The Distance Beacons (18 page)

"Sit," she said. She looked grim, too. People rushed in and out. Phones rang. My head hurt. And my ribs too, I suddenly noticed. The headache had masked the other pain until now. I bet I looked as grim as everyone else.

Finally I got the word from Lisa, and I entered Bolton's office.

The governor was in his shirtsleeves, tie askew, and he was pacing in front of his flags. He didn't look grim, exactly; he looked intense, energized, ready for battle; his scar seemed to glow. It occurred to me that his opposition to the referendum and Kramer's visit to Boston had been vindicated; that probably helped his mood, no matter how bad things got. "Sit down, Sands," he said as I entered. "How's your head?"

I sat down. "Apparently I'm going to survive," I said bravely. "But my health has certainly gone downhill since I started this case."

"I'm sorry that Fenneman carted you off afterward. That was stupid."

"He and Cowens apparently think I had something to do with this. I didn't."

"Of course not. But you're a local, you see, and that automatically makes you suspect." He paused and looked reflective. "I've had to face that kind of attitude for years," he continued finally. "You can be both a local and a patriot. Why does that have to be a contradiction? But they can't see that—it's us against them in their book. They're the occupying force, and their job is to make the locals knuckle under." Bolton paused, and then sat down behind his desk.

I felt a twinge of sympathy for Bolton, a traitor to many of his fellow locals, but at the same time still a suspicious character to hard-line Feds, unappreciated by everyone while he struggled to keep things going in New England. But I had my own problems. I waited for Bolton to come to the point.

Apparently he wasn't quite ready. He sat down, but he continued to be reflective. "President Kramer was different," he said. "She wanted to get past these Federal-local problems. She wanted everyone to share the same dream. But she pushed too hard too fast; she wanted everything to happen yesterday. And now you see what we have to face. She was quite interested in you, incidentally. We talked about you at dinner last night. People like you are the future, she said. I don't know about that, but at least she saw you as something more than a problem to be solved."

That was nice. But my head hurt, and I didn't really care about what had happened at dinner last night.

Bolton finally stopped dithering and pushed an envelope across the desk to me. "This was found taped to the outer door downstairs about forty-five minutes ago," he said. I stared at it. "To The Fed Bolton" was typed on the outside. I turned it upside down, and a gold bracelet fell out. It didn't take Sam Spade to figure out whose bracelet it was. I took out the sheet of paper that came with the bracelet and read what was on it.

We have the Fed Kramer.

The Feds must withdraw from Boston. Now.

When the withdrawal is complete, you get her back.

If you disobey: first torture, then painful death.

The Second American Revolution

Beneath the typed threat was a handwritten message:

Francis: They mean what they say. Oh God, it's begun already. Please help!

AK

"This is her handwriting, huh?" I asked Bolton as I handed the letter back to him.

He nodded.

"Any leads on where they have her?"

"We found the car abandoned in an alley in the Back Bay. We're searching the area, but I'm not hopeful. They probably just switched cars, and now they could be anywhere."

"But one of them was in town forty-five minutes ago."

"True, but how much should we read into that?"

I didn't know. "Do you have roadblocks set up, things like that?"

"I'm sure General Cowens is being very efficient and thorough. But let's face it, there's only so much his people can do. That's why I need you to stay on the case."

I closed my eyes. "I haven't accomplished very much so far," I pointed out.

"Well, here's your chance to make up for it. There's a thousand-dollar reward, incidentally."

That didn't excite me, for some reason. A part of me—maybe most of me—wanted to go home and get into bed and rest my aching head, and let somebody else worry about finding President Kramer. But another part of me wanted to solve this damn case. To prove that I was not as incompetent as I felt right now. And to get back at those bastards who beat me up every chance they got. "Can you keep Cowens and Fenneman off my back?" I asked Bolton.

"I can do my best. But you've got to understand how hard they're taking this—especially General Cowens. He's not likely to care who he disobeys, or what rules he breaks, if he thinks it might help him get Kramer back. So just try to stay clear of him."

Reasonable advice. "Okay," I said. I considered. "What will you do besides offer a reward? I take it you're not going to give in to TSAR's demand?"

"Of course not. The American government does not give in to terrorists. The president must be returned unharmed. If she is not, there will be serious consequences for the people of New England."

He sounded as if he were rehearsing a statement for the press. "Um, what would those consequences be, exactly?" I asked.

Bolton folded his arms. "If you were a member of Congress down in Atlanta, what would you want to do, Sands? Kramer talks them into radical changes in how we run things up here, just the way she talks everyone into everything. They give in reluctantly, because they risk losing New England altogether if the referendum fails. And this is the result. So how do you think they're responding right now?"

I didn't need to know much about the Feds to come up with an answer. "I think they'll probably want to nail New England to the wall. Back to the old days—martial law, troops on every corner, no local say in anything. Show us who's boss."

Bolton nodded. "You get the picture. So find her, Sands. Fast. This isn't just a Federal problem. It's everyone's problem."

I stood up. "I'll do my best."

Bolton picked up a pen and started scribbling. I walked out of his office.

* * *

I trudged home in the rain from Government Center. Even though it wasn't dark yet, the streets were practically deserted, except for the occasional jeep rushing by. The people I did see seemed stunned and nervous. They averted their faces as they passed, as if afraid that someone would detect some glint of guilt in their eyes and turn them in for the reward. If my experience was any indication, the Feds would be pulling in a lot of people with little more justification than that.

Bad news. I didn't know if Kramer's speech would ultimately have turned the tide in favor of the referendum, but it would certainly have improved people's perception of the Feds. Now, as Bolton pointed out, the Feds wouldn't care about anyone's perceptions. And that would make life worse for everybody.

Unless somehow the case was cracked before anything bad happened to the president. Well, maybe it could be cracked. TSAR couldn't be operating in a total vacuum, I figured. They had to have friends and relatives and neighbors. Maybe the Feds would get lucky and pull in the right people. Maybe the reward would make someone rethink his loyalties. Maybe a passerby would notice something out of the ordinary and dutifully report it to the authorities.

What role could an independent local subcontractor play in all of this,
I wondered. Not a very large one, I decided, unless his head stopped hurting enough so that he could get some bright ideas. I slowed down. There had been something... but it disappeared in the mental fog once again, and there was nothing to do but keep on walking and hope the fog would lift.

Stretch was home cooking supper. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I walked in the door and smelled his stew. Stretch came running from the kitchen when he heard the door slam behind me. "Walter! Are you all right? Gwen said you'd been—"

"I'm okay. Is she here?"

Stretch shook his head. "She's off trying to track down what happened to you after the soldiers took you away. What an awful, awful day."

"Tell me about it. But let me eat first."

Stretch insisted on cleaning my head wound first, and then I ate some of his stew. It felt good to be sitting at our old table in our old kitchen, with the pot simmering on the stove and Gwen's plants thriving on the windowsill above the sink and the useless electric light hanging from the ceiling. Nothing like the threat of torture to make you appreciate unthreatening everyday life.

I even enjoyed listening to Stretch, who was frightened and confused and looking for reassurances that I was unable to give him. "It's just some thugs, right, Walter? The government will understand that. It won't allow all the progress President Kramer has made to disappear overnight. Right, Walter?"

"I guess so, Stretch. But I'm not the one to ask."

"But maybe you'll find her—and then everything will be okay. Do you think you'll be able to find her, Walter?"

"I'll try, Stretch. I'll try."

After supper I went upstairs to lie down and await Gwen's return. I could imagine how worried she was; it was a nightmare come true for her. But at least it had a happy ending: here I was, safe and sound, instead of dead or in the clutches of the fiendish Feds.

I wondered if anything else would have a happy ending.
If you disobey: first torture, then painful death.
And the Feds were going to disobey—that was clear. It was unlikely TSAR would kill the president for a long time; she was their only bargaining chip, after all. But they could certainly make her suffer. And the rest of us would suffer along with her.

I closed my eyes, wondering if the day's excitement would bring the sleep that almost always eluded me. No such luck, I decided soon enough. My memory kept replaying the scene in the plaza: the gunfire; the green car appearing out of nowhere; the president's expression; the masked men approaching; the attack; the pain. It was as if the events themselves had been too much to comprehend at the time, and now my brain had to view them over and over again in order to get them under control; and it had to control them before I could rest.

The president talking to me.

The gunfire, the people screaming and sprawling.

The car roaring out of the darkness.

The bodyguards dragging the president down.

The masked men getting out of the car and walking toward me. And—and—

And the fog suddenly lifted, the events were under control. I opened my eyes. What did it all mean?
What was a clue, and what was life just happening to you?

I sat up. It wasn't much to go on, but it was something. Was it worth the hassle and the danger of investigating?

This isn't just a Federal problem. It's everyone's problem.

Apparently it was. I thought about waiting for Gwen. Maybe I could talk it over with her. Maybe she could help. But no, I would need help enough as it was. It was my case; I would solve it—or try to solve it—without her.

I got my gun, which I had left on the night table when I had left for Government Center. It occurred to me that if I had brought it with me I'd probably be dead—the masked men would certainly have used the other end of their submachine guns if I had tried to fire at them. Didn't matter. I went downstairs and found Stretch brooding in the parlor. "I'm going out to do a little investigating," I said. "Tell Gwen I'm okay. Tell her I love her."

"Sure, Walter." Stretch brightened. "Do you have a theory?"

"I dunno. Maybe. Is Linc's bicycle still in the basemen t?"

"I guess so."

I took a lamp and went into the basement. Sure enough, it was still there. I felt a twinge of guilt. Linc would not have wanted his bike used in trying to save the president of the United States. On the other hand, he would've done anything to help me be a private eye. It was okay. I brought the bike back upstairs. "Wish me luck, Stretch."

"Good luck, Walter. And please be careful."

"I'm always careful," I said, patting my wounded skull. I went out the front door and carried the bicycle down the steps. Stretch waved to me from the doorway as I pedaled off in the darkness in pursuit of the president.

Chapter 13