The Distance Beacons

by Richard Bowker

  There, it sounded okay. But Stretch was shaking his head vigorously. "I don't get it," he said. "If he's the villain, why did he hire you?"

  That had been so obvious to me that I'd forgotten to mention it. "It's the oldest trick in the book," I explained. "Who's going to suspect you of committing a crime if you're the one hiring the private eye to investigate the crime? But once you've hired him, you can control the guy's investigation so that it never touches you. I started talking about an inside job right away when Bolton brought me in, but he didn't want me to follow up on that. He wanted me to find the file on TSAR that he had planted in their records. He wanted me to go out and look for radicals like Flynn Dobler. And most of all, he wanted General Cowens to see how concerned he was about TSAR—concerned enough to hire this local to help in the investigation."

  "But Walter—"

  I could feel myself getting carried away now. I didn't want any interruptions from Stretch. "And after I got started," I went on, "why would I think of Bolton? He has his thugs beat me up as a warning to get off the case. Why would the guy who hired me do that? I tell him I'm suspicious of Dobler, and he has his thugs wear sandals during the kidnapping so I'll go off on a wild-goose chase. He's counting on me to be stupid, to suspect everyone but him. I think maybe he's been a bit too clever for his own good."

  "But Walter—"

  "I mean, he has them leave the getaway car right there in the Back Bay, a couple of blocks from where he lives. Everyone thinks the kidnappers must've switched cars. But what if they didn't—what if the president is being held captive right there in the governor's mansion? They could be keeping her drugged or blindfolded or something so she doesn't know where she is. And of course it's the last place anyone would think to look."

  "Listen, Walter," Stretch finally managed to say as I took a breath. "I don't know if your theory makes any sense or not. But I'll tell you one thing: Governor Bolton couldn't be behind this. He's just not that kind of person. I know he opposed the president on the referendum, and I know he might not be governor anymore if it takes place, but I still don't see him doing what you're accusing him of. He's a good man, Walter. He's worked hard for New England, and he's been loyal to the government. Why not accept what he's done at face value? He hired you because he was worried about the president's safety, and he thought you could help."

  Well, maybe. But my theory explained a lot—a lot more than my Dobler theory or my Henry Fisher theory, anyway. It came down to what you thought of Bolton. Stretch saw him one way. But was that just Stretch being Stretch? And I saw him—how?

  Not very clearly, it seemed. Obviously he was caught between the Feds and the locals, and he felt that conflict keenly. But was he a strong-minded patriot, or a self-seeking conniver? Did he become a Fed out of personal conviction, or because joining the people in power offered him food and shelter and a measure of security in an unsafe world?

  The main difficulty with being a private eye, I realized, was not the danger or the lack of cases, but the need to make judgments about people, all of whom are too complex to be summed up in a phrase, none of whom are so obviously guilty or innocent that your job is just to catch them if guilty or protect them if innocent. My judgment of Flynn Dobler had been faulty. Could I do better with Bolton?

  I wasn't sure. I had thought everything through, but I still didn't know Bolton, and until I did it was all just a theory.

  I got up from the table.

  "What are you going to do, Walter?" Stretch asked.

  "I'm going to take a look at Bolton's house, see if there's anything suspicious happening."

  "Walter, please be careful. Please don't do anything rash."

  He sounded like Gwen. But he was right, I supposed. "I promise. But do me a favor, will you, Stretch?"

  "What's that?"

  "Don't tell Gwen what I'm up to. I don't want her worried, too."

  "Well, okay, Walter."

  I had a feeling Stretch wasn't going to do what I asked, but that couldn't be helped. I went to get ready for my stakeout.

  Chapter 15

  Stakeout. The word sounded terribly professional and dramatic to me, but I knew the reality would most likely be far from exciting. I packed some equipment, and I pedaled carefully down Beacon Street to the governor's mansion. The moonlight made travel a bit easier than it had been the night before. I parked the bike and lurked in the shadows of an abandoned building across the street. And then I waited.

  Nothing happened. A couple of lights were on—electric ones, to judge from the brightness—but there was no sign of activity. It made sense that Bolton would try to keep people away from here if President Kramer was being held inside, and of course he'd order the thugs holding her not to show themselves. But it also made sense that there was simply no one home. Bolton might still be at his office, and as far as I knew nobody else was living in the mansion. He was a widower, after all, and he didn't have a family.

  So what should I do? Wait all night? I was prepared to. I didn't need to sleep, and I didn't have anything better to do with my time. But what if nothing happened? That's the risk a private eye takes, I supposed, and I steeled myself for that possibility.

  I waited. The lights stayed on. No movement inside. The moon climbed in the sky. The stars whirled. A dog barked. Something seemed vaguely familiar to me about all this; was it important? I searched my memory, and when I found what I was looking for, I realized that I shouldn't have bothered. It was simply the past, come back to torment me once more.

  After my father died, I was taken in by an older couple who were as kind as could be expected under the circumstances. But the circumstances kept getting worse in Maine, so finally they decided to head for Boston in the slim hope that life would be better there. I don't know if it was the right decision for them; thugs took me away from them before they had even entered the city. It didn't take me long to leave the thugs, and then I was on my own in the city, a stupid boy in a cruel new world. I didn't stay stupid long. Couldn't afford to.

  There were times, though... Smart people did not venture out at night, but I did sometimes, cold and hungry and lonely, wandering the dark streets and risking my life just to be somewhere other than where I was. I would see a house—like Bolton's—with lights on, and a silhouette or two passing through a room—and I would stop and stare at it, and I would try to imagine what life was like in there. Perhaps all was normal—parents cooking dinner for their children, then sending them up to their warm beds, where they dreamed sweet dreams that just might come true someday. Surely such houses existed somewhere! Was it my fault that I had never lived in one?

  It was at times like those that I felt the pull of the Frenzy most strongly. My dreams would never come true, so why not substitute rage for hope? If I couldn't live in such houses, why not destroy them? Maybe I would be destroyed too, maybe we would all be destroyed, but what did it matter? What did anything matter?

  I shivered and sent the past back where it belonged. I decided to recite Shakespeare to myself; my memory's good at such things. I picked Richard II; it's about a ruler who ends up in prison, so it seemed vaguely appropriate. I quickly transported myself from modern Boston to medieval England, and I stayed there for quite some time. I was midway through the play when it occurred to me that I should take a look around the rest of the mansion. This annoyed me. I should have thought of it right away. Private eyes shouldn't get tangled up in bad memories—or in Shakespeare. Who knew what was going on in the back while I sat staring at the front?

  I made my way out onto Beacon Street. A dog started barking again, and I froze. I didn't want to deal with a dog just now. Eventually the barking stopped, and I continued.

  The side of the building, on Fairfield Street, was dark. At the back, a high brick wall surrounded a small yard. I followed the wall around to the alley; in the alley the wall gave way to a locked gate, then began again. I looked up; there was a light on in a second-floor window. I stood in the alley and watched. The light was part
ially obscured by the budding leaves of a tree that had somehow managed to survive in the yard. Once again nothing was happening, but at least I had a different vantage point from which to see it not happening. I picked up where I had left off in Richard II.

  ...when the searching eye of heaven is hid

  Behind the globe and lights the lower world,

  Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen

  In murthers and in outrage boldly here...

  And then there was a shadow moving through the light. I shifted a little bit to improve my angle. The damn tree made it difficult. The figure moved again, and I saw it more clearly this time.

  It was a woman, black shadow against yellow light. I couldn't make out any more. And then the light went out.

  So now what? I couldn't say for sure it was the president, but it was one more piece of evidence for my theory. Should I rush off and tell Cowens? Not likely to do any good, unless he disliked Bolton even more than he disliked me. Go get reinforcements of my own? A pitched battle wouldn't help the president, if she was inside. And, of course, I wanted to do this by myself.

  As I considered the situation, I realized I might be able to take a closer look, if I cared to be a little athletic. I decided it was worth the risk.

  I took out my flashlight, switched it on, and studied the wall. Some of the bricks were crumbling, and it was easy enough to get a foothold and climb to the top. Once there, I slithered quickly down the other side, landing on cracked asphalt. My aching ribs reminded me that strenuous activity wasn't a good idea. I paused to get my breath and shined the flashlight carefully around. A jeep was parked by the gate; that didn't bode well. It occurred to me that my pals Danny and Gus could be two of Bolton's henchmen. No, I didn't want to believe that.

  I went over to the tree. It was a maple, tall and sturdy despite its unpropitious location. I put the flashlight away. Then I leaped, caught hold of the lowest branch, and pulled myself up onto it. As quietly as I could, I worked my way up till I was level with the second floor. Despite the moonlight, I couldn't make out anything in the room where I had seen the figure. I could hear something, though: a woman's low moans.

  Just beyond the tree was a fire escape. I doubted that anyone had set foot on it in a quarter of a century, but I didn't know what else to do. I reached out and grabbed the railing, then gingerly put my weight on it. The fire escape creaked slightly, but held. I climbed onto it and crouched down outside the window.

  The woman was still moaning.

  There was no way of making a quiet entrance, I figured. I took out my gun. I shined my flashlight into the room. I saw the woman. It took a moment for me to figure out what she was doing. It took another moment for her to notice the beam of the flashlight and turn toward the window.

  It was not the woman I expected.

  It was Lisa, Bolton's plump, efficient secretary. She was very naked, and she was straddling an equally naked Governor Bolton.

  She screamed, and an instant later the room was flooded with light. I didn't wait to see what happened next. I threw myself back into the branches of the tree and thrashed my way down to the ground. Then I raced for the wall and tried desperately to find a foothold so I could climb it. My flashlight had disappeared in my descent from the tree, however, and I was having trouble in the dark. I finally managed to scramble to the top of the wall, and I was ready to dive back into the alley when I heard a door burst open behind me and I felt myself illuminated by a shaft of bright light.

  "Hold it!" someone shouted. "Don't m-m-m—"

  I didn't.

  * * *

  "Walter! What are you doing here?"

  Danny had come around to the alley while Gus kept a gun trained on me from the back door of the mansion. He looked up at me on the top of the wall with disbelief.

  "It's a long story," I replied.

  Danny shook his head. "It better be a good one. You are in big fucking trouble, Walter."

  I couldn't disagree.

  I staggered down from the wall. Danny searched me and took away my gun, then marched me around to the front of the mansion. We went inside, and he deposited me in a dusty wing chair in a downstairs parlor. He kept a gun pointed in my general direction. I heard footsteps. A moment later Bolton came in. He was wearing a bathrobe. His hair was mussed, his scar was throbbing. He saw me and stopped short. "Sands! What is this?"

  Good question. I couldn't very well tell Bolton my theory, whether or not it was correct. I had to improvise. "I was staking out the place," I said. "I had this theory, that maybe TSAR might come after you next, so I thought I should hang around in case you needed help."

  "Hang around in a tree outside my bedroom window?"

  "I, um, thought I heard something. Someone, uh, moaning. I went to investigate."

  It didn't sound especially persuasive, but it was the best I could do. Bolton glared at me. "Maybe Cowens is right about you," he said. "Looks like I've been making a big mistake."

  Gus appeared in the doorway. Bolton turned to him. "Well?"

  "D-d-doesn't seem to be anyone else around," Gus said.

  "All right. I called General Cowens, just in case. He should be here any moment." And then he turned back to me. "I trusted you," he said.

  "But I told you I was only trying to help."

  "You've got a very odd idea of how to help, Sands." He paced for a moment. "The locals have to understand—" He stopped, then began again. "Look, we've exercised the utmost restraint under the circumstances, Sands. That was Cowens's doing as much as my own; frankly, I was dubious. No mass arrests, no torture, no intimidation. We figured that would be what the president wanted—show the people how understanding the government could be. I suppose that was a mistake too, if this is how we're repaid."

  I heard cars screeching to a stop on the street outside. The conversation paused until Cowens marched into the mansion, followed by a couple of soldiers. Cowens hadn't shaved and, despite his uniform, he looked old and tired and rather feeble. Not much sleep for him lately, I supposed. He glanced at me, then addressed Bolton. "My troops are surrounding the place," he said. "You'll be all right now. But I wish you'd reconsider moving into the compound."

  Bolton waved away the request. "I'll think about it tomorrow. What should we do with this fellow, though?"

  Cowens took a moment before replying. He was clearly enjoying his little triumph over the governor. "I think Major Fenneman should continue the chat with him that was interrupted yesterday," he said.

  "I was just trying to protect the governor," I said to Cowens. "I'm with you. I thought it was dangerous for him to be living outside the compound too."

  "I don't know if he was trying to protect me or not," Bolton responded, "but at the very least we have to keep him off the streets before he does something else crazy."

  Cowens nodded. "We'll take care of him." He gestured to his two soldiers. "Take him out to the car," he said.

  The two soldiers advanced into the room and hauled me up from the wing chair. One of them snapped handcuffs on me. On the way out of the room we passed Gus, who was looking at me with disbelief and, maybe, disappointment. "Just trying to help," I murmured. Then I was in the dark, high-ceilinged hallway; and then I was back out in the night.

  * * *

  I waited in the car between the two silent soldiers until Cowens returned. A driver sat up front, humming softly. I didn't feel like trying to make any of these guys my buddies; I doubted that I would succeed, in any case. The soldier on my right stank of garlic. The handcuffs were uncomfortable. My ribs hurt.

  We'll take care of him. I didn't want to think about how Cowens planned to take care of me. He got into the car after a few minutes and motioned to the driver. "Nashua Street Jail," he ordered.

  Oh Lord. I decided to tell Cowens the truth. It couldn't make things any worse for me. And besides, Cowens might agree with my theory. He didn't have much use for Bolton—I was pretty sure of that. And the theory did explain a lot.

  Didn't
it? I wondered if I believed my theory, now that I had been humiliated for the second time in two nights. After all, it didn't seem particularly likely that the president was being held in the mansion. And if Bolton was in fact guilty, and Danny and Gus were his henchmen, why had he bothered calling Cowens when they caught me snooping? It would have been far less dangerous for them to kill me and not have Cowens and his troops surrounding the place—and talking to me.

  Still, Bolton could be holding her somewhere else. And maybe he thought he could brazen it out. It was my word against his, and Cowens was not likely to believe anything I had to say.

  But all of that didn't really matter at this point. Right now I simply had to convince Cowens that I wasn't part of TSAR, that I actually was one of the good guys, even if my theories were stupid. "Um, excuse me, General," I said, "but I'd like to tell you the real reason why I was hanging around the governor's place."

  Cowens turned slowly in the front seat and looked at me. His watery blue eyes were ready to disbelieve. "Go ahead," he whispered.

  I tried. I explained about the TSAR file and the sandals on the thugs at Government Center and the getaway car in the alley off Fairfield Street and everything else that I had tried out on Stretch earlier. As before, it sounded pretty persuasive to me. As before, my audience was not impressed. "You must have a low opinion of Governor Bolton's intelligence, if you believe that," Cowens said when I was through. "Or of mine, if you're making it up and hoping I'll fall for it."

  "But don't you agree that he has a motive? And, with a few smart guys working for him, don't you think he could carry out the kidnapping? He's a natural suspect."

  "Perhaps he's a natural person to try to make a suspect, if you're trying to divert suspicion from yourself," Cowens replied. "But you're ignoring one thing, Sands. I know Governor Bolton. I've worked with him for years. I may not always agree with him, but I respect him. He wouldn't dream of doing something like this. He wouldn't dream of risking the government and all it's accomplished for his own personal gain."