"You don't look so hot, Walter," Mickey noted.
"Things haven't been going well," I said. And I summarized for them my run-ins with TSAR and the Feds.
"Hey, Wally, this private eye shit has gotta stop," Bobby said when I had finished. "You're safer gettin' into shootouts with O'Malley's gang."
"You're probably right. But I've got this case now, and I'd like to solve it."
Bobby shrugged. "All right. So where do we fit in?"
"Well, I've got this theory." I took a breath as I considered my meager evidence. "See, there were a couple of things about what happened on the plaza today that I sort of half-noticed. They finally came back to me after I'd gone over it in my mind a hundred times or so, and I think maybe they're important. First of all, there was the car. It was awfully loud—it didn't have a muffler. Remember when we were stopped on Route 2 that night, Mickey, and a car passed us?"
Mickey nodded.
"This car sounded a lot like the car that night."
"Flynn Dobler," Doctor J said.
"Well, his followers, anyway. What if Dobler is really TSAR, and he sent people to beat me up and get me off the case? Maybe he recognized my name from Gwen's article in the Globe, and the article would've told him where I lived too, and he was stringing me along the whole time I talked to him."
"Lotsa cars don't have mufflers," Mickey noted.
"Yeah, I agree. But there was this other thing, too. The guys I saw in the plaza—the guys in the masks—were dressed pretty normally. You know, old jeans and jackets. Except that they were wearing sandals—just like Flynn Dobler's followers. Maybe that's just a coincidence. Or maybe they knew they'd have to move fast, and they didn't want to risk putting something on their feet that they weren't used to. So they wear the same sandals they wear all the time, and they figure no one will notice."
Bobby shook his head. "That's it? I ain't convinced. Like Mickey says, lotsa cars don't have mufflers, and lotsa people wear sandals."
"Okay, the evidence isn't overwhelming, but I think it's worth checking up on. After all, Dobler does have a motive: he's about as anti-government as you can get. If the government goes away, there'll be no one to bother his church. And he's smart enough to pull this off. I can vouch for that."
"So I take it you wanna borrow Mickey and the van again?" Bobby asked. "Go up to Concord and be a hero?"
"I don't expect any favors," I said. "I want to offer you a business proposition. There's a thousand-dollar reward for getting the president back. If Mickey drives me up there and I find her, you and Mickey can split the reward."
"Nothing for you?"
"Nope. I'm in this to get TSAR. I don't care about the money."
"But you want us to go out on the most dangerous night of the year," Bobby protested. "Why don't you just tell Bolton your theory, and let the Feds handle it?"
"Because I want to handle it. Maybe troops'll stop us, but I don't think anything bad will happen. Bolton's on my side, and I'm just following his orders. Mickey, you won't have to get involved in anything. Just park out on the highway, and I'll take it from there."
"Can I come?" Doctor J asked.
"Now wait a minute," Bobby said. "No one's agreed to anything yet. Mickey, do you wanna do this?"
"As long as I don't have to deal with those weirdoes up there, I don't mind."
Bobby considered. "Well, all right," he said finally. "But Doctor J, you've gotta stay here and help protect the warehouse."
"That's no fun," Doctor J grumbled.
"I don't think this trip'll be any fun either, Doctor J," I said. I stood up. "Thanks, Bobby. You won't regret this."
"I'm regretting it already. Now get out of here before I change my mind."
Mickey and I headed back downstairs. "And be careful," Bobby called out to us.
Brutus lunged at me as we walked past.
* * *
"You scared?" Mickey asked as we headed into Cambridge in the van.
"Yup."
"I think you'll do okay."
I hoped he was right. "Don't sit there all night if I don't come back," I instructed him. "Two hours, maximum. No sense you getting into trouble too."
Mickey looked pained at the thought of abandoning me to the weirdoes, but he didn't object.
We didn't see another vehicle on the road; everyone else had more sense than we did. But we were lucky: the van didn't break down, no bridges collapsed, and the Feds were nowhere to be seen. Before long we were up near Walden Pond once again, and it was time for me to be a private eye.
Mickey parked the van by the side of the road and shut off the ignition. The darkness was total. "Kinda spooky," he muttered.
I turned on my flashlight and checked that my gun was loaded and ready for action. "Think of the five hundred dollars," I said.
"I could buy my own car with that much money."
"That's right. Think about cars."
Mickey grinned. "Good luck, Wally."
"Thanks, Mickey."
I got out of the van. We had stuck Line's bicycle in the back, but I decided it would be easier to walk, so I headed off on foot toward the Church of the New Beginning, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.
It had been a long time since I'd taken a walk in rural darkness, and it awakened memories I'd just as soon have let sleep. Memories of my childhood, when the whole world seemed hostile and terrifying, when the darkness hid bears and wildcats and the usual nighttime dangers, but also desperate gangs of men and women, crazed with hunger and disease and hopelessness, ready to prey on any ignorant little boy who wandered into their path. And who could tell what else was out there? Obscene mutants, formed in the radioactive fury? Or perhaps ghosts—the ghosts of the millions who had died, sweeping over the continent in search of a reason for their death? My father and I would barricade ourselves in our farmhouse at night and sleep with shotguns by our sides; or rather, he would sleep, and I would lie awake, my fear too strong to let me rest. I greeted each dawn with gratitude and relief; each dawn was a small victory in our battle to survive.
I stifled those memories finally. Living in the past does not help you survive the present. Now I had to worry about Flynn Dobler and his minions, not the shadows of my youth. Certainly there would be sentries on duty here. How was I going to avoid them and still make my way to the president (wherever she was)? The beam of the flashlight made me conspicuous, but if I turned it off I was helpless. There was nothing to do but forge ahead and hope they didn't notice me.
After a brief trek I found myself on the path leading up to the main building. There were no lights on in it. I wondered if I should scout around, looking for a car or some other evidence that Dobler was involved in the kidnapping. I decided not to bother. It wouldn't change what I had to do.
I had a theory. I figured they were holding the president in their meditation area, up on the second floor of the main building—the area that Marva had forbidden me to enter. Of course they could have put Kramer anywhere, but I thought perhaps Marva had been a little abrupt, a little anxious, when she had shut the door on my snooping. Maybe a room had already been prepared for the president there; maybe that's where they stored their masks and guns and did their plotting. It seemed like a good first place to check, at any rate.
I moved forward slowly now, ready to grapple with a sentry any moment. None appeared, however; there were only the night-sounds and me. I reached the front door of the building with no problem. I slowly turned the door's handle; it creaked open.
Why no sentries?
I slipped inside and shut the door behind me. I paused. The building was silent. I crossed the entrance hall and headed upstairs, smelling the new-building smells and listening for suspicious sounds. At the top of the stairs I turned left and made my way along the gallery to the door that led to the meditation area. Once again, I paused. Once again, silence.
I opened the door.
Darkness. I entered and shined the flashlight around the room. I saw the bent cros
s surrounded by flowers; I saw wooden benches and prayer mats and, in the corner, a pair of sandals; nothing else. I walked across the room and checked the darkness behind the cross. There were a couple of doors. I opened each of them. Closets. Empty.
I stood there and sighed. Now I would have to go to my backup plan. It was risky, but at least it would produce results—good or bad. Better than stumbling around the rest of the Church's buildings in the dark. I left the meditation area and continued along the gallery. I stopped in front of the room that led to the balcony where I had met Flynn Dobler. I was betting that it was Dobler's bedroom. I was betting that if I asked Flynn Dobler a straight question, he would give me a straight answer. Particularly since I had a gun in my hand.
I entered the room.
I won my first bet. Dobler was asleep in the narrow bed next to another, open door. He appeared to be naked underneath the thin blanket; he looked much less Godlike when one could see his scrawny white arms and hairless chest. He breathed softly as he slept.
I shined the light on his face. I left it there.
He stirred finally, grumbled, and opened his eyes.
He immediately shielded them against the light. "What's going on?" he demanded.
"Hi," I said. "It's Walter Sands. I talked to you the other day, about joining your church. Remember?"
"Get that light out of my eyes so I can think."
I shifted the light to one side. At the same time I held up the gun to make sure he could see it.
Dobler stared at me, and at the gun. "I remember," he said. "What do you want?"
"I want the president."
He looked confused. "I don't understand."
"You kidnapped her today. I've come to take her back."
He struggled to sit up in his bed. "This is crazy," he said. "What do you mean, I kidnapped the president?"
"You know what I mean. At the speech today. Your men ditched the getaway car in the Back Bay, then picked up another car and drove back here with her."
"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't even know she was kidnapped."
"I don't believe you. The men were wearing sandals, just like your people do."
My evidence didn't sound all that impressive, saying it like that; I didn't bother mentioning about the muffler-less car. Dobler rolled his eyes. "So what?" he said. "Look I haven't got her, and waving your gun at me isn't going to change that."
He sounded sincere, but he could also have been a good actor. Or, like President Kramer (in Gwen's interpretation), he could have been both sincere and insincere at the same time. "You better give that a little more thought," I said, "because I'm willing to use this gun if you don't hand her over." I hoped I sounded sincere.
"Brother Flynn?"
A shadow appeared in the far doorway, next to Dobler's bed. It was Marva, dressed in her blue robe. She stared at me, her eyes wide with fright. "I—I heard voices."
"Hi," I said. "We were just talking about the president of the United States. Do you know where she is?"
Marva shook her head.
"Would it help jog your memory if I threatened to put a bullet into Brother Flynn?"
Her knees appeared to buckle. "I don't know anything about the president," she whispered. "I swear. Please don't shoot Brother Flynn."
"Don't worry, Marva," Dobler said. "He isn't going to do anything. He's not the type."
How did he know my type? "Are you going to risk Brother Flynn's life, Marva," I said, "on the chance that I'm not the type?"
She looked at me, then looked at Dobler, sitting up in his bed. And then she leaped on top of him. "You'll have to shoot me first," she said to me over her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with tears.
Dobler seemed a little uncomfortable with Marva on top of him—and maybe a little disgusted. "Look," he said to me. "Search the place all you want. I'll come with you if you like, and you can hold your gun to my head and everyone will see you mean business. Will that satisfy you that she's not here?"
Marva continued to look back at me over her shoulder. Her hands were pressed against the wall behind the bed, and she was tensed to accept her martyrdom. Maybe she wanted to become a martyr. My head started to hurt. "Let's go," I said. Marva reluctantly got off Dobler. He got out of bed and put on a robe. Marva averted her eyes while he was naked. "Tell us what you want to see," Dobler said when he was dressed, "and we'll show it to you."
"This building first," I said.
Dobler nodded. "Marva, light a lamp," he ordered. Marva did as she was told, and we set out, poking our heads into the classroom, the meditation area (again), several offices, and other rooms whose purposes escaped me. No president. Nobody. "Where are all your followers?" I asked.
"They live in their own cabins around the farmland," Dobler said. "We'll visit every one of them, if that's what it will take to satisfy you. We'll visit the barns. We'll visit the outhouses. Whatever you want."
He sounded almost bored now. His boredom angered me. Why was he so sure of himself?
Probably because he was innocent.
"Let's go," I said.
We went outside: Marva in the lead with her lamp, then Dobler, then me, with my flashlight and gun. We walked along a rocky path that led from the main building back toward the farmland. We had gone maybe a hundred feet when I tripped over a rock and fell. My gun clattered away from me. I crawled quickly after it, but Marva was quicker. She stooped down and picked it up, then aimed it, trembling, at my face. "Don't move," she whispered.
I stayed on my knees. I glanced at Dobler. His arms were folded. He was staring at Marva. There was a moment of silence as I waited for him to decide my fate. "Give the gun back," he ordered her gently.
She looked at him in dismay. "But Brother Flynn—"
"Give it back," he repeated. "We don't use guns. Guns are part of the past. Guns are evil. You know that."
Marva hesitated for just a moment, and then put the gun on the ground in front of me.
"Shall we continue?" Dobler said.
I took the gun and stood up. My head felt awful. I didn't want to be here anymore. "I've seen enough," I said. "Sorry to bother you."
Dobler shrugged. "There's plenty left to show you."
"That's all right." I considered. "Do you have any idea who might have kidnapped the president? The group calls themselves The Second American Revolution, but no one seems to have heard of them."
Dobler considered in turn. "I suppose there's no reason why I should tell you if I did. It doesn't matter, though. I haven't heard of them either. The only person I know of who hates the government enough and is smart enough to be behind something like this is a man named Henry Fisher."
I would've laughed if I hadn't been so depressed, if my head hadn't hurt so much. "I've heard of the guy," I said. "Thanks." I turned to leave.
"Sands!"
I paused. "Yes?"
"Concentrate on what really matters, Walter Sands," Dobler said. "You are a very confused young man."
I guess you didn't have to be very smart to figure that out. I started the long walk back toward the van.
* * *
Concentrate on what really matters. What was that? People like Kramer and Dobler knew; apparently I didn't. All I knew was that I wasn't a private eye, I had never really been a private eye, my first case was a gift from my friends, and my delusions seemed to have permanently disabled me from carrying out Dobler's injunction. And my head hurt.
Mickey was waiting for me in the van, his shotgun at the ready. He looked at me with surprise as I climbed into the passenger's side, alone. "No president?"
I shook my head.
"Um, were you wrong about her being here, or did you just not find her?"
"I was wrong, I guess."
Mickey tried to hide his disappointment. No reward. No car. "Well, maybe you'll come up with another theory, Walter. It's tough being a private eye."
I turned away and looked out the window into the darkness. Mickey hesitated for a moment, then started the
van and headed back to Boston.
* * *
In Louisburg Square, I asked Mickey to wait until I was safely inside my house. It had been such a wonderful day so far, I didn't want to spoil it for myself by getting beaten up again. I got the bike out of the van and walked carefully toward the front steps. Nobody was lurking in the shadows, however, and I made it inside without any further damage. Mickey gave a quick toot of his horn and drove off to Southie. I closed the door, turned, and immediately noticed the dull glow of lamplight in the parlor.
Gwen was sitting in a wing chair, half-asleep, a quilt wrapped around her. "Walter?" she murmured groggily.
"The one and only." I left the bike in the foyer and plopped myself down on the sofa opposite her.
"Are you all right, Walter?"
"I'll live."
She roused herself from her dreams and came over to see me. She examined the bump in my head, studied the expression on my face. "What happened tonight?" she asked. "Stretch said—"
"I had a theory. About Flynn Dobler. I got Mickey to drive me up to Concord, and I talked to the guy. My theory was wrong."
"I'm sorry, Walter. She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hands in hers. I was so worried about you."
I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I'm all right," I said.
"You really want to solve this case, don't you?"
"Of course I do. That's what I'm paid for: to solve cases."
"I'm on the case too," Gwen said. "Wolsey would love to have the Globe find the president. Why don't we work on it together? You could come with me tomorrow and—"
"No."
She hesitated. "No?"
"I'm gonna solve this case on my own."
"But I'm sure we'll do much better if the two of us—"
"Maybe we would. But I don't want any help. If I can't find her by myself, it isn't worth it."
I kept my eyes closed. Gwen took her hands away from mine. "Walter," she said, "this isn't one of the novels you're always reading. These people are real, they're dangerous, and you—"
"I'm what?"
"You're just one person. You've been hurt already. I saw them club you down on the plaza today. I don't think I could stand to see you hurt anymore."
The Distance Beacons Page 13