldier that got beaten up?"

  Both men nodded, and their faces darkened with anger.

  "Same thing happened to me."

  Sympathy immediately replaced the anger. "That's terrible, Walter," Danny said.

  "We've gotta c-c-catch those guys," Gus added.

  "Yeah, I guess we do."

  "Governor Bolton told us to come and—" Smith started to say.

  "Right," I interrupted. "Hold on a sec." I got the eight dollars and the sheet of paper with TSAR's threat on it. "Okay," I said. And I followed the two soldiers out of my nice safe house back into the real world.

  Chapter 8

  There was lots of activity in Government Center. Crews were out scrubbing everything in sight, replacing bricks in the wide plaza, putting up the stage, stringing red, white, and blue bunting. The VOTE YES posters were suddenly outnumbered by "See Your President Speak Thursday" posters. Thursday was the day after tomorrow. "What's her security going to be like?" I asked.

  Danny shook his head. "She wants it low-key, they tell me. Doesn't want people to get riled up."

  "The g-governor said he might assign me and Danny to her," Gus mentioned as he drove the Jeep. "Says she n-needs all the help she can get."

  "Well, if she gets you two guys, she'll be fine."

  Gus and Danny smiled. As before, they stopped in front of the JFK Federal Building and brought me up to Bolton's office, where they left me with more smiles and best wishes for my recovery. My relationship with them was prog
ressing.

  My relationship with Lisa, the governor's attractive blond secretary, was going nowhere, however. She glared at me as I approached her desk. "Sands," I said, smiling. "Walter Sands. The governor wants to see me."

  She murmured something into her phone, then hung up. "Have a seat," she ordered.

  I kept smiling. "You going to see the president speak Thursday?"

  She ignored me, so I took the hint and sat down. I think I understood her. Like Bolton, she was probably a local who had cast her lot with the Feds. Undoubtedly she had taken some abuse for that, and this had made her suspicious and resentful of people like me. She imagined I was judging her, despising her because she had sold out for chocolate bars and lipstick and aspirin. I was doing nothing of the sort, of course. I was simply admiring what the chocolate bars had done for her figure.

  "You can go in now," she informed me after a brief wait.

  "Thanks, Lisa," I said.

  She ignored me. I went into Bolton's office.

  Bolton looked up. General Cowens half-turned in his chair to face me. "I've been waiting for a report," Bolton said. As I sat down, he noticed my face. "What happened to you?" he asked.

  "I got warned." I showed them the message from TSAR and described the beating I had received.

  "This is outrageous," Bolton said. And then he seemed to focus his anger on me. "How long ago was this?"

  I shrugged. "A couple of days."

  "Why didn't you tell us about it right away?"

  "I was recovering."

  "And meanwhile precious time has been lost."

  "And one of my soldiers has been attacked," Cowens pointed out. This was clearly a matter of much more consequence than my trivial injuries.

  "I don't see how I could have prevented that," I said.

  "Perhaps if you hadn't told a reporter about this group in the first place, they wouldn't have felt so powerful and important."

  "That's absurd," I said. "No one said I wasn't supposed to talk about TSAR. And you're much more likely to find out about them if you don't keep their existence secret."

  "If that's your theory," Cowens said, "it hasn't proved to be true. We've learned nothing about TSAR as a result of that article."