The Distance Beacons (19 page)

Riding a bicycle at night is not something I recommend. I had a little flashlight with some precious batteries, but it couldn't do much to dispel the darkness. Still, I didn't have time to walk—and walking is not much safer.

The streets were entirely empty now; everyone was indoors, trying to stay out of the way of the Feds. I was reminded of the awful time of the Frenzy, when to go out after dark was to risk death—or worse—at the hands of mobs whose every inhibition disappeared when the sun went down. Perhaps this fear was not quite as bad—the Feds weren't crazy, after all—but it was bad enough. I was careful to duck out of the way the few times I heard a car approach. I had no desire to get hauled back to the Nashua Street Jail to explain why I was out on the streets.

Bobby Gallagher's warehouse in South Boston was locked up tight. I pounded on the metal door. "It's Walter," I called. "Lemme in."

Eventually the door swung open and Doctor J peered out. "Gee, Wally," he said. "Whatcha doin' here?"

I brought my bicycle inside. Brutus started barking at me. "I've got a business proposition for your boss. And Mickey. Are they in?"

"Of course they're in. Where else would they be?"

"Are you crazy, Wally?" Bobby called down from the top of the stairs.

I went up the stairs to him while Brutus went wild with indignation. "I need to talk to you and Mickey," I said.

"Couldn't it wait till morning? This ain't the night to be cruising through the city."

"I understand. But no, it can't wait."

"Geez. Must be important. Step into my office."

Bobby's office was a tasteful blend of used office furniture and orange shag carpeting and fake-wood paneling and water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles. I sat on a gray metal folding chair and waited while Bobby collected Mickey from somewhere in the warren of rooms on the second floor. Doctor J also came upstairs, and in a couple of minutes the meeting was ready to convene.

"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 cross 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?"