The Distance Beacons (32 page)

"You can't prove any of it," President Kramer said, repeating my thought.

I tried not to look relieved. That was tantamount to a confession, as far as I was concerned. My theory was right. Finally.

Gwen came to the same conclusion—or maybe she had believed me from the beginning (although I kind of doubted that). At any rate, she spoke now for the first time since we had found the president. "We don't have to prove it," she pointed out. "I just have to write a story for the
Globe
. Not everyone might be convinced, but people would have doubts—enough people to make your referendum go down the drain."

President Kramer turned and looked at Gwen—also for the first time, I think. She seemed unimpressed. This did not endear her to me. "But how will you write the story," she asked, "if you're in jail?" And then she smiled. "You two were clearly the masterminds of this whole plot. Your own kidnapping, Ms. Phillips, was just a ruse to divert suspicion. And of course people already know that you're guilty, Walter. The two of you killed Cowens when he tried to rescue me. Why should people believe anything else?"

The president sat down on the trunk of a statue and ran a hand through her hair, shaking out some of the dust. She seemed in command of the situation now, no longer required to act the role of the terrified victim. "You know, Walter, in a way it's all your fault," she said. "We had worked up the plan, Cowens and I, but I was undecided about actually going through with it. As you say, it was awfully risky. Even after Cowens had posted the first threat from TSAR on the governor's door, even after I arrived in Boston, I still wasn't sure. Maybe I didn't need to go to such lengths. Maybe my speech would do the trick, and I wouldn't have to resort to the kidnapping. I decided to put it to a test. You were the test. I wanted to talk to the kind of person I needed to convert. You seemed to be just right, so I summoned you the night before the speech. I felt confident I would succeed."

I thought back to that night, the intensity of her belief, the power of her words and her physical presence. "You almost did," I said.

"But in fact I failed. And if I couldn't convert you, alone, just the two of us, how was I going to accomplish what I wanted with the rest of New England? So I had to go ahead with the plan. Don't you see? The alternative was more of the same—the country, the world limping along without purpose, without hope, lurching toward more wars and more deaths and more despair. And I would know that I hadn't done all I could to prevent it. I couldn't simply let it happen, couldn't let my opportunity slip away. I had to take charge of events. And that's what I did."

She fell silent. I listened to the staccato rhythm of the rain, the hissing of the torch. I felt a twinge of what I had felt before when she had spoken to me, when she had shown me her dream. Here we were, standing in the rubble of the old civilization, with only a leaky roof between us and an uncaring universe. We weren't very much, and we weren't going very far. Didn't we need someone to take charge of events? Didn't we need someone who had a dream?

But the twinge went away, and as before I remained stubbornly unconvinced. "Arresting us might not prevent us from getting the story out," I said.

"Maybe not," the president agreed. "But consider this option. I can let you move down south—with enough money to start a new life and forget about everything that's happened here."

"That's the deal Cowens offered his thugs."

She nodded. "And it's a pretty good deal, if you ask me."

"How do we know we can trust you?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't think you have a choice."

I looked at Gwen. There is always a choice. It wasn't up to me to speak for both of us, though. I had been given my chance to leave Boston once before, but this was a first for Gwen. And it wasn't such an easy or obvious decision, after all. You struggle and suffer all your life, and suddenly you are offered a way out. And it's not as if you're doing something so terribly wrong by accepting the offer. On the contrary, many people would call it patriotism. If you turned it down, they would despise you for disobeying your leader.

Gwen glanced at me, but didn't seem to need any soulful exchange of telepathic insights. She turned to the president. "Do you really think a government based on deceit is worth having?" she asked.

President Kramer sighed. These stubborn New Englanders. "Would you really prefer anarchy based on the truth?" she responded.

I was pleased that Gwen hadn't been tempted by the president's offer; I hadn't expected she would be. But oddly, what bothered her didn't particularly bother me. A private eye can live with deceit, even if a reporter can't. What bothered me was death. "Those corpses out there are your fault, not ours," I said to the president. "When is the killing going to stop?"

"There wouldn't have been any corpses if you hadn't interfered," she pointed out. "No one had to be killed for my plan to work. But if the plan did require some deaths—so what? What makes you think that the killing can stop? Nothing I've ever read or experienced suggests that it can. You just have to kill for the right reason. Lincoln killed to keep America united, and I would do the same. Maybe you wouldn't. But if you could prevent another nuclear war by shooting a few people, wouldn't you pull the trigger? Shouldn't you?"

She stared at me, waiting for an answer. And it suddenly occurred to me that I had the future of America in my hands. Literally. The guns that Gwen and I were holding seemed to have been forgotten in the course of our conversation with the president. President Kramer had said we had no choice but to accept her offer, but here was an obvious alternative. Shoot her, and walk away from it all. Who would know? Freddy, locked up downstairs? Shoot him too.

Was that killing for the right reason? Why not? We were in danger. Her offer of a new life down south was probably a sham; she was much better off with us dead. If I killed her, I would still be in trouble, but I would be master of my own fate, instead of dependent on Kramer's good will.

If she were dead, the result might be repression, or anarchy, or some awful combination of the two. But, like the corpses, that would be her fault, not ours. It had been her plan; she would have to take the consequences.

I looked at the gun. As usual, the future was contained in a weapon. I thought of Santoro, and Grimes, and Cowens. Of the general's memories. Of the terror in the thug's eyes. Of water plopping down onto motionless bodies. I thought too damn much. I had to make a decision.

But there was someone else making a decision, too. Gwen suddenly dropped her gun and turned away from the president. "I'm leaving," she said. "I'm going to write my story. Arrest me if you like, but the truth will be told." And she started to walk out of the room.

Well, I couldn't disagree with that. Maybe, I thought, I could keep the president here until—

But I didn't have time to finish my thought. Before I could, four men stepped out of the shadows of the next room and confronted us.

Chapter 23

There were three regular-sized fellows, and one midget. Two of the regular-sized fellows wore uniforms and carried guns.

"Hi, Stretch," I said to the midget. "How'd you know where we were?"

"I've heard of mummies too," Stretch replied. "I'm just not a private eye. It takes me a little longer to put things together."

"How long have you been out there?"

"Long enough."

Governor Bolton stood next to Stretch. He was staring past Gwen at President Kramer, who had risen from the statue. Just behind the governor were my buddies Danny and Gus, looking perplexed.

"So you heard?" President Kramer said to Bolton.

He nodded.

"Then you understand that this is a very serious situation."

He nodded again.

"I know you haven't approved of the referendum," she went on. "But you've got to put that behind you now. If you let these people go, you're jeopardizing America's future. They'll destroy the years of work we've put into rebuilding our country. You can blame me for everything if you like, but you can't let that happen."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

The president paused. "Order your soldiers to kill them, Governor Bolton," she said.

Bolton's gaze shifted from the president to me. I studied him. Standing next to Stretch almost made him look tall; the scar by his right eye almost made him look tough. I had been wrong about him before; I had no idea what he was going to do now.

I tried to think about practicalities. I was still holding my gun. I could take out Danny or Gus, but not both. Gwen had dropped her gun, so she couldn't help. We were dead if Bolton gave the word.

Bolton's expression changed as he stared at me. The almost-toughness seemed to melt away, and what replaced it was a mixture of fear and weariness I had seen too often before. It is the expression of people facing a universe too cruel and complicated for humans to live in—but they must live. A universe where every choice is a bad one—but choices must be made. The Feds had sheltered Bolton for a long time from the complications and the choices; but now the shelter was gone. "This isn't right," he whispered.

"It doesn't matter if it's right," the president said. Her voice was soft, persuasive. "This is your country. This is America."

Bolton looked at her for a long time, and then turned silently away.

President Kramer grimaced, then shrugged. She didn't need Bolton. She turned to the soldiers. "I'm your commander-in-chief," she said. "I order you to kill these people."

Danny and Gus looked at each other. Their eyes were wide with fear.
A soldier is supposed to obey the president,
I recalled Danny saying a long time ago. "Couldn't we just arrest them?" Danny asked, his voice trembling.

The president shook her head. "That's not good enough, boys. You must protect your country. I know it's hard for you, but I will take the responsibility. You must obey orders. Kill them."

"B-b-but they didn't do anything," Gus protested.

The president didn't bother to respond. She simply stared at the two frightened young men with eyes that were used to having their way.

Danny and Gus raised their weapons like good soldiers.

And slowly aimed them at their leader.

"Walter," Danny said, "I guess your friend should go write her story now."

* * *

It was decided that Gus would drive us to the
Globe
and then get reinforcements to clean things up; the museum would never be the same again. Bolton walked with us out to the rotunda while Danny remained behind to guard the president. "I don't know what will happen," the governor said. "We'll keep her here until you write your story, Ms. Phillips, but after that? I'll have to talk to Atlanta. There'll be an impeachment or something, I suppose—unless she can talk her way out of it. This is a terrible situation."

"Just don't take it out on the locals," I said.

"I just hope the locals don't take it out on the Feds," he murmured.

Still caught between the two worlds. I didn't envy Bolton. His universe had just become a lot more complicated.

We stood for a moment in the rotunda and surveyed the carnage. Bolton shook his head. "All this to pass a referendum," he said. "What a waste."

"Can I quote you?" Gwen asked.

He sighed. "You can quote me," he said. And then he returned to the president.

We noticed Stretch standing by the staircase on the far side of the rotunda. Not surprisingly, he looked unhappy. Gwen went over and put her arm around him. "It's okay, Stretch," she said. "Things will get better."

This was Stretch's most deeply held belief, but it didn't seem to comfort him now. Maybe he needed something besides comfort. "How come you didn't do what I told you to do back at the waterfront?" I demanded. "I said to go home and relax. You could've got Gwen and me killed, coming here."

Stretch glared at me. "I did go home," he said. "And Gus and Danny were there, guarding the place. We got to talking. About Bolton, and how bad your theory was. And about mummies. And we decided we'd better do something about all of it. So we came here and saved your life. So how about a little gratitude?"

He was right. I supposed I wasn't cut out to be a loner. I supposed my friends were just going to help me, whether I wanted them to or not. And I supposed that was okay. But I didn't feel like saying all that, so I simply grinned at him.