The Distance Beacons

by Richard Bowker

  We were silent as Mickey drove. Things were too serious for idle conversation. It was getting late in the day. Another night loomed—and then sunrise. I shivered. "Pull up here," I murmured as Mickey drove along a Beacon Hill street leading into the square. Mickey stopped the van, and I prepared to get out.

  "Let me go, Wally," Doctor J offered.

  "Thanks, Doctor J, but no. Too dangerous."

  "Less dangerous for me than you. I'm just a kid. What are they gonna do to me?"

  "He's got a point, Wally," Bobby said.

  Everybody wanted to help. The Feds could do plenty to Doctor J. "Look," I said. "Just turn the corner and see if the Feds are watching the place. Don't try and be a hero, okay?"

  "You betcha." Doctor J scrambled out of the van and walked around the corner into the square. We waited. "We'll find her, Wally," Bobby said. I didn't reply.

  After an eternity Doctor J came back. "Coupla Feds in a jeep outside," he reported. "I said I was lookin' for Stretch. They said nobody's home. They asked if I knew anybody else that lived there. I said nope, I just had a sewer problem needed fixin'. They told me to get lost. I thought about goin' around back and breakin' in, but I figured I should ask you first, Wally."

  "Good man, Doctor J. You've done enough." I was disappointed. One more door closed. How many were left open?

  We could break in the back, I thought, but it would probably be too risky.

  "We should get outa here," Mickey observed, "in case they decide to take a look where Doctor J went."

  "All right. Let's go talk to Stretch. Maybe he knows something."

  Mickey nodded and started up the van. We drove down the back side of Beacon Hill toward Government Center.

  The vigil had grown enormously since yesterday, I noticed as we swung around the plaza, heading toward City Hall. More people were in the plaza now than had been there to hear the president give her speech. Nothing appeared to be happening, though. No speeches, no band playing. Just people, silently waiting. It was impressive.

  Our van was the only non-government vehicle in sight. "Kinda conspicuous," Mickey muttered. He parked behind City Hall. Once again, Bobby was commissioned to be the messenger. He returned a few minutes later, alone. "Nobody home in the sewer department," he said. "Sorry."

  "Well," I said, "maybe he's—"

  A quick gesture from Bobby silenced me. I heard slow footsteps outside the van. The three faces in the front seat turned forward. I slid down out of sight in the back.

  The footsteps stopped. "What y'all doin' heah?" a Southern voice asked.

  "Just looking for a friend," Bobby said. "Works at City Hall."

  "We're kinda suspicious of cars hangin' around these parts, y'know."

  "I can well understand. We'll just move along, then."

  "Think Ah'll jes' take a look in back first. Open it up."

  "Well, of course. Mickey, open it up."

  Mickey got out. More footsteps. I took out the gun I had grabbed from the soldier at Leverett Circle. I leaned forward.

  Mickey fumbled with the lock, making a lot of noise—as if I didn't already know what was going on. And then the doors were open. I saw the face of a young recruit, his rifle not quite at the ready. I could have shot him then, but I didn't. It occurred to me that the noise would be sure to get us into even more trouble, but that wasn't the real reason I didn't shoot. I didn't shoot because I had a chance to look into the soldier's eyes and see the sudden fear, and that made me feel my visceral revulsion toward death. Too many people have died.

  Then Mickey was grabbing the rifle, and the two of them were struggling. It wasn't going to be much of a struggle, I realized, what with Mickey's shriveled arm and all.

  I lunged forward and whacked the soldier on the back of the head with the butt end of my gun. He stopped struggling and looked at me, dazed. I hit him again, and he crumpled. I dragged him into the van, and Mickey quickly shut the doors behind us.

  I took away his rifle and handed it up front to Bobby.

  "Anybody see us?" I asked.

  Bobby and Doctor J both shook their heads. "Don't think so," Bobby muttered.

  Mickey got back behind the wheel. "Gotta get outa here," he said.

  "Is he dead?" Doctor J asked, his eyes wide with fear and maybe a little excitement.

  "No, just unconscious."

  "Well, uh, what do we do with him?" Bobby murmured.

  He wanted someone else to say it: we were a lot better off with the soldier dead than with him unconscious. I wasn't going to be the one to say it, though. "Look," I said, "we'll be okay if we just dump him way out in the suburbs someplace. He won't get back to town before tomorrow, and tomorrow who knows what the world's gonna be like."

  "But what about Gwen?" Bobby asked.

  "Mickey and Doctor J can take care of dumping the soldier. Bobby, why don't you go back to the vigil and see if Stretch is there? I'll be over on Atlantic Avenue by the Aquarium."

  "Why Atlantic Ave.?"

  "Because Stretch is a creature of habit, that's why. If he's at the vigil, bring him on over. He'll know where to find me. "

  No one else had a better plan, and no one was volunteering to put a bullet into the unconscious soldier, so they obeyed me. I found a coil of rope in with Mickey's tools and tied up the soldier. Bobby got out and walked back to the plaza.

  Mickey drove me the few blocks to Atlantic Avenue.

  "Thanks for everything, guys," I said.

  "Good luck, Wally," Doctor J replied, and he gave me a high five.

  "Mickey, drop the soldier way the hell out of town."

  "He'll wake up in Rhode Island, Wally." He waved into the rear view mirror. I struggled past the soldier, climbed down from the back of the van, and closed the doors. Mickey pulled away with another wave, leaving me alone in the street.

  I walked quickly over to the ruins of the Aquarium. I searched behind a couple of rusted beams and found what I was looking for: Stretch's clothing, hidden while he went jogging. I breathed a sigh of relief and settled down out of sight to wait for him.

  The view was as beautiful as ever, and I was as uninterested as ever in looking at it. Storm clouds lurked off to the west, but the harbor to the east in front of me was bright and calm. A few boats bobbed up and down at anchor, gleaming in the twilight sun; gulls dived and soared. But who cared? Gwen had maybe twelve hours to live, I was a tired, hunted man, and the rest of the world was in just as much of a mess as ever, despite President Kramer's dreams. I tried not to think about all of that, but it was hard.

  "Get away from my clothes or you're in big trouble," a rather thin voice warned me.

  I roused myself. "Who'd want to steal a pair of midget pants and a briefcase full of stuff about sewers?" I wondered aloud.

  "Oh, Walter, it's you," Stretch said, coming around the fallen beams to where I was sitting. He was sweating, and his face was flushed. "I just saw the top of your head. What are you doing here? What happened last night? We've been so worried." And as he came closer: "Gee, you look terrible. Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, I'm okay. Do you know about Gwen?"

  Stretch shook his head. I hadn't expected that he would, if he was out jogging. Cowens was certainly flubbing this investigation, I thought; the Feds should have interrogated Stretch as soon as they got the message from TSAR. Well, Cowens was a soldier, not a policeman. "What's the matter?" Stretch demanded. "Is Gwen in trouble too?"

  "I'm afraid so, Stretch." And I gave him a quick summary of what had happened since I left him to stake out Bolton's house. Had it really been less than a day?

  Stretch was stunned. "You've been tortured? And Gwen's been kidnapped? And I'm out here jogging as if nothing were the matter?"

  "Don't worry about that, Stretch. Just tell me if you have any idea what Gwen's lead was, or where she was going today."

  Stretch chewed a knuckle. "I can't—I don't—"

  "What happened last night? Did she say anything?"

  "Well, of course when
she got home I told her about you and your crazy theory about Governor Bolton. She wanted to go find you, but I guess she thought you wouldn't appreciate it. We figured you'd spend the night out there, you know, from stubbornness, then come home. We never dreamed—anyway. I went to bed finally, and when I woke up Gwen was gone." Stretch paused for a moment, then continued excitedly. "But wait a minute, Walter, I think she left you a note—you know, on the kitchen table."

  "Jesus, Stretch, that's it! That's it!" Then it was my turn to pause. The Feds might have missed Stretch, but they couldn't miss a note sitting on the kitchen table. So they'd have it, and I'd be out of luck. But then I thought: so what? That only meant they'd be the ones to save Gwen, not me. And the important thing was to save Gwen, right? "Stretch, would you go back home and see if you can get that note? You'll have to talk your way past a couple of soldiers. But look: if they won't let you in, tell them about the note, if they don't already know about it. Tell them it might be the key to finding the president, to everything. Let them take it, if they want, just so long as they go looking for Gwen."

  Stretch nodded. "I understand, Walter." He started putting on his pants. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll get in there." He fastened his belt with a determined flourish.

  I had every confidence in Stretch. When he put his mind to something, he was unstoppable. "I'll wait for you here," I said.

  "Right." He finished dressing, then stuck his sweaty running clothes in his briefcase. "Gwen will be fine, Walter," he promised me, "and the president will be fine, and everything will work out for the best. Just wait and see."

  "I believe you, Stretch." I didn't believe him. He gave me a reassuring pat and strode off to Louisburg Square.

  I was alone again. The storm clouds were closer; the wind was picking up; the boats bobbed a little more actively in the harbor. It wasn't that I disbelieved Stretch, exactly; it was just that I didn't trust his optimism as much as I did his self-confidence. History hadn't lent a lot of support to Stretch's habitual state of mind.

  I stared at the ruins of the Aquarium. No, optimism was generally not called for. I caught a quick reflection of myself in a shard of broken glass, and I didn't like what I saw. Wouldn't it have been instructive, I thought, if people in the old days could have had a museum of the future, instead of gawking at turtles and dolphins and whatever else they kept in the Aquarium? Not people's dreams of the future, or politicians' promises, but this thing I was actually living in. Maybe I could be a specimen, to help them temper their optimism with a little reality.

  Here, children, is an example of the quite rare oculis privatus postnuclearensis, or post-nuclear private eve. This creature haunts the subways and ruined buildings of his world, scrounging meals of little nutritional value and rarely, if ever, doing any real work. Note this specimen's bandaged arm and bruised face, indicative of the dangers he encounters in his nomadic-existence. Note also the slightly glazed expression, often associated with the general intellectual deterioration of this era. Don't go too close to the cage, Jennifer! Do you see the gun stuck in the waistband of his patched and faded jeans? Children, you must never provoke an oculis privatus postnuclearensis.

  I grinned a savage grin through the bars of my cage. "C'mere, little Jennifer. I won't hurt you. Everything is fine in the future. The war drum throbs no longer, and the battle flags are furled. Haven't they taught you that in class, Jennifer?"

  I don't think Jennifer would have believed me. The vision faded.

  I started thinking about Gwen instead. Maybe the Feds had already saved her. Not likely, though. If she was saved, the president was saved, and the vigil would be over. But the vigil was still very much in progress. So Gwen would be sitting somewhere, probably not far away from here, and probably alone as well. Perhaps she'd be daydreaming, not of the old days, but of rescue, of a knight in shining armor. I supposed she would settle for a banged-up friend with a gun in his waistband—or even for a few hundred soldiers who couldn't have cared less about her, but were willing to free her while in the neighborhood taking care of more important business.

  Maybe, I thought, she wasn't alone. Maybe she was sitting with President Kramer in some grim warehouse room, getting her interview at last. Would the president still be as passionate and convincing as she had been at the Federal compound with me?

  Or had a couple of days with TSAR subdued her, shaken her faith in herself and in America? I had a feeling it would take a lot to shake President Kramer's faith.

  It was getting dark now, and cold. It would be raining soon. What was the problem? Suppose the Feds hadn't believed Stretch. Suppose they had carted him off for torture. The Feds were stupid enough to do something like that. Or maybe they'd all just left without me. Why bother with the Sandman? He'd simply screw it up somehow.

  Finally I heard footsteps over the rocks and broken cobblestones, and I saw Stretch's tiny figure approaching. He still clutched his briefcase. I stood up and hurried over to him. "What happened?"

  His face was glum; my heart sank. He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. He handed it to me. I read Gwen's familiar handwriting in the fading light.

  Walter: Meet me at the Globe before noon.

  Please.

  Love, G.

  "I'm sorry, Walter," Stretch whispered.

  Chapter 18

  I sat down on a rock and stared some more at the useless note.

  "People from the government had already searched the place," Stretch said. "Or I guess it was just General Cowens, according to the soldiers I talked to. He saw the note, but apparently he'd already been to the Globe so it didn't help him either."

  "Did the soldiers give you a hard time?"

  "Not really. They were just looking for you. They were the guys who took you to the president that time—remember? The short guy with the bad skin, and the taller guy who stutters?"

  I nodded.

  "Anyway, I was afraid they might follow me, but I don't think they did. They seemed concerned about you, Walter. They said if I saw you I should tell you to turn yourself in. They said things'll be a lot worse for you if you're caught."

  "Okay," I said. "You've told me."

  Stretch sat down next to me. "It'll be all right, Walter," he said. "Believe me."

  I didn't bother to respond. This time, I don't think he believed himself.

  Stretch opened his briefcase. "I brought some other stuff," he said. "Papers and things that were lying around. I thought—you're the private eye. Maybe you could find something Cowens overlooked."

  I reached into the briefcase and grabbed a sheet at random.

  Walter: Buy bread!

  G.

  I closed my eyes. This was not helpful. I remembered reading the note a couple of weeks ago. And I remembered that I had never bought the bread.

  Her penmanship was so much like my own, I thought. I had taught her to write, back when we were little more than children, spending an idyllic winter together in an undiscovered fallout shelter. If she were to die...

  I tried to stomp out the melodrama. Unprofessional. I reached into the briefcase again and took out a notebook. It was empty. I flung it at the harbor and grabbed again. A reminder to pay the iceman. A draft of a letter to the tax department. A doodle. It was the detritus of our everyday lives, not the fabulous clues I needed to solve this case, to save Gwen.

  "I'm sorry, Walter," Stretch said again.

  "Not your fault, Stretch."

  And then, at the bottom of the briefcase, I found what I needed: a scrap of a yellowed envelope with a single word written on it. I studied the word in the fading light. "Where did you find this?" I asked Stretch.

  He looked at the envelope. "Gee, Walter, I'm not sure. Maybe—maybe on that little desk in your bedroom. Is it important?"

  I could see Gwen stopping off at home to change her clothes before following up on her lead. Or maybe she returned home to look for me—hoping that I had stubbornly ignored her note and was sitting in my third-floor room and bro
oding about the case. Perhaps she quickly emptied her pockets before leaving, and this one scrap of paper got left behind as she hurried off to be kidnapped. A scrap of paper that Cowens would have no reason to pay any attention to, because he is an outsider, and therefore can never really understand us. "Yeah. I think it's important, Stretch."

  The two of us stared at the word scrawled in pencil on the yellowed paper:

  mummy

  "I don't get it," Stretch said. "Whose mother? Gwen's an orphan."

  "We're all orphans," I murmured. I stood up. "I've gotta get going."

  Stretch scrambled to his feet. "Wait a minute, Walter. You have to tell me what you're up to."

  Did I? "If I told you," I said, "you'd just want to bring in the Feds."

  "Well, what of it? You were willing to bring in the Feds when I went home to get Gwen's note."

  "Only if there was no other way to get it. Look, if the Feds are involved, they have only one priority: saving the president. If Gwen happens to get saved too, well, that's okay, but no big deal. Also, what if I'm right about Bolton? I haven't entirely given up on that theory, you know. It'd be just what he wanted, to have us go tell him we know where he's keeping the president."

  "And you won't even take me along?"

  I shook my head. "This is a job for a professional, Stretch. You'd only get in the way."

  Stretch glared at me. "I don't believe any of your reasons," he said. "You're just trying to be a hero. You've botched everything in this case and now you want to make up for your mistakes."

  "That's not true." At least, not exactly. "Would I risk Gwen's life just so I can be a hero? I haven't got time to argue with you, Stretch. Just go back home and try to relax. Everything will be fine. Trust me."

  Stretch continued to glare. He didn't exude trust. Where was his optimism when I needed it? He didn't say anything; he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere with me. I could be as stubborn as he was. I turned and walked away from him finally, and he didn't complain, and he didn't follow.