"That's the deal Cowens offered his thugs."
She nodded. "And it's a pretty good deal, if you ask me."
"How do we know we can trust you?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I don't think you have a choice."
I looked at Gwen. There is always a choice. It wasn't up to me to speak for both of us, though. I had been given my chance to leave Boston once before, but this was a first for Gwen. And it wasn't such an easy or obvious decision, after all. You struggle and suffer all your life, and suddenly you are offered a way out. And it's not as if you're doing something so terribly wrong by accepting the offer. On the contrary, many people would call it patriotism. If you turned it down, they would despise you for disobeying your leader.
Gwen glanced at me, but didn't seem to need any soulful exchange of telepathic insights. She turned to the president. "Do you really think a government based on deceit is worth having?" she asked.
President Kramer sighed. These stubborn New Englanders. "Would you really prefer anarchy based on the truth?" she responded.
I was pleased that Gwen hadn't been tempted by the president's offer; I hadn't expected she would be. But oddly, what bothered her didn't particularly bother me. A private eye can live with deceit, even if a reporter can't. What bothered me was death. "Those corpses out there are your fault, not ours," I said to the president. "When is the killing going to stop?"
"There wouldn't have been any corpses if you hadn't interfered," she pointed out. "No one had to be killed for my plan to work. But if the plan did require some deaths—so what? What makes you think that the killing can stop? Nothing I've ever read or experienced suggests that it can. You just have to kill for the right reason. Lincoln killed to keep America united, and I would do the same. Maybe you wouldn't. But if you could prevent another nuclear war by shooting a few people, wouldn't you pull the trigger? Shouldn't you?"
She stared at me, waiting for an answer. And it suddenly occurred to me that I had the future of America in my hands. Literally. The guns that Gwen and I were holding seemed to have been forgotten in the course of our conversation with the president. President Kramer had said we had no choice but to accept her offer, but here was an obvious alternative. Shoot her, and walk away from it all. Who would know? Freddy, locked up downstairs? Shoot him too.
Was that killing for the right reason? Why not? We were in danger. Her offer of a new life down south was probably a sham; she was much better off with us dead. If I killed her, I would still be in trouble, but I would be master of my own fate, instead of dependent on Kramer's good will.
If she were dead, the result might be repression, or anarchy, or some awful combination of the two. But, like the corpses, that would be her fault, not ours. It had been her plan; she would have to take the consequences.
I looked at the gun. As usual, the future was contained in a weapon. I thought of Santoro, and Grimes, and Cowens. Of the general's memories. Of the terror in the thug's eyes. Of water plopping down onto motionless bodies. I thought too damn much. I had to make a decision.
But there was someone else making a decision, too. Gwen suddenly dropped her gun and turned away from the president. "I'm leaving," she said. "I'm going to write my story. Arrest me if you like, but the truth will be told." And she started to walk out of the room.
Well, I couldn't disagree with that. Maybe, I thought, I could keep the president here until—
But I didn't have time to finish my thought. Before I could, four men stepped out of the shadows of the next room and confronted us.
Chapter 23
There were three regular-sized fellows, and one midget. Two of the regular-sized fellows wore uniforms and carried guns.
"Hi, Stretch," I said to the midget. "How'd you know where we were?"
"I've heard of mummies too," Stretch replied. "I'm just not a private eye. It takes me a little longer to put things together."
"How long have you been out there?"
"Long enough."
Governor Bolton stood next to Stretch. He was staring past Gwen at President Kramer, who had risen from the statue. Just behind the governor were my buddies Danny and Gus, looking perplexed.
"So you heard?" President Kramer said to Bolton.
He nodded.
"Then you understand that this is a very serious situation."
He nodded again.
"I know you haven't approved of the referendum," she went on. "But you've got to put that behind you now. If you let these people go, you're jeopardizing America's future. They'll destroy the years of work we've put into rebuilding our country. You can blame me for everything if you like, but you can't let that happen."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
The president paused. "Order your soldiers to kill them, Governor Bolton," she said.
Bolton's gaze shifted from the president to me. I studied him. Standing next to Stretch almost made him look tall; the scar by his right eye almost made him look tough. I had been wrong about him before; I had no idea what he was going to do now.
I tried to think about practicalities. I was still holding my gun. I could take out Danny or Gus, but not both. Gwen had dropped her gun, so she couldn't help. We were dead if Bolton gave the word.
Bolton's expression changed as he stared at me. The almost-toughness seemed to melt away, and what replaced it was a mixture of fear and weariness I had seen too often before. It is the expression of people facing a universe too cruel and complicated for humans to live in—but they must live. A universe where every choice is a bad one—but choices must be made. The Feds had sheltered Bolton for a long time from the complications and the choices; but now the shelter was gone. "This isn't right," he whispered.
"It doesn't matter if it's right," the president said. Her voice was soft, persuasive. "This is your country. This is America."
Bolton looked at her for a long time, and then turned silently away.
President Kramer grimaced, then shrugged. She didn't need Bolton. She turned to the soldiers. "I'm your commander-in-chief," she said. "I order you to kill these people."
Danny and Gus looked at each other. Their eyes were wide with fear. A soldier is supposed to obey the president, I recalled Danny saying a long time ago. "Couldn't we just arrest them?" Danny asked, his voice trembling.
The president shook her head. "That's not good enough, boys. You must protect your country. I know it's hard for you, but I will take the responsibility. You must obey orders. Kill them."
"B-b-but they didn't do anything," Gus protested.
The president didn't bother to respond. She simply stared at the two frightened young men with eyes that were used to having their way.
Danny and Gus raised their weapons like good soldiers.
And slowly aimed them at their leader.
"Walter," Danny said, "I guess your friend should go write her story now."
* * *
It was decided that Gus would drive us to the Globe and then get reinforcements to clean things up; the museum would never be the same again. Bolton walked with us out to the rotunda while Danny remained behind to guard the president. "I don't know what will happen," the governor said. "We'll keep her here until you write your story, Ms. Phillips, but after that? I'll have to talk to Atlanta. There'll be an impeachment or something, I suppose—unless she can talk her way out of it. This is a terrible situation."
"Just don't take it out on the locals," I said.
"I just hope the locals don't take it out on the Feds," he murmured.
Still caught between the two worlds. I didn't envy Bolton. His universe had just become a lot more complicated.
We stood for a moment in the rotunda and surveyed the carnage. Bolton shook his head. "All this to pass a referendum," he said. "What a waste."
"Can I quote you?" Gwen asked.
He sighed. "You can quote me," he said. And then he returned to the president.
We noticed Stretch standing by the staircase on the far side of the rotun
da. Not surprisingly, he looked unhappy. Gwen went over and put her arm around him. "It's okay, Stretch," she said. "Things will get better."
This was Stretch's most deeply held belief, but it didn't seem to comfort him now. Maybe he needed something besides comfort. "How come you didn't do what I told you to do back at the waterfront?" I demanded. "I said to go home and relax. You could've got Gwen and me killed, coming here."
Stretch glared at me. "I did go home," he said. "And Gus and Danny were there, guarding the place. We got to talking. About Bolton, and how bad your theory was. And about mummies. And we decided we'd better do something about all of it. So we came here and saved your life. So how about a little gratitude?"
He was right. I supposed I wasn't cut out to be a loner. I supposed my friends were just going to help me, whether I wanted them to or not. And I supposed that was okay. But I didn't feel like saying all that, so I simply grinned at him.
Pretty soon he grinned back. "Why do I put up with you, Walter?" he asked.
"I dunno. Because you don't have anyone else to put up with?"
This seemed to make sense to him.
"We'd b-b-better go," Gus said.
We all headed down the staircase to the first floor. Gwen shined the general's flashlight (which she seemed to have inherited) ahead of us to light the way. We opened the front door of the ancient building and stepped outside.
I immediately began to feel better. I didn't know if there were ghosts in the building; if there hadn't been, perhaps we had created some. At any rate, my spirit felt lighter leaving the place behind. The rain had stopped. The night was cool, the wind refreshing. Every part of my body hurt, but the pain would disappear, and the memory of this moment would remain.
Gus's jeep was parked by the statue of the Indian. We piled in. Then I noticed the bicycle leaning against the statue. I piled out and strapped it to the back of the jeep. After driving to the Globe, Gus wouldn't mind making an extra stop at Art's Filthy Bookstore. It would make a local happy.
"I should've asked Bolton about the referendum," Gwen remarked as I got back in.
"Why bother?" Stretch asked. "If they hold it, probably only one person will vote yes. Me."
I coughed from the back seat. "Make that two people," I said.
Stretch and Gwen turned to look at me.
"Well," I said, "private eyes are fond of lost causes. Besides, I want to keep Danny and Gus in town."
Gus grinned. "Shall we g-g-g—?"
Yes, I felt pretty good, all things considered. This case was solved, and there was always the next one, lying in wait for me in the unimaginable future. I thought of Art once again, and Locksley Hall. "'Not in vain the distance beacons,'" I said. "'Forward, forward let us range.'" Gus took that for a yes and started the jeep. My companions smiled at me tolerantly, then turned and faced forward as we headed off in the darkness to the Globe.
The End
See how The Last P.I. Series began?
Page forward for an excerpt from
DOVER BEACH
The Last P.I. Series
Book 1
Excerpt from
Dover Beach
The Last P.I. Series
Book 1
by
Richard Bowker
DOVER BEACH
Reviews & Accolades
AWARDS
Philip K. Dick Award for best paperback original of the year, Finalist
REVIEWS
"A wry, ingratiating story"
~Publisher's Weekly
"Dover Beach is a hard science fiction, medium-boiled detective story that succeeds in both fields... The mystery kept me guessing right up to the end; the science fiction, with its detailed portrayal of the remnants of the U.S., is equally good. The plot works well, and somehow all the pieces fit together. I highly recommend Dover Beach.
~Aboriginal Science Fiction
Humanist science fiction of a high order... The hero is bookish, the title obviously literary. Fortunately, the warmth, humor and unquenchable humanity of Sands and friends keep Dover Beach from becoming pretentious or heavily symbolic. So read this book, then tell your friends. Richard Bowker has earned his place in the limelight.
~Locus
We've had future private eye novels before, but there's something special about this one. Ruined Boston is very well drawn, with some great touches: the scavenger book dealer that sells pre-war porn and collects first-edition nuclear holocaust novels such as The Postman; the gun-toting airline ticket-seller at the airport who isn't sure what day the one weekly flight to England leaves, but does enquire, "smoking or non-smoking?" The peculiar combination of postnuclear anarchy, detective-story conventions, and innocent but intelligent hero comes together in something of a minor tour de force.
~Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine
Between what matters and what seems to matter, how should the world we know judge wisely?
—E. C. Bentley
It was one of those gray December days that freeze the soul as well as the body. The stack of unread books grew smaller; the fire in the wood stove was dying; I was thinking (not for the first time) that I was in the wrong line of work. Then I looked out my window and noticed the stranger standing in the slush below.
I quickly looked away. Didn't want to scare him off. I imagined him staring at the sign in the window and wondering whether to come up; it wasn't a very good sign, after all. I put the book down and waited. I heard the downstairs door creak open, then slam shut. I heard slow footsteps on the stairs; it was dark out there. The footsteps stopped outside my frosted-glass door. There was a pause, then a loud rapping.
I took out my .38 caliber Smith and Wesson automatic and aimed it at the door. You can't be too careful nowadays. "It's open," I called out pleasantly.
The stranger stepped inside. He stared at the gun. I stared at him.
Tough to make out very much in the semidarkness, except that he was well dressed—absurdly well dressed. "Mr. Sands?" he inquired nervously. The accent was Southern; he managed to make two syllables out of my name.
"That's right."
"The private investigator?"
"That's right."
"I may have a case for you."
I motioned to a seat across the desk from me, and I put the gun away. The man sat down. I lit the oil lamp on my desk, and we took a good look at each other.
Straight black hair, eyes the color of my stove. Sloping jaw, good skin—tanned. He was about my age, but I had a feeling the similarity ended there. The hands he was rubbing together were well manicured; the overcoat he wore looked new.
"Now, what can I do for you, Mister..."
"Winfield. Doctor Charles Winfield."
"Ah."
Having taken stock of me, his dark eyes darted away and took in my well-appointed office. They glanced meaningfully for a moment at the wood stove, but I didn't feel like taking the hint. He kept rubbing his hands. "I saw your ad in the Globe," he said finally.
"Ah."
"Why don't you have a telephone? This would have been much easier over the phone."
"Phones don't work very well around here," I said.
"Oh." He was silent again. He looked as though he wanted to pace, but there wasn't room. "It's an absurd profession—private investigator," he said after a moment. "I can't imagine there's any demand for your services."
"You're here," I pointed out.
"I don't really know why," he said.
"That makes two of us."
He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. "Someone tried to kill me yesterday," he said.
"Ah."
"But that's only part of it—that's not really even why..."
"If you're willing to start from the beginning," I said, "I'm willing to listen."
He nodded. "I'm twenty-two, Mr. Sands."
My turn to nod. My age. The magic age.
"I was raised in Florida. I never knew my father, and my mother never said much about him. I naturally a
ssumed—" He waved his hand.
"Naturally."
He took a breath, then plunged ahead. "It was only when my mother was dying that she explained anything, but it didn't really make much sense to me at the time. She said she had been living up here in Cambridge—she was a graduate student, I guess. She underwent some kind of experimental procedure at MIT that involved making her pregnant. But then, apparently, she left for Florida. Tensions were high, I suppose, and she wanted to go home. I don't know. She never went back to MIT."
"Not much of MIT to come back to," I remarked.
"Yes, I noticed." He paused. "I never tried to make any sense out of what my mother told me until I was in medical school—until a classmate showed me this." Dr. Winfield reached into an inner pocket and removed a sheet of paper. He carefully unfolded it and passed it to me.
It was an article from an old magazine. More than twenty-two years old. The title of the article was: "Controversial New Cloning Technique Defended." It consisted mainly of an interview with one Robert Cornwall, professor of genetics and cell biology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. There was a photograph of Professor Cornwall.
He looked remarkably like Dr. Winfield.
"Do you know what a clone is, Mr. Sands?"
"No," I lied.
"It is a genetically identical copy of a living organism. Many plants generate clones as a normal form of reproduction. Biologists used to know how to clone other species in the laboratory. They did it for bacteria and frogs and such. Techniques for cloning mammals were just being developed back then."
"You think you're a clone, Dr. Winfield?"
"Look at the photograph."
I looked some more. "Uh-huh," I said noncommittally.
He reached out and took the article back. "One can't go through life not knowing who—or what—one is. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," I lied.
"I had no way of finding out while I was in medical school down in Fort Lauderdale. I had to wait until I was a doctor, until I had some freedom and some money."
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