The Distance Beacons (24 page)

After all, this message was just more proof that I didn't have anything to do with TSAR.

So the message was real. I had gotten Gwen's interview with the president, and she had cracked my case. Sometime or other maybe I should ponder the irony of that, I thought. But not now. Not while Gwen was in danger.

She worried so much about me, about everyone who was close to her. It wasn't fair that she was the one who had ended up in trouble.

I was in trouble too, of course, but all of a sudden my trouble seemed trivial—a minor inconvenience, a misunderstanding, easily cleared up. Fenneman's blows stung, but they weren't going to kill me. I was sure, on the other hand, that TSAR—whoever, whatever they were—would kill Gwen, if it suited their plans.

And that meant I had to do something. Now.

"What do you have to say about this?" Fenneman demanded, gesturing at the paper.

I tried to think. "Look," I said finally. "I don't want to put up with any more of this. I'll tell you what you want to know."

Fenneman and Cowens exchanged a satisfied glance, and then Fenneman looked back at me. "All right," he said. "Start talking."

Chapter 16

I shifted in the wooden chair. "Well," I said, "it's like this." I paused. What exactly was it like? "The guy behind TSAR is, well..."

"Yes?" Fenneman demanded. Cowens stared at me icily.

"...well, it's Jim O'Malley."

"O'Malley?" Fenneman repeated. "The Charlestown boss? That's absurd."

"That's just what he wants you to think," I said. I had it now. One more theory, this time with absolutely nothing to back it up. "Everybody's been focusing on political groups, so no one thinks of someone like O'Malley. But imagine what would happen if the Feds just up and left Boston. Could a political group take over? No chance. O'Malley's organization is the second most powerful force in the city now—maybe in New England—and he'd just expand and take over everything if you guys weren't around to restrain him."

"And you're part of O'Malley's organization?" Fenneman asked.

"Sure. I do this private eye stuff on the side, but obviously no one can make a living at it. I used to work for Bobby Gallagher over in Southie, but he's just small potatoes. O'Malley is big-time. You work for O'Malley, you know you're going places. It was just a coincidence that Bolton hired me to find out about TSAR, but it turned out to be a perfect setup, or at least so we thought. I could keep feeding you people cockeyed theories, so you wouldn't see what was really going on."

I paused, waiting for a reaction. "I don't believe a word of it," Fenneman said. Wrong reaction. "O'Malley's not smart enough to pull this off."

"See, you just proved what I've been saying," I pointed out. "You underestimate him because you think he's just a small-time crook. Well, he's smart enough to be more successful than almost anyone else around here—smart enough to have Charlestown under his thumb and a piece of almost every deal in New England. So maybe it's time you reconsidered your opinion."

Fenneman glanced at Cowens, who didn't respond.

"Well," Fenneman said, "I guess it can't hurt to take a look over there."

"Yes it can," I responded quickly. "If you just send a bunch of soldiers to his headquarters, I guarantee you'll have one dead president on your consciences."

"Is that where they're keeping her?"

"Of course not."

"Where, then?"

I took a breath. "Look," I said, "I'm in enough trouble as it is. I don't want this to screw up. You go to Charlestown and get the president killed and you'll take it out on me, no matter how much I helped you. And the thing is, without me you haven't got a chance, even if I told you right now where she is. You're gonna be in enemy territory, and they have sentries all over the place. My idea is that I bring two or three of you over there in an unmarked car and show you the lay of the land. Then we can figure out a plan."

"Sure, and then you have
us
kidnapped, and you escape," Fenneman scoffed. "No deal."

Then Cowens spoke for the first time. "Where is she?" he demanded.

"See, unless you—"

He came over and slapped me. Not as hard as Fenneman, but the surprise counted for something. "Where is she?" he said in a whisper this time. "Nothing more happens until you tell us."

I stared at him. He was smaller and older and frailer than Fenneman, but somehow much more frightening. "Twenty-one Davis Street in Charlestown," I said. "It's an old warehouse."

I held his gaze. Private eyes have to know how to lie, even when they're frightened. I was doing my best. Finally he turned away. "Take a couple of men and go with him," he ordered Fenneman. "Check it out."

"But sir, this seems like a transparent attempt to—"

"Check it out," Cowens repeated. "If you
are
kidnapped, well, that will certainly tell us something, won't it? And if he's lying, we'll just bring him back here and get a little rougher with him. Understood?"

Fenneman did not look happy. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Cowens turned and left the room.

"You better not be lying," Fenneman said to me.

"Why would I lie?" I asked.

"Because if you are..." Fenneman didn't bother to finish the tough-guy thought. "Let's go," he said.

"I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to drive to Charlestown in your uniform," I suggested.

"Yes, yes."

"And I really could use something to eat before we go. The breakfast they gave me wasn't very substantial. I'd hate to faint on you."

"All right, we'll hire a chef and get you a gourmet meal. Satisfied?"

"Only trying to help," I muttered.

Fenneman called in some soldiers, who led me back to my cell. A little while later, the old jailer brought me a tray, this time with a softer roll and colder milk and a hunk of tasty cheese. It wasn't gourmet, but I enjoyed it.

Meanwhile, I did some thinking.

So far so good. The initial goal had simply been to get out of jail, and that was going to happen. I figured it would be easier to escape from the Feds once I was outside. But that had yet to be proved, and I had obviously put myself in more danger by making up the story about O'Malley. The fact was, I had no idea how to pull off the escape, just as I had no idea where 21 Davis Street was—or if Davis Street even existed. It was all too likely that I would end up back in that small, windowless room, with Fenneman furious at me and eager to demonstrate his fury.

Or maybe they would get tired of that game, and I would end up with a bullet in my back, and one more short, undistinguished life would be over.

That was a chance I had to take.

After a while the soldiers came for me once again. They brought me outside, where an ancient gray Subaru station wagon was parked in the courtyard. The sunlight made my eyes water; I felt as if I'd been in prison for years. Fenneman was standing next to the Subaru, wearing jeans and a jersey and looking uncomfortable. A gun was stuck inside the waistband of his jeans. Three other men, dressed in civilian clothes but—like Fenneman—obviously armed and obviously soldiers, stood nearby. "Nice day," I said to Fenneman.

"Get in the car," he replied.

I slid into the back seat, and two of the men joined me, one on either side. Fenneman got into the passenger side of the front seat, and the third man got behind the wheel. Four against one—and they all had guns. I wasn't feeling optimistic. "We're not very inconspicuous," I said. "No one in Charlestown is gonna be fooled for a second. We might just as well be flying an American flag and wearing dress uniforms."

"Shut up and tell us how to get to Davis Street," Fenneman said.

"Head for the Bunker Hill Monument," I said.

The driver started the car, and we pulled out of the courtyard. The car's shock absorbers had apparently been lost to history, and we jounced up and down as the soldier navigated the pot holes and other hazards of our journey. We hadn't gone a hundred yards before I began to feel sick. Maybe you weren't supposed to eat so soon after being tortured: one of those pieces of valuable information that I hadn't picked up in my life. "Is there some way we could keep from bouncing so much?" I asked.

"You wanted an unmarked car, you got it," Fenneman replied helpfully.

We were approaching Leverett Circle, where we would head toward Charlestown and away from downtown Boston. And that's when I had my idea.

I turned to the soldier on my right and raised a hand toward my mouth. "I—I think I'm gonna throw up," I groaned.

We bounced. The soldier looked at me in horror. "The guy's gonna throw up," he reported urgently to Fenneman.

We bounced again. I started making strange noises in my throat; I turned my head this way and that, looking for the best place to do my business.

The soldiers in the back seat squeezed up against the doors, as far away from me as they could get. It wasn't very far. "
Sir?
" they called out in unison to Fenneman.

"Stop the fucking car," he growled.

The car stopped, and the soldiers scrambled out. I scrambled out after them, awful noises issuing from deep inside me. "Watch him," Fenneman shouted.

Too late. I slugged the soldier who got out on my side, and he staggered back against the front door of the Subaru, so that Fenneman couldn't get out. The soldier reached for his gun, but I reached for it first, and I shot him in the shoulder. He screamed with pain.

The driver had gotten out by this time, and he and the other soldier ducked down on the other side of the car. Fenneman was struggling to get his gun out and shoot me through his window. I decided it was time to leave. Walking quickly backwards, I fired a couple of shots at the car, and then I turned and ran, keeping low to the ground. I headed for a building off to my left. I heard the Feds returning my fire, and I prayed that they were as incompetent at shooting as they were at most other things. No such luck. I felt a searing pain in my arm just as I slammed through the front door.

I looked down at my arm; it was bleeding, but the bullet had apparently just grazed me. I tried to think through the pain. I was not so easy a target now, but I was in hardly less danger. I could stay where I was and shoot it out with them, I thought, but I didn't know how many bullets I had left—and besides, Fenneman could just wait me out and bring in reinforcements. No, I had to run.

I took off down the corridor. Through a window I saw the towers of the Federal compound nearby. I couldn't have picked a better spot for them to get reinforcements.

The building was abandoned, as most office buildings still were; the rooms had been trashed, and most of the windows were broken. It smelled of stale urine and mildew. What had it been? A computer company? Insurance? Law offices? It didn't look like a particularly pleasant place to die. I had to get out of it.

Behind me, I could hear Fenneman shouting instructions.

I found a staircase. I tried to go down, figuring there had to be an exit in the basement, but the door was locked or blocked or stuck and I could hear footsteps now, so I had to run upstairs, my arm throbbing, my lungs bursting. Maybe on the
roof
... but I wasn't going to make it to the roof, so I took off down the second-floor corridor.

And that's when I noticed the faded green structure outside. It was the elevated trolley tracks—long unused, of course—coming from Cambridge and heading downtown. I ducked into an office and took a closer look. On either side of the tracks was a rusted railing with wire mesh beneath it. The railing was several feet away from the window.
Must've been noisy here once upon a time,
I thought.

I studied the distance to the railing.
Well...

The window was broken. I climbed up onto the sill. I heard footsteps in the corridor, doors banging open. I tensed, leaned forward, and jumped.

I managed to catch hold of the railing. I tried to pull myself up, but my arm was on fire.
Can't do it
.

"Goddamn it, where is he?" Fenneman roared from inside the building.

I tried again. I managed to heave myself over the railing and onto the tracks.