by Allen Steele
“I’ll explain it to you in a minute.” The chief turned to give me a quick nod. Moving past her, I stepped through the door. Yet Amy stood her ground, silently refusing to allow me into her home.
“Amy, please…” Stanley began.
“How do I get upstairs, ma’am?” I found that I was having a hard time looking her in the eye.
“To the right,” she said, the words falling from her lips as if they were deadweights. “But you can’t…”
She wouldn’t budge from the door, so I laid a hand on her arm and, as gently as I could, pushed her out of the way. At first she resisted, but then she seemed to realize that I was coming in whether she liked it or not and reluctantly let me pass.
The living room was small, comfortable, and immaculately clean: blackwood beams across a low ceiling, old but well-kept furniture, a clothbound copy of the Sa’Tong-tas lying open on a coffee table in front of a sofa. On the wool rug before the fieldstone fireplace, a little girl—no older than one Coyote year, as beautiful as a child could be—looked up from the wooden blocks she’d been using to build a castle. As I marched through the room, heading for a closed door to the right, her mother immediately rushed over to plant herself between me and her daughter. I tried to ignore the astonished look on the little girl’s face as I opened the door, but I knew that I would be permanently engraved in her memory.
The door led me into a short, unheated walkway in which firewood had been stacked. I went down it, passing shelves containing neatly labeled jars of preserves, until I reached another door. Unlatching it, I found myself inside the bottom of a hollow shaft fifty feet in height. The inside of the lighthouse was as cold as it was outside, with fluorescent lamps along its concrete walls lighting a cast-iron spiral staircase that led up the interior to a ceiling hatch at the top of the tower.
An electrical generator hummed as I began to climb the stairs, but not so loudly that it muffled Emma’s and Amy’s voices behind me. I couldn’t make out what Stanley was saying, but I had little doubt that the chief was explaining the situation to Joe Ross’s wife. My boots clanged against the risers; looking up, I saw that the hatch was shut. No one had followed me into the lighthouse, but I knew that I wasn’t alone. David Laird was up there.
Halfway up the stairs, I paused to open my parka, pull out my gun. Not an airpulse pistol this time—I’d seen where trying to use a nonlethal weapon would get me when it came to dealing with dangerous men—but an old-style fléchette gun of the type used by the Militia. Making sure that its safety was disengaged, I raised it in my right hand as I continued up the spiral staircase, never letting my gaze leave the hatch, ready to open fire at the first sign of trouble.
But the hatch remained shut until I reached it. With my left hand, I pushed down the lock lever, then shoved the hatch open. Pointing the gun at the opening, I waited, carefully listening for any sound. Nothing but a steady mechanical grind, though, and the only thing I saw was a bright glow that rhythmically pulsed like the silent beating of a luminescent heart. After a few seconds, I slowly climbed the rest of the way through the open hatch.
The top floor of the lighthouse was a small, circular cupola, its broad windows facing in all directions. At the center of the room was the light itself, an immense quartz iodine lamp contained within a ribbed metal drum that slowly revolved upon a rotary pedestal. At the base of the light was a small control panel; lying on a table next to it was a loose-leaf logbook, a pen resting upon its open pages. A so-called dumb compass—not magnetic, but fitted instead with an arrow that could be manually moved to calculate the correct latitudes and longitudes of the offshore buoys—stood upon another table, a radio transceiver just below it.
The sun was down, and so the lamp had been lit, along with the buoy lights. It slowly revolved in a clockwise direction, throwing a brilliant beam through the windows that threatened to blind me every time it turned in my direction. Careful not to look straight at the light, I glanced around the cupola. There was no one in sight, but I saw that, to my right, a small door was open, leading to an outside balcony.
The light turned to the southeast, capturing a solitary figure standing at the railing not far from the door. His back was turned to me, and he didn’t look my way as I slowly crossed the cupola. Gun gripped in both hands and raised to shoulder height, I stepped out onto the balcony.
“Are you David Laird?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m David Laird,” he said. “Hello. I’ve been expecting you.”
The lighthouse beam swept past Laird again, and it was then that I was able to see him clearly. He’d aged a bit in the last seven years—his body was thicker, his face a little more wide, his hair short and becoming thin at the top of his head—but he was unmistakably the same person. The lapels of his long wool coat were turned up against the cold, and he held on to the railing with both hands, still not looking at me but instead out at the Straits.
“I’m General Sawyer Lee,” I began, pointing my gun straight at him, “and I’m…”
“I know who you are and why you’re here.” Laird nodded toward the ground below. “I saw you and the others coming. This time of evening, it gets quiet enough up here that you can hear just about everything…including what’s being said on the front porch.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to look up at the lighthouse to see if anyone up there was watching and listening. A quick glance over the railing confirmed what he’d said; from this side of the tower, we were almost directly above the front door. The blueshirts stood below, murmuring to each other, apparently unaware of our presence.
“That makes things easier,” I replied, looking back at Laird. “Unless you’re going to give me any trouble, that is.”
“If you’re asking whether I’m armed…” Turning toward me, Laird slowly raised his hands so I could see that they were empty. “We don’t even have a gun in the house. Amy won’t allow it…and even if she did, I wouldn’t carry one anyway. I gave that up a long time ago.” He looked at my pistol. “Might as well put that away, General. You’re not going to get a fight from me.”
I wasn’t about to trust him. We were standing on a narrow balcony sixty feet above the ground, and he knew this place much better than I did. “All right, then,” I said, keeping the gun trained on him, “since you’ve been waiting for me, let’s…”
“That’s not what I said.” Lowering his hands, Laird turned toward the railing again. “When I said that I’ve been expecting you, I didn’t mean you personally…just the day when someone like you would come for me.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I was hoping that it wouldn’t be quite so soon. At least not until Erin grew up a little more, so she’d understand who her father really was…but I suppose that can’t be helped, can it?”
He didn’t seem to be disturbed at all by my arrival, or the fact that there was a gun pointed at him. Instead, he gazed out at the flashing lights of the buoys, as if studying them to make sure that they were lit and in the correct position. “If you think you can beg me to leave you alone,” I said, “you’re talking to the wrong man. You’re responsible for the deaths of everyone who was on the Lee…including someone very close to me. No way I’m leaving this island without you.” I paused, then added, “Dead or alive…your choice. Doesn’t make much difference to me.”
“Is that why you’re here? To kill me?” He barely glanced at me. “If that’s what you’d really like to do, then go ahead. Shoot.” The light flashed by us again, this time revealing a sad smile upon his face. “You can always say that I tried to throw you over the side and that you acted in self-defense. I’m sure your men will back up whatever claim you make.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to do just that. It wasn’t just Lynn who called out for vengeance; it was also Chris, who’d died trying to find this man. But there was something about the placid detachment with which Laird was willing to accept his fate, whatever it might be, that made me curious.
“You’re awful calm about this,�
�� I said. “Not what I was expecting from someone who spent the last six years or so covering his tracks. Or do you think that, just because you call yourself another name and have a family now, that I’m going to give you a break?”
“No, I don’t.” Again, Laird shook his head. “You’re not a follower of Sa’Tong, are you?” When I didn’t reply, he went on. “Well, I am…or at least I have been, ever since I met Amy. One of the things we believe is the Fifth Codicil…that wrongful acts must be atoned for with righteous acts of equal or greater proportion.” He let out a sigh. “I can’t do anything for your friend or anyone else who was aboard the Lee. I didn’t kill them myself, but that’s only a minor point, isn’t it? I built the bomb that Alberto used to destroy the ship, and that makes me just as culpable as he. And to make matters worse, one of those aboard was the chaaz’maha, whose teachings I’ve come to embrace.” A reflective pause. “I regret every death I caused, but that…that has weighed upon me the hardest.”
I had an urge to tell him that the chaaz’maha was still alive, no thanks to him, and his death need not be on his conscience any longer. But I wasn’t about to allow him even that small mercy. In fact, I was still undecided whether or not to shoot him on the spot. “Don’t you dare play the spiritual card with me,” I said, sounding angrier than I intended. “I’m not buying the idea that converting to Sa’Tong makes you a better man.”
“I’m not claiming anything of the kind,” Laird said. “What I’m trying to tell you is that, in the years that I’ve been waiting for someone like you to find me, I’ve tried to atone for what I did. Amy showed me the way, when I moved out here with her. I once ended lives. Now I do my best to save them.”
He nodded toward the offshore buoys. “Every night, I come up to turn on the light and the buoys. I issue weather reports, sound the foghorn when I need to, listen for distress signals. Last year, I was even able to help rescue several men…”
“I know. Chief Stanley told me all about that.” I shook my head. “It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.”
“No…no, I suppose it isn’t.” He looked at me again. “But you’re wrong about one thing. I am a different person now. David Laird was an angry young man who hated the world, and everyone he met, for reasons he couldn’t understand. So he made bombs, but since he was too cowardly to use them himself, he put them in the hands of those who would, then ran away while others died for…well, whatever infantile causes he happened to believe in. That’s not who I am anymore. I’m Joe Ross, and I’m a lighthouse keeper. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yeah, you’re breaking my heart.” I wasn’t accepting anything he said. “You didn’t let your wife know the truth, did you? To her, you’ve always been just some guy who drifted into town?”
“No…and I’m afraid that it’s her heart that’s going to break, not yours. Erin’s, too.” He continued to gaze at me, his face once more cast in shadow. “So…are you going to shoot me now? I rather wish that you would. It would be a kindness, really.”
As soon as he said this, I made up my mind. “No,” I said, “I’m not going to kill you.” I cocked my head toward the door. “You’re going downstairs with me, and after you say good-bye to your family, you’re getting on the chief’s boat, and we’re taking you with us.”
“To jail?”
“Uh-huh, but not in Manuelito. You’ve got too many friends there, and I’m not giving you a chance to get off easy.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve got a skiff waiting. You and me are going to Liberty, where you’re going to be put on trial in federal court. I don’t know what the maggies will do with you, but I do know that, before this is over, everyone will know you for who you really are.”
“I see.” Laird took a deep breath, slowly let it out. He looked out at the Straits, perhaps as if he knew that would be the last time he’d see them from that place, then he turned away from the railing. “Very well, then…let’s go.”
When we returned to the living room, we found Amy seated on the couch, her shoulders slumped forward and her head hanging low. Erin was curled up in a tight little ball at the end of the couch, her feet on the cushions and her arms wrapped around her knees. Emma Stanley stood near the door; she was quiet, but I knew what had happened while I was upstairs with Laird. She’d told his wife and daughter who Joe Ross really was, and the things he’d done when he’d called himself by another name.
Amy looked up as we walked into the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her face wet with tears. She stared at her husband, and it was as if she were seeing a doppelganger who’d taken over the body of the man she’d married.
“Is it true?” she asked, her voice so low that it was almost a whisper.
Laird regarded her for a moment, then he looked down at the floor. “It’s true. I’m sorry. I’m…I’m so sorry.”
For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. It was as if the two of them were trying to find the right words but simply couldn’t. The silence was broken when, from her corner of the couch, Erin let out a quiet sob that could just as well have been a scream. Hearing this, Laird started toward his daughter. He meant to comfort her, but before he could reach her, Amy jumped up and, with the urgency of a mother protecting a threatened child, swept the little girl into her arms.
“No!” she snapped. “Stay away from her!”
Laird’s face went pale. He halted in midstep, hands still extended toward his daughter. “Amy…honey, please. You can’t…”
“Just go.” Hugging the weeping girl tight against her chest, Amy recoiled from him. She almost tripped over the coffee table as she retreated from her husband; their copy of the Sa’Tong-tas fell off the table and onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. “There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make anything better, so just…”
“Amy, please…”
“Get out of here!”
Footsteps pounded up the porch steps. An instant later, the front door was flung open and one of the blueshirts rushed into the house, his rifle half-raised. Stanley turned toward him, holding up a hand. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “No problem here.” Perhaps realizing the terrible absurdity of what she’d just said, her face blanched. “Go back outside,” she added. “We’ll be along shortly.”
The blueshirt cast a wary glance around the room, then nodded once before stepping backward through the open door. Stanley watched him go, then moved toward Laird. “We need to go now,” she murmured, almost apologetic as she laid a hand upon his arm. “Amy…Erin…if there’s anything you need…”
Amy shook her head. She refused to look at her husband, but instead gazed at the Sa’Tong-tas as if deliberating whether to pick it up from the floor or leave it where it had fallen. I couldn’t see Erin’s face except for her eyes, peering over her mother’s shoulder. She stared at Laird with something like longing mixed with horror, then she buried her face within her mother’s hair, unable to bear the sight of her father.
Laird stood there for another few seconds. He’d let his hands fall to his sides, and he looked at his wife and daughter, as if waiting for them to say something more to him. When they didn’t, he reluctantly backed away from his family.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, more quietly this time. “And whatever else happens, just…just know that I love you both.” He turned to Chief Stanley. “All right, Emma…I’m ready to go now.”
I closed the front door behind us and followed Stanley and Laird down the stairs to where the blueshirts were waiting. The chief reached within her coat pocket; when her hand reappeared, within it was a pair of magnetic handcuffs.
When Laird saw them, he shook his head. “You’re not going to need those,” he said softly. “I’ll go quietly.” Stanley gave him a questioning look, and he added, “I promise. Just…please don’t take me away like this.”
I thought she was making a mistake, but it was her decision. Stanley looked him straight in the eye, then nodded. “All right, then,” she s
aid, putting the cuffs back where they’d come from, then she looked at the blueshirts. “Follow us, please.”
We went down the stairs, our way illuminated by the passing beams from the lighthouse; no one said anything as we returned to the dock. Laird walked beside Stanley, the three soldiers behind them. I brought up the rear; halfway to the dock, I paused to look back at the house. Amy was standing at the window, still holding Erin in her arms. We were too far away for me to see their faces, and I was glad that I couldn’t.
We climbed aboard the chief’s boat, with Laird sitting in the bow between two of the soldiers and the third seated directly across from him. Emma Stanley and I resumed our places in the stern. After the chief started up the engine, the third soldier stood up to cast off the lines. Once he was seated across from Laird again, so close that their knees touched each other’s, Stanley throated up the engine, and the boat purred away from the dock.
The wind had settled down a bit now that the sun was down; the water was still, with very little chop. Stanley had the buoys to guide her way, but after a few minutes she switched on the boat’s floodlight and aimed it straight ahead. The Straits were as black as the night; off in the distance were the lights of Manuelito, low upon the horizon and gleaming against the cold darkness.
Laird said nothing. He sat between the blueshirts, hands on his knees, his eyes never leaving King Philip. Every few seconds the lighthouse beam swept over us. When it did, it briefly illuminated his face: an unemotional mask, devoid of expression.
It wasn’t long before we’d passed the first buoy and were halfway across the Straits. By then, the silence had become unsettling. Figuring that I had to say something, I turned to Chief Stanley, started to ask her about…well, I don’t remember. Maybe the weather, or the fishing season, or something neutral and inconsequential like that. But whatever I was about to say was lost in the next instant when one of the soldiers yelled, and I looked around to see that Laird was on his feet and that there was a rifle in his hands.
