Freedom

CHAPTER 4

“Where are all the hot chicks?” Bones put his hands on his hips and scowled.

“It’s Boston University in the middle of summer semester. It’s not like the place is bustling with coeds right about now.”

“That’s the only thing I liked about college.”

“You went to college?” Dane immediately regretted the question. He didn’t think Bones was stupid, just annoying.

“I got a two-year degree. That’s all I could stand. The classroom isn’t for me, bro.”

They crossed Commonwealth Avenue at a trot and entered a tan, sandstone building. The sign on the door read, Warren Towers. The moment they stepped inside. Dane tugged at his damp collar and shivered as a wave of cool air engulfed him.

“Where do you think we’ll find this professor?”

“Good question. I’m hoping that someone in one of these offices can point us in the right direction. I’d rather take the time to ask around than wander aimlessly from building to building, not knowing where we’re going.”

“Bet you he’s on vacation. Why would you stay on campus when all the babes are gone and there’s no classes to teach? I’d be on a beach somewhere, partying.”

“I’m sure they have summer courses, just not as many as during the regular school year.”

“You sure you don’t want to call? His number’s on the card.”

“Not if we don’t have to. Our reason for visiting is weird enough as it is, and if the guy who gave us this card is a friend, that’s the sort of news that ought to be delivered in person.

“Okay, I got this. What’s the professor’s name again? Remillard?” Bones disappeared into an office and came out a few minutes later, with directions, plus a name and phone number.

“We already know his name and number. Why did you get it again?” Dane asked.

“What are you talking about? I got the secretary’s number. She wasn’t bad looking.” They stepped out into the summer heat and Bones shifted his leather jacket. “Actually, she wasn’t all that hot, but she had big hair. You know what they say about big-haired women.”

“No, and I don’t think I want to.”

They wandered along Commonwealth Avenue, taking in the sights, and Dane felt that he hadn’t entirely missed out on his Colonial sightseeing. They arrived at a five-story sandstone building with bow front columns, and the similar buildings on either side gave the impression of vertical rolling hills. Dane remembered reading that this style of architecture had been popular in the mid-1800s and had extended from Beacon Hill down to the brownstones of the Back Bay.

A red brick walkway bisected well-manicured green lawns, and climbed the three stairs up to a heavy wood and glass door. Bones open the door and waved Dane through. They found Remillard’s name and office number on a faculty directory posted on the wall.

“Second-floor.” Dane pointed to Remillard’s name. “Let’s go.”

The clacking of a manual typewriter guided them down the hall to an open door. Dane knocked twice and stepped inside. A middle-aged woman with white, permed hair, a flowery blouse, and enough extra pounds to give her the appearance of lumpy dough, looked up and smiled.

“Can I help you?” The woman’s gravelly voice put her at about two packs a day, if Dane did not miss his guess.

“Yes, we are here to see professor Remillard.”

“Do you have an appointment?” The woman scowled at Bones in his ripped jeans and leather jacket.

“Not exactly,” Dane replied. “We are acquaintances of a colleague of his.”

“Which colleague?”

Dane hesitated. They had hit a wall of flesh, polyester, and hairspray. “Well, you see, the man didn’t actually say…”

“I’m not busy, Margaret. If I have visitors, send them in,” a voice called from the adjoining room.

Margaret shot an angry look at them and inclined her head toward a door to their right.

“We appreciate the help.” Bones smiled and winked at Margaret, who actually blushed. From the look in her eyes, Dane wouldn’t have been surprised if she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Professor Remillard, a tall, rail-thin man with salt-and-pepper hair and a silver-washed goatee, wore a red golf shirt, tan khaki pants, and little, round glasses that hung precariously on the tip of his thin nose. He welcomed them into an office stuffed with old, leather bound books on sagging shelves. The heavy scent of old paper permeated the air, reminding Dane of Fifteenth Street Books in Coral Gables, Florida, a favorite hangout in his early teen years. An IBM computer sat on one end of the professor’s cherry lacquered desk, and a tweed coat boasting the same elbow patches that the deceased man’s coat displayed, hung on the back of an office chair.

“Thank you for seeing us without an appointment, professor.” Dane hoped the man wouldn’t kick them out as quickly as he’d welcomed them.

“It’s all right.” Remillard waved the thanks aside. “It’s summer time, my course load is light, and there aren’t many students around who need help with their schedules for next semester.” He sat down and looked at them with interest. “How may I help you?”

“One of your colleagues gave us this.” Dane handed him the card.

Remillard saw the bloody thumbprint and frowned. “Who gave this to you?” Dane gave a brief description of the deceased, and Remillard nodded. “That sounds like Nick Andrews. He was supposed to meet me last night, but he never showed. Is something wrong?”

Dane thought it best to start at the beginning, so he first broke the news of the accident. Remillard’s eyes misted, and he invited them to take a seat, his voice hoarse with grief. Dane and Bones settled into matching, straight-backed wooden chairs, and Dane continued his story.

“He made me promise to find the lantern,” Dane finished lamely.

“Did he say anything else?”

“The British are coming.” Bones raised an eyebrow. “We figure he might have been losing it at the end, you know, from the shock of the accident.”

Remillard fixed them with an appraising look, as if he could and read their intentions. Leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Can I trust you gentlemen?” he asked, and then chuckled. “A foolish question, I know. An untrustworthy man would, by his very nature, assure me he could be trusted.”

“We’re Navy,” Bones answered, as if that were enough.

“In the SEAL program,” Dane added.

Remillard’s face crinkled in a wry smile. “I don’t suppose it matters. Nick put his trust in you, and it’s not my place to countermand his wishes. Besides, you know enough that you could easily find out the rest if you wanted to.” He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and rested his palms on the desktop. “How much do you know about Paul Revere?”

“I know he was a silversmith. And, of course, I know about the Midnight Ride.”

“One if by land, two if by sea,” Bones added.

“That’s it exactly.”

“You mean he was talking about the lantern from the Old North Church?” Dane shifted in his chair.

“The very one.”

“Seriously? I was just being a smartass.”

“But there were two lanterns. Like Bones said, one if by land, two if by sea.”

“Three if the British called in an airstrike,” Bones added.

Dane closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his temples. Would the guy never stop?

“A crew digging beneath the Central Artery, the freeway that cuts through downtown, recently uncovered one of the lanterns. I have a photograph somewhere.” He rummaged through his desk and came out with a Polaroid of an old lantern, unremarkable, save for its wide base. Dane and Bones looked it over while the professor went on. “The city’s excavating the tunnel for the new submerged highway as part of what the newspapers are calling the ‘Big Dig.’ Workers have found a myriad of things underneath: timbers from sunken ships, Colonial-era plates and silverware, children’s dolls. You name it, they found it.”

“Jimmy Hoffa?” Bones asked.

Dane ignored Bones. “How do you think the lantern got there?”

“We can only speculate. Back in January, 1919, there was an incident in the North End section called the Boston Molasses Disaster. Some old-timers refer to it as the Boston Molassacre.” Bones smiled at that. “A tank full of molasses exploded, due to a drastic change in air temperature, and sent a literal tidal wave of, forgive the pun, rapidly-moving molasses through the streets of the North End.”

“Sweet!” Bones exclaimed.

“It must have been.” Remillard opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder full of yellowed newspaper clippings. He opened it and, right on the top, lay an article from the old Boston Post. It showed a street swamped with molasses. He passed it to Bones, who read the article with interest as Remillard continued. “Twenty-one people died, and one hundred-fifty were injured in the accident. Several buildings were swept off their foundations, and one of the elevated trains on Commercial Street went off the rails. The molasses traveled at about thirty-five miles per hour with two tons of pressure behind it. It decimated a good portion of that neighborhood.

“One of the buildings in the area was home to a descendant of Sexton Robert Newman, the man who, in April, 1775, hung the lanterns in the steeple of Old North Church, or Christ Church, and waited to see if the British would come by land or by sea. The church was ideal for the purpose, as it is highly visible, even sometimes serving as a lighthouse.”

“They came by sea, right?” Bones asked.

“Correct. This served to alert not only Revere, but also the militia in nearby Charlestown. If they let the lanterns burn too long, the British would see them, and all would be lost. Anyway, getting back to the molasses story, the lantern must have been in the man’s house until the molasses swept it, and perhaps all of the man’s possessions, away. Sometime during the excavation, a worker found it. Not knowing its value, but recognizing it as an antique, he took it home. Eventually, it found its way to the Old State House, where it’s now on display.”

“Where’s the second lantern?” Dane asked.

“Missing. No one has seen it since shortly after the Midnight Ride.”

“What does speculation say?”

Remillard smirked.

“History, not speculation, tells us that after the lanterns were extinguished that night, the redcoats caught the sexton carrying the second one down the stairs. They arrested him and seized the lantern, then brought it aboard H.M.S. Somerset, which lay at anchor nearby. Somerset took part in several important battles, but she was lost two and-a-half years later when she ran aground and foundered off the coast of Cape Cod.”

“So the lantern is somewhere on the bottom of the North Atlantic.” Bones chewed his lip, clearly mulling over the implications.

“It’s possible, but the people of Truro and Provincetown divided up the spoils of the wreck.”

“So it could also be that someone has the second lantern and doesn’t even know it.” Bones sounded discouraged at the thought.

“What’s so important about finding this lantern?” Dane asked. “The historical significance?” His heart raced. Despite his skepticism, this mystery from Colonial times had him intrigued.

“Nick would have been the better person to answer that question.” Remillard stroked his goatee, his eyes downcast. “He hinted that Revere was sitting on important, perhaps even dangerous knowledge, and said the lanterns were the keys, with emphasis on the key.”

“Did either of you ever study the lantern that has been found?”

“Not yet. Nick applied for permission to study it, but hadn’t gotten approval. He wasn’t concerned — he said we needed both lanterns in order to solve the mystery. ”

Dane considered this. Remillard seemed like a level-headed man, not at all prone to wacko theories. And, if Dane were honest with himself, he had to admit he was dying to get to the bottom of this mystery. Besides, he had given his word.

“Can you tell us anything else? I know it’s not truly our mystery to solve, but I did give my word.”

“Only that he had been acting oddly the past few days. He seemed to think he was in danger. “

Dane glanced at Bones and could tell they were thinking the same thing. Had Andrews’ death truly been an accident?

“Otherwise,” Remillard continued, “Nick was secretive about his project. I suspect he planned to tell me more last night, had he made it to our meeting. He has a daughter who only recently came back into his life. She might know more than I.” He scribbled a name and phone number on a sheet of paper and handed it to Dane. “Please let me know if you find the lantern.” He shook hands first with Dane, then with Bones. “I’d like to see Nick’s work finished.”

They thanked him for his help and left the office.

“I need to find the university library, and then I’m going to call Andrews’ daughter. I know it’s not how you wanted to spend our leave time, but are you up for a little detective work?”

“Looking for a two-hundred year old lantern and maybe running afoul of dangerous men?” Bones fixed him with a blank stare that, moments later, split into a broad grin. “I’m in!”