The Distance Beacons (20 page)

Marva shook her head.

"Would it help jog your memory if I threatened to put a bullet into Brother Flynn?"

Her knees appeared to buckle. "I don't know anything about the president," she whispered. "I swear. Please don't shoot Brother Flynn."

"Don't worry, Marva," Dobler said. "He isn't going to do anything. He's not the type."

How did he know my type? "Are you going to risk Brother Flynn's life, Marva," I said, "on the chance that I'm not the type?"

She looked at me, then looked at Dobler, sitting up in his bed. And then she leaped on top of him. "You'll have to shoot me first," she said to me over her shoulder. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Dobler seemed a little uncomfortable with Marva on top of him—and maybe a little disgusted. "Look," he said to me. "Search the place all you want. I'll come with you if you like, and you can hold your gun to my head and everyone will see you mean business. Will that satisfy you that she's not here?"

Marva continued to look back at me over her shoulder. Her hands were pressed against the wall behind the bed, and she was tensed to accept her martyrdom. Maybe she
wanted
to become a martyr. My head started to hurt. "Let's go," I said. Marva reluctantly got off Dobler. He got out of bed and put on a robe. Marva averted her eyes while he was naked. "Tell us what you want to see," Dobler said when he was dressed, "and we'll show it to you."

"This building first," I said.

Dobler nodded. "Marva, light a lamp," he ordered. Marva did as she was told, and we set out, poking our heads into the classroom, the meditation area (again), several offices, and other rooms whose purposes escaped me. No president. Nobody. "Where are all your followers?" I asked.

"They live in their own cabins around the farmland," Dobler said. "We'll visit every one of them, if that's what it will take to satisfy you. We'll visit the barns. We'll visit the outhouses. Whatever you want."

He sounded almost bored now. His boredom angered me. Why was he so sure of himself?

Probably because he was innocent.

"Let's go," I said.

We went outside: Marva in the lead with her lamp, then Dobler, then me, with my flashlight and gun. We walked along a rocky path that led from the main building back toward the farmland. We had gone maybe a hundred feet when I tripped over a rock and fell. My gun clattered away from me. I crawled quickly after it, but Marva was quicker. She stooped down and picked it up, then aimed it, trembling, at my face. "Don't move," she whispered.

I stayed on my knees. I glanced at Dobler. His arms were folded. He was staring at Marva. There was a moment of silence as I waited for him to decide my fate. "Give the gun back," he ordered her gently.

She looked at him in dismay. "But Brother Flynn—"

"Give it back," he repeated. "We don't use guns. Guns are part of the past. Guns are evil. You know that."

Marva hesitated for just a moment, and then put the gun on the ground in front of me.

"Shall we continue?" Dobler said.

I took the gun and stood up. My head felt awful. I didn't want to be here anymore. "I've seen enough," I said. "Sorry to bother you."

Dobler shrugged. "There's plenty left to show you."

"That's all right." I considered. "Do you have any idea who might have kidnapped the president? The group calls themselves The Second American Revolution, but no one seems to have heard of them."

Dobler considered in turn. "I suppose there's no reason why I should tell you if I did. It doesn't matter, though. I haven't heard of them either. The only person I know of who hates the government enough and is smart enough to be behind something like this is a man named Henry Fisher."

I would've laughed if I hadn't been so depressed, if my head hadn't hurt so much. "I've heard of the guy," I said. "Thanks." I turned to leave.

"Sands!"

I paused. "Yes?"

"Concentrate on what really matters, Walter Sands," Dobler said. "You are a very confused young man."

I guess you didn't have to be very smart to figure that out. I started the long walk back toward the van.

* * *

Concentrate on what really matters. What was that? People like Kramer and Dobler knew; apparently I didn't. All I knew was that I wasn't a private eye, I had never really been a private eye, my first case was a gift from my friends, and my delusions seemed to have permanently disabled me from carrying out Dobler's injunction. And my head hurt.

Mickey was waiting for me in the van, his shotgun at the ready. He looked at me with surprise as I climbed into the passenger's side, alone. "No president?"

I shook my head.

"Um, were you wrong about her being here, or did you just not find her?"

"I was wrong, I guess."

Mickey tried to hide his disappointment. No reward. No car. "Well, maybe you'll come up with another theory, Walter. It's tough being a private eye."

I turned away and looked out the window into the darkness. Mickey hesitated for a moment, then started the van and headed back to Boston.

* * *

In Louisburg Square, I asked Mickey to wait until I was safely inside my house. It had been such a wonderful day so far, I didn't want to spoil it for myself by getting beaten up again. I got the bike out of the van and walked carefully toward the front steps. Nobody was lurking in the shadows, however, and I made it inside without any further damage. Mickey gave a quick toot of his horn and drove off to Southie. I closed the door, turned, and immediately noticed the dull glow of lamplight in the parlor.

Gwen was sitting in a wing chair, half-asleep, a quilt wrapped around her. "Walter?" she murmured groggily.

"The one and only." I left the bike in the foyer and plopped myself down on the sofa opposite her.

"Are you all right, Walter?"

"I'll live."

She roused herself from her dreams and came over to see me. She examined the bump in my head, studied the expression on my face. "What happened tonight?" she asked. "Stretch said—"

"I had a theory. About Flynn Dobler. I got Mickey to drive me up to Concord, and I talked to the guy. My theory was wrong."

"I'm sorry, Walter. She sat beside me on the sofa and took my hands in hers. I was so worried about you."

I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I'm all right," I said.

"You really want to solve this case, don't you?"

"Of course I do. That's what I'm paid for: to solve cases."

"I'm on the case too," Gwen said. "Wolsey would love to have the
Globe
find the president. Why don't we work on it together? You could come with me tomorrow and—"

"No."

She hesitated. "No?"

"I'm gonna solve this case on my own."

"But I'm sure we'll do much better if the two of us—"

"Maybe we would. But I don't want any help. If I can't find her by myself, it isn't worth it."

I kept my eyes closed. Gwen took her hands away from mine. "Walter," she said, "this isn't one of the novels you're always reading. These people are real, they're dangerous, and you—"

"I'm what?"

"You're just one person. You've been hurt already. I saw them club you down on the plaza today. I don't think I could stand to see you hurt anymore."

"There's more than one kind of pain," I muttered. I opened my eyes. Gwen was staring at me in the dim light. She looked as frightened as Marva waiting for me to shoot her. "Trust me," I said.

She didn't reply. I stared back at her for a long moment, then got up from the sofa and went to the third floor—to my novels.

She didn't follow.

I sat in my sanctuary until daylight, brooding. And then it was time to carry on with my case.

Chapter 14

The three of us had a grim, silent breakfast together before going off to work. Stretch was eager to find out what I had accomplished the night before, but a couple of short answers from me quickly dampened his enthusiasm. Gwen just stared at me.

Stretch left first, glumly anticipating a tense day at City Hall. And then Gwen was ready to depart. "What are you going to do?" she asked me as we stood in the front hall.

"I don't know," I said truthfully.

"Will you be careful?"

"Of course."

She stared at me some more; her stares were more eloquent than Kramer or Bolton's speeches. Then she embraced me, pressing her head into my chest. She hurt my aching ribs, just a little. And then she was gone.

I hung around for a while, wondering what to do. Finally I decided to return to Charlestown and have another chat with the Angriest Man in America.

It wasn't that I shared Dobler's suspicion of my friend; I just had nothing else in mind. And after all, a case could be made against Henry: perhaps he had gotten tired of writing and researching and finally decided to do something. I hadn't visited him often enough lately to know if he had changed. Maybe the referendum was the last straw, and after all these years his anger found an outlet in action. So when I had come snooping around, he cleverly pointed me in the direction of his enemy Flynn Dobler, and had his henchmen wear sandals during the kidnapping as yet another way of diverting suspicion.

It made about as much sense as my theory about Dobler, I decided. So I took Linc's bike down the front steps and pedaled off to where I had begun my investigation.

The bad weather had disappeared along with the president, and sunlight sparkled in the puddles. Maybe it was the change in the weather, but the people I passed seemed to be in a slightly better mood today. They still looked somber, but a little bit of the tension was gone from their faces. The first night had passed, and nothing terrible had happened. There were still troops everywhere, of course, but I didn't witness any arrests or violence or even anger. Perhaps that would come with time, but for now we seemed to be in the eye of the storm.

There were even troops in Charlestown. I certainly would have expected an explosion from that, but an uneasy quiet prevailed there as well. I kept an anxious eye out for Santoro and Grimes and the rest of O'Malley's thugs, but they seemed to be lying low. I hoped none of O'Malley's suits were being altered today.

Henry Fisher's shop was deserted except for the women working at their sewing machines. Where would he keep the president, I wondered, if he was behind TSAR? And how could he get thugs to work for him, with his sour disposition? What if Ann hired them? That was even stupider than suspecting her father.

Ann came over and greeted me. "What happened to your head, Walter?" she asked.

"I had an accident."

"Soldiers?"

I shook my head. "Not this time. What does the AMA think about the kidnapping?"

Ann rolled her eyes. "I think it bothers him that someone actually did something, instead of just talking about it."

She could have been lying to protect her father, I supposed. "Can I talk to him?" I asked.

"Sure. Go on up, Walter. He needs friends like you."

"He needs a son-in-law like me."

Ann grinned and opened the counter to let me through.

I went upstairs, then down the hallway to Henry's library.

Henry was standing by the window, looking out. He turned when he heard me. "Walter Sands," he said. "We're getting to be best buddies."

"Hi, Henry. How're you doing?"

He shrugged and walked over to his cluttered table. "You look like shit," he remarked, peering at me through his spectacles.

"Yeah. I had an accident—while protecting the president."

"You do good work," he said.

"I'm trying to find her," I replied. I sat down opposite him.

"I hope your work improves."

"Do you mean that?"

Henry sighed. "I find in myself an aversion to violence of any kind. I don't want to be ruled by Kramer, but I don't want to be ruled by The Second American Revolution either. I just don't want to be ruled."

"You don't think TSAR is simply trying to free us from the yoke of Federal oppression?"