The Distance Beacons (10 page)

Dobler smiled. "Oh, you needn't worry about the referendum, Walter Sands."

Oh? "Why not? If the referendum succeeds, won't the government be stronger—more capable of forcing its will on you?"

Dobler continued to smile. Had he seen through me? Or was the idea just too absurd for him to contemplate seriously? "The government cannot succeed, Walter Sands," he said. "It cannot rule people who refuse to be ruled. It will crumble like its monuments in Washington, and we will be here to build on the ruins."

That wasn't what I wanted to hear. "How can you be sure?" I said, pressing the issue.

"Walter Sands, you seem more interested in the government than you are in our Church," Dobler observed. "Why is that?"

"Maybe I'm less convinced than you are in the inevitability of your triumph," I said. "I don't want to join you and then have the Feds come and draft me into their army, or make my kids go to their schools. I think we have to do more than just ignore the government and hope that it goes away."

Dobler nodded, and then abruptly sat down. Had he tired of the game, or finally made up his mind about me? In any case, it was clear that I had lost. "I don't think you're the type to enjoy our simple life of manual labor."

"Perhaps you could convert me."

"I'm sure I could. But right now I prefer to have you go away."

"Why is that?"

"Because it is better if the conversion comes from within."

"How does that happen?"

Dobler shrugged. "Stop riding in motor vehicles. Stop having friends with shotguns. And stop worrying about the Feds. Concentrate on what really matters. Then come back, and perhaps we can talk some more." He picked up his pen and started writing again. I hesitated for a moment, then left the balcony and went back inside the building.

Marva was nowhere in sight. Time to do a little snooping, I decided. I started down the hallway, not sure what I should be looking for, and opened a door at random. I saw what appeared to be an empty classroom, with about a dozen small chairs and desks facing me. There were plants on the windowsill, and several child-like watercolors on the wall; a couple were dim likenesses of Flynn Dobler. I felt a pang of regret: my experiences of school had been few and unpleasant. On the wall next to me was a hand-lettered sign:

Brother Flynn Says: Tomorrow Is Another Day!

I guess you don't have to be original, if nobody is allowed to read books.

I shut the door and continued down the hall. I heard some noise behind another door, and I opened it slowly. I couldn't be sure, but this room looked like some sort of chapel. Several people in the familiar robes and leather sandals sat on benches or knelt on the floor, their faces in their hands. At the front of the room was the same bent cross I had seen on top of the building; this one was surrounded by flowers. A couple of the people were muttering to themselves—praying for amnesia, perhaps?

A hand pulled me back. "You can go anywhere else you like, Walter Sands, but you are not allowed in the meditation area unless you are one of us."

It was Marva. She quietly shut the door. She didn't look distressed or angry at my snooping, but it was clear I wasn't going to see any more of the meditation area. "Sorry," I said. "Just curious."

She nodded and led me back downstairs. I decided to find out if I could extract some information from her. I wasn't optimistic. "Been with the church long?" I asked.

"All my life."

That confused me. "But I thought Flynn Dobler said the church has only been going for seven years."

She stopped and looked at me. "Before I came here, I wasn't alive," she replied simply.

"Oh. Why does it mean that much to you?"

"You've seen the world out there," she said. "By comparison, this is paradise. Don't you agree?"

She had a point. "You may be right," I said. "Brother Flynn suggested I should purify myself before I can enter paradise."

Marva nodded. "You'll be back," she said, with the certainty of the true believer.

She stopped at the front door and watched as I walked over to the van, where Mickey was waiting nervously for me. "Can go?" he asked.

"We can go."

She was still watching as Mickey started the van and quickly headed down the dirt road toward the ruined highway.

Chapter 7

The sun was setting as we made our way slowly back down Route 2 toward Boston. It had been a long day.

Mickey and I discussed the Church of the New Beginning as he drove. The very idea of the place appalled him. "
Nothing
from the old days?" he asked in disbelief. "No motors or anything?"

For Mickey, a world without motors is a world without meaning. "I guess maybe if someone there invents a motor on his own, it'd be okay," I said. "If he could prove it wasn't something he remembered from before."

"Weirdoes," Mickey muttered.

I thought of Marva:
By comparison, this is paradise
. "They seem happy."

"Well they shouldn't be."

There didn't seem to be any response to that. I thought about Flynn Dobler. Henry was right: Dobler certainly seemed smart enough to pull off something against the president, and he certainly had the motivation. He hadn't taken the bait when I started bad-mouthing the government, but no one with any brains would have, I supposed. And if Marva was any indication, he had followers who would be more than willing to do his bidding.

Unfortunately, none of this added up to very much. Maybe he was a fiendish plotter against the government, or maybe he was just another one of the many sincere people around nowadays who carry their ideas a little too far. I had no real basis for deciding which was the truth.

And I also couldn't decide how I felt about his ideas.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/The way to dusty death
, I thought. But would Flynn Dobler's tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow be any better? I had no idea.

Mickey turned on the headlights. "Didn't get very far on your case, huh?" he remarked.

"Afraid not. But I've got time."

"I know you can do it, Wally. And look on the bright side. You've got Bobby all worried. You told him we'd be back by dark."

I smiled. "There's that," I said. But if driving in general made me nervous, driving after the dark outside the city terrified me. And it didn't make me any calmer when Mickey pulled the van over to the side of the road and stopped. "What's the problem?" I asked.

"Oh, I dunno. Radiator hose, maybe."

"Can you fix it?"

"Have to take a look."

Mickey didn't sound worried, but his response wasn't particularly encouraging, either. He got out of the van and went around to the back, where he rummaged for tools and parts. I Picked up the shotgun and stared out into the darkness. Shortly before I went to England, Mickey and Bobby and I had been ambushed by a couple of O'Malley's men on another highway.

It had not been a pleasant experience. I doubted that anything so well planned would happen out here, but there were enough crazies lurking in the woods and the abandoned suburbs to make me long to be anywhere else—even Charlestown.

Mickey came around to the front of the van and started tinkering under the hood. His flashlight cast a feeble gleam in the darkness. "How's it going?" I called out to him.

"Okay, I guess," he said.

This did not greatly encourage me. Wild dogs started howling somewhere nearby. And then a car approached, chugging mufflerless along the road. It slowed as it pulled alongside us, and I tensed. Then it speeded up and roared past, leaving us to our fate. That was okay with me. I had a feeling I would have done the same thing, if I had been in the car. Good Samaritans can too easily end up dead Samaritans.

"Going any better?" I asked Mickey.

"Maybe."

He tinkered for a few more minutes, then closed the hood and got back into the van. "Fixed?" I asked, daring to hope.

"Well, let's give it a try." Mickey started the van, and we headed slowly forward. After a couple of minutes he said, "I guess we'll make it," and I allowed myself to exhale. We crept back to the city without incident.

Mickey dropped me off in Louisburg Square. "Thanks, Mickey," I said. "I owe you one."

"Happy to help. Those people gave me the creeps, though."

"Try not to think about them. And tell Bobby I'll pay him for the use of the van."

Mickey merely grinned. I got out, and Mickey drove off to South Boston.

It felt good to be back in the city, on my home turf. The square was deserted and dark, except for the flickering yellow beams of lamps in a few windows; but the square was not the wilds of Concord, and my town house and my little family were just a few steps away. I turned to take those steps, and perhaps I relaxed a little too soon—you should never relax in this world—or perhaps it was a little too dark.

Whatever the reason, I didn't see the two men until it was too late.

They came out of the shadows by the front steps. They wore masks. They were silent and very efficient. One of them grabbed me from behind, clamped a gloved hand over my mouth, and twisted my right arm behind my back. The other set to work on me. I tried fending off his blows with my free arm and even kicking out at him, but the first guy just increased the pressure on my arm, and pretty soon it seemed easier just to take my punishment.

I don't know how long the punishment lasted—a few seconds, a few years. But when it was over, the square was still dark and silent, and the men were gone, and the steps to my house seemed like a mountain I would never be able to climb.

I tried to call for help, but all that came out was a kind of strangled whimper. I thought about staying where I was; perhaps I would get lucky and die soon. But finally I decided I would probably linger in agony for hours, so I started up the mountain. In a way, this was even harder than the attack, because the pain was self-inflicted: my ribs didn't have to feel quite this bad; a little rest would do my shoulder a world of good. But somehow I made it to the top.

And then what? Reaching the knob was out of the question; the door would have been locked, anyway. I knocked, but my knuckles barely had the strength to scrape the wood. So I lay on the cold stone and started to think about whimpering in earnest.

And then I heard someone whistling "Good Day Sunshine."

It could only have been Stretch, home from another sewer meeting.

"retch," I managed to mumble.

I heard light footsteps, and then saw Stretch's tiny form hovering like an angel of mercy above me. "Holy Jesus," he gasped. Stretch never swears. And that swear was the last thing I heard for quite a while.

* * *

I opened an eye and saw Gwen staring down at me. "wen," I said.

"Soon," she replied. "You'll be better soon. Nothing's broken."

That wasn't what I meant. I tried to shake my head, but that didn't turn out to be such a good idea. Gwen leaned over and kissed my cheek, and that was a very good idea indeed. It didn't matter what I had meant. I closed my eye.

"Is he conscious?" I could hear Stretch whisper.

"Yes."

"Should we show him?"

"Not now, Stretch."

I reluctantly opened the eye again. "Wha'?" I asked.

Stretch came into view. "It's just, well, this paper was tacked to the door, Walter."

He held up something white in front of my face. I opened my other eye and tried to focus. Finally the piece of paper came clear, along with the message typed on it.

Stop meddling, or next time you die.

Boston is ours.

THE FEDS MUST GO!

The Second American Revolution

I closed my eyes once more. I was not happy.

"I guess you made too much progress on your case, Walter," Stretch said.

Funny, I hadn't noticed much progress myself. I tried to think, but my brain wasn't interested. I felt myself drifting away—from the pain and from the thinking. I would have to face it all soon enough, but not now, not now.