The Distance Beacons

by Richard Bowker

  "There's more than one kind of pain," I muttered. I opened my eyes. Gwen was staring at me in the dim light. She looked as frightened as Marva waiting for me to shoot her. "Trust me," I said.

  She didn't reply. I stared back at her for a long moment, then got up from the sofa and went to the third floor—to my novels.

  She didn't follow.

  I sat in my sanctuary until daylight, brooding. And then it was time to carry on with my case.

  Chapter 14

  The three of us had a grim, silent breakfast together before going off to work. Stretch was eager to find out what I had accomplished the night before, but a couple of short answers from me quickly dampened his enthusiasm. Gwen just stared at me.

  Stretch left first, glumly anticipating a tense day at City Hall. And then Gwen was ready to depart. "What are you going to do?" she asked me as we stood in the front hall.

  "I don't know," I said truthfully.

  "Will you be careful?"

  "Of course."

  She stared at me some more; her stares were more eloquent than Kramer or Bolton's speeches. Then she embraced me, pressing her head into my chest. She hurt my aching ribs, just a little. And then she was gone.

  I hung around for a while, wondering what to do. Finally I decided to return to Charlestown and have another chat with the Angriest Man in America.

  It wasn't that I shared Dobler's suspicion of my friend; I just had nothing else in mind. And after all, a case could be made against Henry: perhaps he had gotten tired of writing and researching and finally decided to do something. I hadn't visited him often enough lately to know if he had changed. Maybe the referendum was the last straw, and after all these years his anger found an outlet in action. So when I had come snooping around, he cleverly pointed me in the direction of his enemy Flynn Dobler, and had his henchmen wear sandals during the kidnapping as yet another way of diverting suspicion.

  It made about as much sense as my theory about Dobler, I decided. So I took Linc's bike down the front steps and pedaled off to where I had begun my investigation.

  The bad weather had disappeared along with the president, and sunlight sparkled in the puddles. Maybe it was the change in the weather, but the people I passed seemed to be in a slightly better mood today. They still looked somber, but a little bit of the tension was gone from their faces. The first night had passed, and nothing terrible had happened. There were still troops everywhere, of course, but I didn't witness any arrests or violence or even anger. Perhaps that would come with time, but for now we seemed to be in the eye of the storm.

  There were even troops in Charlestown. I certainly would have expected an explosion from that, but an uneasy quiet prevailed there as well. I kept an anxious eye out for Santoro and Grimes and the rest of O'Malley's thugs, but they seemed to be lying low. I hoped none of O'Malley's suits were being altered today.

  Henry Fisher's shop was deserted except for the women working at their sewing machines. Where would he keep the president, I wondered, if he was behind TSAR? And how could he get thugs to work for him, with his sour disposition? What if Ann hired them? That was even stupider than suspecting her father.

  Ann came over and greeted me. "What happened to your head, Walter?" she asked.

  "I had an accident."

  "Soldiers?"

  I shook my head. "Not this time. What does the AMA think about the kidnapping?"

  Ann rolled her eyes. "I think it bothers him that someone actually did something, instead of just talking about it."

  She could have been lying to protect her father, I supposed. "Can I talk to him?" I asked.

  "Sure. Go on up, Walter. He needs friends like you."

  "He needs a son-in-law like me."

  Ann grinned and opened the counter to let me through.

  I went upstairs, then down the hallway to Henry's library.

  Henry was standing by the window, looking out. He turned when he heard me. "Walter Sands," he said. "We're getting to be best buddies."

  "Hi, Henry. How're you doing?"

  He shrugged and walked over to his cluttered table. "You look like shit," he remarked, peering at me through his spectacles.

  "Yeah. I had an accident—while protecting the president."

  "You do good work," he said.

  "I'm trying to find her," I replied. I sat down opposite him.

  "I hope your work improves."

  "Do you mean that?"

  Henry sighed. "I find in myself an aversion to violence of any kind. I don't want to be ruled by Kramer, but I don't want to be ruled by The Second American Revolution either. I just don't want to be ruled."

  "You don't think TSAR is simply trying to free us from the yoke of Federal oppression?"

  "Maybe. But who knows?"

  "I was hoping you might. Haven't you heard anything? Any rumors on the street? Any hot tips from your radical friends?"

  He shook his head. "Did you check out Flynn Dobler?"

  I recounted for him my experiences at the Church of the New Beginning. And then I decided to get everything out in the open. "Dobler suggested that you might've done it."

  Henry's face darkened, and I braced for an explosion. But it never came. Instead, he started to laugh. "I suppose I should be flattered," he said. "Someone actually thinks I could be a criminal mastermind. Do you think so, Walter?"

  "If I can be a private eye, you can be a criminal mastermind."

  Henry continued to grin. "Dobler still could've done it, you know," he pointed out. "He might have just been bluffing by offering to show you around."

  "I know. You might be bluffing too. A fellow just has to go with his instincts."

  "Well, my instincts tell me you better keep looking."

  I had to agree. "The thing is," I said, "this couldn't have been pulled off by just anybody with a dislike for the Feds. There were at least three people involved, they had guns and cars, and they were very lucky or very smart or they had advance knowledge of the way things were going to happen at the speech yesterday. So why have none of your radical friends heard of them? I know things aren't as, well, connected as they were in the old days, but on the other hand there are a lot fewer people to keep track of. How did TSAR manage to come out of nowhere?"

  Henry shrugged. "It's hard enough trying to understand the past, Walter. Understanding the present is impossible."

  I pondered that for a moment. "But that's my job," I said finally.

  "Maybe you need another job," Henry replied. "Write books. It's safer."

  "You're not kidding." I stood up. "You sure you didn't do it, Henry? It'd make my life a lot easier."

  Henry shook his head. "You know how much I like to oblige people," he said. "But some things are just impossible. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

  I sighed. "Thanks, Henry."

  * * *

  I could've lurked around Henry's shop searching for clues, but it wasn't worth it. Flynn Dobler and Henry seemed to cancel each other out in my mind. Each had a motive and a few shreds of evidence against him, but not much else. I didn't quite understand either one's views or his approach to life, but that was hardly grounds for believing them guilty of kidnapping the president. For want of any other bright ideas, I returned to the scene of the crime, thinking I might find some clues there, or at least some inspiration.

  I was surprised to discover that several hundred people had made it to the Government Center plaza ahead of me. They certainly weren't searching for clues—they were just sitting or standing or milling around, talking quietly. And they didn't seem to be under arrest, either. There were troops on the outskirts of the plaza, and particularly around the area where the president had been kidnapped, but they seemed to be ignoring the crowd.

  I looked for a familiar face, and finally spotted Charlie DePaso sitting in the sunshine with his hands clasped around his knees. I flipped the kickstand of my bike and sat next to him. "Hello, Walter," he said. "What happened to your head?"

  "Accident," I r
eplied quickly. I was getting tired of that question. "What's going on, Charlie? Why are all these people here?"

  "I don't know exactly. I just came over 'cause I felt so bad about the president. I guess a lot of people felt the same way."

  Yesterday, I recalled, Charlie had been here simply because it was better than mending nets. "You didn't seem particularly sympathetic to the president before her speech," I said. "Was she that persuasive?"

  Charlie scratched his chin. "I dunno, Walter. It just seemed like she was talkin' about making things better for everyone, and then all of a sudden we're back to the same old stuff again. Know what I mean? It's gotta stop sometime. Maybe now's as good a time as any."

  I thought about Henry's similar response. I find in myself an aversion to violence of any kind. Unless he was a very good actor, he had hardly seemed like the Angriest Man in America when I talked to him. Maybe, I thought, something good would come out of this.

  But then I thought of Bolton's threats, and the troops everywhere, and I paid attention to my aching head and ribs, and I realized that this was just another one of my dreams.

  The Feds were going to get mean, and TSAR was already mean.

  Charlie would leave this vigil and go back to his nets and his indifference. And Henry would return to his book and his anger.

  "Any theories about where they've got her, Charlie?"

  He shook his head. "I heard they found the getaway car in an alley off a Fairfield Street, but I doubt they'd keep her around there—too easy to search the neighborhood, right? So they probably took her out of town—and then what are you gonna do?"

  "Beats me." I stood up. Charlie had gotten as far in his analysis as I had. "See you around, Charlie."

  "Take care of your head, Walter."

  I walked my bike over to where the kidnapping had happened. The area had been roped off, and inside the ropes a few soldier were standing around trying to look like they were doing something constructive. One thing they could do was stare at me, and when they started to do that I turned and walked away.

  I wasn't getting inspired.

  I decided to try the alley offa Fairfield Street.

  It hadn't been very far for the kidnappers to drive—just a mile or two down Beacon Street, maybe a little longer if they stayed off the main streets. And then, while the Feds were still scrambling to get into their jeeps and follow, they were in the midst of the old brick town houses of the Back Bay.

  Fairfield is a side street in the middle of the Back Bay. It was easy enough to find the alley where the car had been left; it too had been roped off. The green car was gone, but a couple of soldiers were still there, sifting through the debris for clues. Once again, I lingered outside the rope until I attracted attention, and then I moved on.

  It was not, I decided, a particularly helpful spot for TSAR to leave the car. If they hopped into another car and continued along Beacon Street, they would quickly pass through the Fenway into Brookline, then a few miles later into the wilder suburbs beyond that. Or they could have turned right on Mass. Ave. and headed over the Harvard Bridge into Cambridge—the route to the Church of the New Beginning, but also to any location north or west of the city.

  So now what? I bought some food from a street vendor on Boylston Street, then sat on a bench and pondered. Still no inspiration. I had no choice, then, but to do more legwork. To do, really, what Bolton wanted me to do—check out my sources, talk to the people that the Feds might not know about or couldn't get the truth out of if they did know about them. Henry Fisher had been my top prospect among those sources, but there were others, and now was the time to track them down and find out what they knew.

  I finished my sandwich, hopped on my bike, and set to work.

  It was a frustrating afternoon. I renewed many old acquaintances, but the conversations had a sameness that started to get to me after a while:

  "Walter, good to see you. I heard you went away."

  "Yeah, well, I came back."

  "That was a stupid thing to do. Hey, you look terrible by the way. What happened to your head?"

  "Accident. Have you heard anything about this group The Second American Revolution, by any chance?"

  "Only what I read in the Globe. But isn't this kidnapping awful? Just when things were starting to get better."

  "Yeah. If you find out anything, will you let me know?"

  "Sure. Actually, there's this vigil or something over at Government Center. I think I might stop by, see what's going on."

  It was strange, the changes in attitude I saw. I was superfluous; these people would have talked to the Feds anyway, if they had known anything. But unfortunately none of them knew anything. I returned home to Louisburg Square no wiser than when I had left in the morning.

  Stretch was already there. His mood was as bleak as my own. "Any news?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. "What about you, Walter? Did you find out anything?"

  "Nope."

  "At least there hasn't been any violence yet," he said, always trying to look on the bright side.

  "The Feds seem to be holding back," I remarked.

  "I think that's smart," he said. "But if they get another message from these terrorists—if anything happens to President Kramer..."

  He didn't have to finish the sentence. "Did you see the crowd in Government Center?" I asked.

  Stretch brightened a little. "Isn't that wonderful? I thought I might go over there myself."

  "Will they still be there after dark?"

  "I'm pretty sure. I heard some people say they weren't going to leave until the president was returned unharmed."

  I considered the vigil for a moment. "Do you think maybe the Feds are behind this vigil?" I said. "I mean, what if they're organizing it as a way of stirring up support and putting pressure on TSAR?"

  Stretch gave me one of his how-you've-disappointed-me looks. "Certainly the government likes what's happening," he replied, "but don't you think people have minds of their own? No one told me to go, that's for sure."

  And no one had told Charlie DePaso either. Stretch was right; the Feds couldn't force the population to feel bad about the president. And if they tried, people would be sure to notice, and everyone would react accordingly. I stared out the bay window into the square. "You think Gwen'll be home soon?" I asked.

  "I don't know, Walter. I bet they're awful busy at the Globe."

  I wondered if she was making any progress on solving the case. I doubted it. "Maybe we should wait a while before we eat, in case she shows up," I said.

  "Fine with me."

  We sat in silence. I read the Globe and Stretch studied sewer reports. Darkness fell; no Gwen. We decided to eat. Neither of us felt like cooking, so we had leftover stew. It wasn't very good. We talked for the sake of talking. "I wonder what they'll do about the referendum," I said.

  "I heard it's still on," Stretch said.

  "I'd think that Bolton would use this as an excuse to cancel it."

  "I'm not sure it's his decision."

  "Too bad for him. I bet he's even more anxious to cancel it, now that he knows Kramer will eliminate his job if it passes."

  Stretch shrugged. "Oh, he knew that already. He mentioned all her proposals to the government employees back when he first announced that she was coming. Told us to keep them quiet, though, so we wouldn't spoil her announcement."

  I considered this. "That was before he called me into the case—before he knew about TSAR."

  "Well, I guess he knew about TSAR when he made his speech to us," Stretch said, "because it was right after the speech that he asked me about you."

  I considered some more. I felt some things falling into place, but I had to be sure—I didn't want to run off the way I had last night, too eager to solve the case to really think everything through. "I know Bolton lives in the Back Bay, but where, exactly?" I asked Stretch.

  "He's got one of those fancy town houses on Beacon Street. Corner of Fairfield, I think."

  I
stared at my stew. What is a clue... I wished Gwen were here. But no, I could do this myself. Maybe just go over it with Stretch, make sure at least that it sounded right. "Stretch," I began, "do you think it's odd that absolutely no one has heard of TSAR? No one at the Globe. None of my radical friends, not even the government security people?"

  "There was that file you saw," Stretch pointed out.

  "True, but there was nothing in it, and no one claims to have started the file. So what's going on?"

  Stretch stared at me. "You've got a theory," he said excitedly.

  He wasn't going to be excited for long. "Maybe," I said, "this case isn't about the future of America or anything as grandiose as that. Maybe it's just about a man who wants to hold onto his job."

  "Bolton?" Stretch said, quick on the uptake. He didn't look convinced.

  "Hear me out. Bolton has been opposed to the referendum from the start. He thinks Kramer is pushing too fast, jeopardizing the government's progress. He's sure of this when he finds out about the proposals Kramer is going to make in her speech. And now, no matter what the outcome, he won't be governor for much longer. If the referendum loses, he better head for the hills with all the rest of the Feds. If it passes, people get to elect their governor, and they're bound to choose someone else—he hasn't exactly made himself loved around here.

  "So he thinks about what to do, and he comes up with this idea: Make up a terrorist group and have them kidnap the president. He must have some flunkies who'll do the dirty work for him, and he can make it easy for them because he knows all the plans for the president's trip, and he realizes she wants to go easy on the security. Anyway, once she's kidnapped, he's all set. He keeps her for a couple of days, then has her rescued. If this makes the president and the rest of the Feds change their minds about the referendum—fine, that's what he wanted in the first place. If they decide to go ahead with it, well, it has a better chance of passing now, because the government will get the sympathy vote. And then he's more likely to be elected, as the rescuer of the president. So no matter what happens, he's better off than he would've been if things had gone ahead the way they were supposed to."