The Distance Beacons

by Richard Bowker

  Behind me, I could hear Fenneman shouting instructions.

  I found a staircase. I tried to go down, figuring there had to be an exit in the basement, but the door was locked or blocked or stuck and I could hear footsteps now, so I had to run upstairs, my arm throbbing, my lungs bursting. Maybe on the roof... but I wasn't going to make it to the roof, so I took off down the second-floor corridor.

  And that's when I noticed the faded green structure outside. It was the elevated trolley tracks—long unused, of course—coming from Cambridge and heading downtown. I ducked into an office and took a closer look. On either side of the tracks was a rusted railing with wire mesh beneath it. The railing was several feet away from the window. Must've been noisy here once upon a time, I thought.

  I studied the distance to the railing. Well...

  The window was broken. I climbed up onto the sill. I heard footsteps in the corridor, doors banging open. I tensed, leaned forward, and jumped.

  I managed to catch hold of the railing. I tried to pull myself up, but my arm was on fire. Can't do it.

  "Goddamn it, where is he?" Fenneman roared from inside the building.

  I tried again. I managed to heave myself over the railing and onto the tracks.

  I lay there for a moment and then, not surprisingly, I threw up for real.

  I looked at my arm. It was still bleeding, and it hurt like hell; every part of me hurt like hell. But I was alive. I could still hear Fenneman shouting in the building, but no one seemed to be coming after me. They'd realize what I'd done soon enough, though; it was time to get out of here.

  I took off along the tracks, heading downtown, staying low. Just across the road, it looked like life as usual at the Federal compound. A couple of people were even playing tennis in the sunshine. Ah, leisure! I realized that I had never actually seen anyone playing tennis before; I thought the game had been disinvented. At any rate, the players were too engrossed in their match to notice the bedraggled local skulking along the trolley tracks. The local was grateful.

  After a while the tracks dipped down and headed underground. I faced a choice: go underground with them, or take my chances in the streets. Just then a jeep went racing by, not ten feet away from where I skulked, and made up my mind for me. I went into the tunnel.

  It got very dark very quickly. I stayed to the right and kept one hand on the cold concrete wall. I moved slowly, in case there was a pit yawning unseen in front of me. I prayed that I wasn't disturbing any mutant creatures that had taken up residence down here. Still, I felt safer with the mutants than I did up above with my fellow humans. I kept walking.

  Walking in total darkness is disorienting (as well as frightening). I wished I had my flashlight, but it had disappeared ages ago outside Bolton's house. Soon I didn't know where I was, and a while after that I scarcely knew who I was. All I could feel was pain; all I could think was that I had to get out of here. What if I was heading off into some secondary tunnel that branched endlessly underground without ever reaching a station? What if I was traveling in a circle somehow, and I was doomed to retrace my steps over and over again till I dropped? Logic said these fears were ridiculous. But what if logic stopped working in the dark?

  Finally I saw a light in the distance: no, not a light at first, just a change in the quality of the darkness. But eventually it became a light, filtering greyly down from the outside. I was in Haymarket Station, a dilapidated sign informed me. I yearned to leave, but the Haymarket was scarcely any distance at all from where I had entered the tunnel. I kept walking.

  I felt a little better now. The darkness was not forever, and I was heading in the right direction. But the next station was not the end of my journey.

  Government Center, the sign said.

  I figured I'd better avoid Government Center for a while.

  I noticed a lot of strange objects on the platform of the station. I hesitated for a moment, then laboriously climbed out of the tunnel to take a closer look.

  A bass drum. A chandelier with all its light bulbs broken. A rocking chair. A computer with its monitor smashed. Several cartons of books, their pages charred. Three teddy bears. A juke box (at least, I thought it was a juke box; I was a little unclear on the concept of juke boxes). A motorcycle lying on its side. Empty cans of food: Geisha, Bird's Eye, Del Monte, Spam. The ashes of a fire.

  A man pointing at me in the dim light.

  I stepped backwards, my heart knocking against my sore ribs. I blinked rapidly and looked again, wondering just how much damage the darkness had done to my senses.

  The man still pointed at me, a long gloved finger stretching out in accusation. He was a muffled figure, seated on the platform and leaning back against a pillar. "Hello?" I whispered, my voice shaking.

  He didn't reply.

  I noticed that his hand wasn't moving. I approached. A black knit cap was pulled down over the man's head. I reached out and touched the cap. He didn't move. I grabbed the cap and yanked it off.

  A skull grinned up at me.

  I closed my eyes. I had enough problems. I didn't need this. I opened my eyes. The skull was still there, still grinning, obviously delighted with its joke. I noticed a sheet of paper pinned to the raincoat it was wearing. I hesitated, then picked the paper up. A brief message was scrawled in red crayon on it:

  Your gonna die too

  I dropped the piece of paper. Well, I knew that. Still, I wasn't happy to be reminded of it. I tried to calm down. I knew what this was all about.

  It was a remnant of the Frenzy. Once upon a time people had lived here (if you could call them people; if you could call it living), going out at night to rage and plunder, then returning with their random trophies. A computer, a juke box, a chandelier. What could have been more useless? Perhaps they had chosen the location out of some grim sense of irony—living their savage lives down here beneath the spot where the government had once tried to rule them.

  They couldn't have stayed here long—it was not the most comfortable location in the city. But perhaps that didn't matter to them. Comfort was something out of the old days, something that bureaucrats and professors and businessmen cared about. Perhaps they had stayed here until the Feds arrived from Atlanta, smothering the city with their curfews and their laws, and the savages from the subway realized that the times had changed yet again. And so they had disappeared into some other darkness.

  But not before they left a message for whoever would come here next.

  Too bad for them I had more important things to worry about than my own mortality. I thought for a moment, then left the skeleton where it was; maybe the next passerby would make better use of the memento mori. I climbed down from the platform and continued my journey underground.

  The next station was Park Street. This one was actually in use on a different track—a solitary train rumbled through it as often as it could, until some precious part gave out and a replacement had to be scrounged up. I decided that this was where I should leave the tunnel; at least I had a chance of being inconspicuous here. The trolley tracks I was following were upstairs from the train tracks. I waited until the train came in, then joined the people as they trudged up the long flight of stairs out of the subway.

  Once outside, I blinked against the sun and looked around for soldiers, ready to run once more if challenged. I didn't see any.

  "Howdy, Mithter Thandth."

  I started, then relaxed. It was only Ground Zero, an old black man who eked out a living by sitting on a milk crate outside the station and singing—badly—while he played the accordion. "Howdy, Ground Zero."

  Ground Zero looked up at me from his milk crate. "Been havin' a rough day, Mithter Thandth?"

  "Yeah, I guess you could say that, Ground Zero."

  "How 'bout a thong to make you feel better?"

  "Haven't got any money today."

  "That'th okay. For you, I'll thing it for free."

  "All right," I said. "Sing something that'll chase away the darkness."

&
nbsp; Ground Zero smiled. "I know jutht the tune." The accordion wheezed for a few bars, and then he started in on "The Sunny Side of the Street." The song didn't turn out all that well, actually—the lyrics proved to be rather a chore, given Ground Zero's unfortunate speech defect. But he got through it, and I did feel a little better by the time he had finished. And besides, it gave me a chance to come up with an idea about what to do next. "Thanks, Ground Zero," I said. "I owe you."

  "No problem. Jutht leave your troubleth on your door thtep."

  I smiled. "I'm sure gonna try." I walked up Tremont Street, keeping my eye out for soldiers, and turned onto School Street, where I found the establishment known as Art's Filthy Bookstore. I went inside, and I put myself in the hands of its estimable proprietor.

  Chapter 17

  My friend Art is a pleasant-looking little old man with a long white beard. He is also a smut-peddler, but everyone's got to eat. His store is filled with books and magazines that let people fantasize about a world they can never experience. He has his own fantasies, but they aren't sexual: he dreams of literary soirées, of long philosophical discussions over a glass of sherry in faculty lounges, of a world where people can contemplate great ideas and meditate on the mysteries of life instead of brooding about the past (like Henry) or struggling just to stay alive. He feels that I am a kindred spirit, and I think he may be right.

  "Walter!" he cried out when I staggered inside. "What happened to you?"

  "Long story," I mumbled. The prospect of finally getting some relief made me realize how exhausted I was.

  He led me through the bookstore and into the back room where he lived. I lay down on his cot and closed my eyes while he bustled about, trying to find something he could use to bandage my arm. "I should tell you that you might get into trouble if the Feds find out I'm here," I said. "They aren't happy with me at the moment."

  I'm sure this didn't please Art, but he was brave about it. "Then we'll just have to keep the Feds from finding out," he replied. He sat down next to the cot and began tending my wounds. "Now tell me everything," he said.

  I summarized for him the case so far. He shook his head in wonder as I described what I'd been through. "Why don't you write about these things instead of living them?" he asked.

  That had been Henry's advice, too. "Maybe I will, if I ever get the chance. But right now I've got to figure out how to find Gwen before sunrise, or else TSAR says they're gonna kill her."

  This was the kind of reality that made Art uncomfortable. It didn't make me feel very good either. "But what can you do, Walter?" he asked. "How can you find her?"

  I tried to think. I had no more theories. The only thing I could do was to find out what Gwen's theory had been. How had she managed to find TSAR when no one else could? But to find out Gwen's theory I had to somehow get to the Globe. "Have you got a bicycle, Art?"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  I struggled dizzily to my feet. "I've gotta go to Dorchester and talk to Gwen's editor."

  "Don't be a fool, Walter. You've got to rest. You won't help Gwen if you collapse on the way—or if the Feds capture you again."

  I supposed he was right. "But I can't just stay here," I said.

  "Look," Art said. "Why don't I send someone over to Bobby Gallagher's place? Mickey can come pick you up and drive you to Dorchester."

  Bobby and Mickey once again. I decided to buy my own car once this was over and learn how to drive. Couldn't I accomplish anything without help? "I dunno," I said. I took a step; it wasn't a very steady one. I sighed. "All right."

  "Good. Now rest."

  I sank back onto the cot and rested.

  * * *

  Art got a teenage boy who lived next door to make the trip to South Boston for us. His payment was an ancient copy of Playboy, which sounded like a pretty good deal to me. While he was gone, Art cooked me some food and tried to keep my spirits up. "Have you thought about a title for your case yet?" he asked.

  A title. When I had started on the case, I hadn't thought it deserved one. Now, well—a title couldn't hurt. But I sure was in no mood to come up with one. "Any suggestions?" I asked.

  Art brought some scrambled eggs over to me, and I wolfed them down. He sat on a wooden chair next to the cot and considered. This was the sort of thing he enjoyed. "Your case really starts with the president and her dream, right?" he said after a while. "She thinks the referendum is the start of a great new age for America and the world."

  "I suppose so."

  "Then how about Locksley Hall for a title?" He smiled and quoted from the poem. "'For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,/Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.'"

  "That's some serious irony," I said. I quoted from another part of the poem. "'Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew,/From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue.'"

  "Irony is good in titles," Art pointed out, and he topped my quote. "'Till the war drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled,/In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world."'

  The Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. The president was having some difficulty with her vision of the world. All we had gotten so far was the ghastly dew.

  "It's a bit obscure, don't you think? We're probably the only two people in Boston who know that poem."

  "Why should that matter, Walter? It's not like anyone is going to read the book."

  "That's a very good point."

  I finished my eggs, and we waited for Mickey.

  * * *

  Eventually we heard the van pull up in front. Bobby and Doctor J came inside while Mickey stayed behind. I got to my feet and greeted them out in the store. "You didn't all have to come," I said.

  "Wally, for Gwen we all come," Bobby replied. "You look like a piece of homemade shit, by the way."

  "Thanks very much. Shall we get out of here?"

  "Sure. Put that magazine down, Doctor J. Art, it's nice to see you again."

  "Please be careful, everyone," Art said.

  I shook Art's hand. "Thanks again," I said to him.

  "'Not in vain the distance beacons,'" he replied. "'Forward, forward let us range.'"

  "'Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change,'" I replied.

  We went outside then, leaving Art behind, and I climbed into the back of the van with Mickey's tools. I waved to Mickey, who waved back. Doctor J and Bobby got in front, and we were off to the Globe.

  * * *

  Like everything else, the Boston Globe is not what it used to be. Once upon a time, its parking lots were jammed with cars, its rooftop antennae picked up information from around the world, its presses rolled ceaselessly, producing hundreds of thousands of ad-filled papers every day for news-hungry New Englanders. That's what the old-timers tell me, at any rate.

  Nowadays, things are much more low-key. They still use the big old brick building on Morrissey Boulevard, but the parking lots are empty, the antennae useless, and the print runs minuscule. They still run some ads, though, including one for a certain private detective agency. And they still have some good reporters, especially Ms. Gwendolyn Phillips.

  Mickey parked in the weed-covered lot outside the Globe Building. I peeked out the back window, looking for jeeps. If the Feds had any brains, they'd be here too, trying to find out what Gwen knew. There weren't any jeeps. No sense in taking any chances, though. "Go inside, Bobby," I said, "and ask Wolsey to come out here."

  "Sure thing." Bobby got out of the van and headed into the building. The rest of us waited impatiently.

  Ten minutes later Bobby returned with Gwen's editor, who clambered into the back of the van with me. Wolsey was a tall man with a fringe of black hair going gray. He wore bowties and ancient, frayed dress shirts. He adored Gwen.

  "Thanks for coming out here," I said. "I'm kind of in trouble with the Feds, so I have to lie low."

  "Walter, everyone's going to be in trouble with
the Feds before very long, I'm afraid."

  "Have they been here?"

  "Cowens came late this morning—before we even knew Gwen had been captured. He asked some questions and poked through her desk."

  "Did he find out anything? Do you know anything?"

  Wolsey made a despairing gesture. "Walter, I wish I could help. We've got every reporter in the place working on this. But we just haven't come up with anything. Gwen came in early this morning and she was worried about you, because I guess you hadn't come home last night. Apparently you had some damn-fool theory about Bolton, right? Anyway, she wrote up a story about the investigation, and then she said she had a lead she wanted to follow up on, and she left. That's all we know."

  "No idea what the lead was?"

  Wolsey shook his head.

  "And no idea where she was going?"

  Wolsey made the same despairing gesture again.

  "Did Cowens act like he knew anything?"

  "Oh, you know Cowens. He just gives you that icy stare, and you can't figure out what he's thinking. When I thought about it afterwards, though, I was a little surprised that it was just him. I would've expected a bunch of soldiers to come in and turn the place upside down."

  "I wonder if they were all out looking for me."

  Wolsey shrugged. "I have no idea what the Feds are up to. They're just a lot less pugnacious than I thought they'd be."

  "Apparently they're doing what they think Kramer would've wanted. Maybe they figure this'll keep her alive."

  "I wouldn't count on their restraint lasting beyond sunrise tomorrow, though. Find Gwen, Walter. And the president. I'm getting scared."

  "I'll do my best."

  Wolsey shook my hand, then slid out of the van and returned to the Globe.

  "Now what?" Bobby asked.

  "Well," I said, "I guess we could give Louisburg Square a try."

  Mickey promptly started up the van and headed back down town.

  I was worried about returning home—the Feds certainly knew where I lived—but I was running out of options. Maybe Gwen had gone home after leaving the Globe, and maybe she had left behind some clue that the Feds had overlooked. A dim hope, perhaps, but what other hope did I have?