Dover Beach (3 page)

It was Stretch's turn to cook supper. The familiar aroma of his stew hit us as soon as we walked in the front door. Gwen and I looked at each other and smiled. We hung our coats on the rack in the front hall and went back to the kitchen.

Stretch was at the stove, stirring the stew. Linc was slumped in a chair at the table, propped up by a couple of pillows. "Hi, all," I said, and I dropped the bacon onto the stove. "Why don't you cook this up, Stretch?"

Stretch looked at it. "Bacon? What's the occasion?"

"Walter got his first case today," Gwen announced.

Linc applauded. "The Sandman comes through. We all knew you would."

"Gee, you did a great job of keeping it to yourselves," I said.

"We didn't want you to get a swelled head."

"Well, you were entirely successful." I poured myself a glass of cider and sat down next to Linc. He was wearing two or three sweaters and a pair of gloves. His eyes glittered out of his pale, unshaven face like jewels dropped in old snow. "So how's it going?" I asked him.

He managed a smile. "Never better. I think the climate's agreeing with me. There's something about slush—I guess it's just good for what ails you. But enough of that. Tell us about your case."

I was glad to comply. I told them the story of the mysterious Southern doctor and his supposed clone while Stretch cooked the bacon and set the meal in front of us. "It was one of those gray December days..."

But somehow it didn't sound quite as exciting in the retelling. By the time I had finished, Gwen and Linc were studying their stew, and Stretch was looking at me with a puzzled expression. "Wait a minute," he said. "This guy Cornwall has been missing for—well, for twenty-two years—and you're trying to track him down for free?"

"Um, well, yeah, I guess so."

"But that's stupid, Walter. You're never going to get anywhere. And do you really think someone other than your average hood is trying to kill this doctor?"

I shrugged. As usual, Stretch was missing the point. "It's a case," I said. "I run an ad in the paper, and everyone laughs at me, but I get a case. And the guy paid me fifty cents," I pointed out. I grabbed a piece of bacon self-righteously.

"It's probably worth a try," Linc said.

"It might be good experience," Gwen said.

"Yeah. Good experience." I chewed my bacon.

"Besides, it could be worse," Linc said. "You could be working for the government."

Linc knew when to change the subject. The government was always good for an argument. Stretch worked for the government.

"The government's okay," I said.

"How can you say that?" Linc demanded. "You probably break a dozen laws every day."

"I'm glad the laws exist, even if I break them."

"Do you know how idiotic that sounds, Walter?"

I grinned. "I'm a private eye, not a philosopher."

Stretch ladled out more stew. I noticed that Linc had barely touched his. "The government is all that keeps us from chaos," Stretch said.

"Oh, bullshit," Linc replied. "I've seen what governments can do. Give me chaos any day."

"This government is different," Stretch said.

Linc rolled his eyes. "The only way this government is different is that it's less powerful. And that's by necessity, not by choice."

"I saw what things were like before we had the government," Stretch said quietly. "I'm proud to be a part of it."

Linc sighed. When Stretch started talking about pride, the argument was over. We ate in silence for a while. Linc looked very tired. "I think I'm gonna go take a nap," he said. "Maybe dream about truth, justice, and the American way."

"You should try to eat more," Gwen said.

He smiled. "Why? Did someone pass a law?" But he obediently gulped a couple of spoonfuls of stew before he got up from the table. He patted me on the shoulder as he made his way past. We listened silently to his slow footsteps on the stairs. Stretch took Linc's bowl and scraped the remaining stew back into the pot. "Linc isn't feeling well," he murmured.

I ate another piece of bacon. I didn't want to think about Linc, so I changed the subject. "What'd you write about today, Gwen? Anything exciting gonna show up in tomorrow's
Globe?"

"Fuel aid," she said.

"We get any?"

"Nope." Gwen wasn't the world's most talkative writer. I noticed that she was staring at me in that soul-dissecting way of hers, her head slightly tilted, her eyes half closed, appraising. It was not the kind of stare that made you feel very comfortable. I waited nervously for the result of the appraisal. "I guess you're a full-fledged private eye now, Walter," she said softly.

"I guess so," I replied, no longer able to look at her.

"Does that mean you don't have to go out with Bobby tonight?"

"Bobby! Jesus, I forgot. I'll be late."

Her head remained tilted.

"Look, it's not that big a deal," I said. "We just drive up to New Hampshire, he does his business, and we come back. He just needs me because Doctor J has to stay behind and guard the warehouse."

"It's illegal," Stretch noted.

I ignored Stretch. "Nothing's gonna happen, Gwen. Honest."

"You told me those Charlestown people weren't going to be very happy."

"Yeah, but they can't
do
anything about it. They don't want to get this guy Fitch angry at them by messing with one of his suppliers. I'm more worried about the snow than I am about them."

Gwen looked down at her stew and said nothing. Her appraisal of me was complete. I sighed and finished off the bacon. Then I stood up. "Great supper, Stretch." Gwen stood up too.

"Walter, you be careful out there," Stretch said. "And thanks for the bacon."

"Sure thing." Gwen and I walked out to the front hall. Stretch stayed behind to do the dishes.

I put on my parka and my knitted cap, and we gazed at each other for a moment. Gwen isn't very good-looking, I guess. Chin too pointed, cheeks too hollow. Her old black trousers and bulky sweater didn't do much for her figure. But then, none of us is going to win any beauty contests. And anyway, her brown hair looked beautiful by candlelight; her dark gaze could be exciting as well as nerve-wracking; and when you managed to make her happy, her smile made your life seem worthwhile.

"Linc isn't going to last the winter," she said finally.

"I know."

"I worry," she said. "About all of us."

"I know. It'll be all right. Trust me."

She looked at me, and I knew that she didn't trust me, didn't trust anything or anyone in this world—had no reason to. But there was nothing she could do about it, so she had to give in. "I'll wait up for you," she said.

We held each other for a moment, and then I walked out into the night.

Chapter 3

The road barely existed anymore. Hunched over the wheel, Mickey stared out through the snow and swerved constantly to miss the rocks and potholes and assorted debris. A broken axle up here would not be a good idea.

Bobby was nervous. When he's nervous, he talks too much. "So she says, 'Oh, it's so hod to pot with all this. It's been in the family for generations, you know. We godded it all through the Frenzy and now things are settling down, but what am I to do? One must eat, mustn't one?'

" 'Oh, certainly one must,' I says. Jesus, they all make you feel like they're doin' you a favor, handing over their firstborn or something. But I'm not the one that's starving. You know what I'm saying? Jesus, this snow's a bitch." Bobby leaned forward and peered out at an abandoned house. He doesn't see very well. "I hate bein' outside the city. I mean, the city is dangerous, but at least you know what's goin' on. There are rules, sort of. Who the fuck knows what's goin' on up here?"

Bobby sat in the middle, between Mickey and me. A shotgun rested between my legs. I held its smooth barrel in my right hand. The van's heater was turned up full blast, and it felt great. I wished Bobby weren't so nervous. He was making me nervous too.

We were off the highway now, passing by cold white fields and scrawny trees and rocks. Bobby was right: we didn't belong here. Still, something stirred inside me—wisps of memories that were better left unremembered. "How much further, Mickey?" I asked.

"Not far," he said. Mickey was about as talkative as Gwen.

Bobby drummed his fingers on his thighs. "This guy is so fuckin' weird, Wally, you won't believe it. It's being stuck up here in the boonies, if you ask me. You got no human interaction, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"He has you. And O'Malley's people."

"O'Malley's people. Shit. Talking to one of them's like talking to a tree. This guy is so weird. Christ, I wish I could see something."

Mickey was going even slower now. Eventually there was a light in the distance. "That's it," he said. We aimed for the light, and came to a stop in front of a large gate. The light shone down at us from behind the gate like a beacon from heaven. A dog was barking. I don't like dogs.

"Get out with your hands up," an amplified voice ordered. It sounded like God.

I looked at Bobby. "So fuckin' weird," he said, shaking his head. He motioned to me to get out. I left the shotgun behind and climbed down into the snow with my hands over my head. Bobby and Mickey did the same.

The gate swung open, and two figures appeared out of a shack. One stayed behind and trained a shotgun on us. The other moved forward. He had a revolver in one hand, a Doberman on a leash in the other; the Doberman was about the size of the van. The figure was wearing a knitted cap and a homemade sheepskin coat. He was about twelve.

He searched us. The Doberman growled when it was my turn. Good doggie. I kept my hands up. The boy found my Smith and Wesson and pocketed it. He found the shotgun in the van and gave it, and the Doberman, to the figure waiting by the gate.

The boy returned to us. "Okay," he said. We all got into the van. The boy kept the revolver trained on Mickey, who drove slowly through the open gate. We passed the other figure, standing by the shack and restraining the Doberman. It was a girl, maybe a little younger than the boy. The Doberman kept barking. The gate clanged shut behind us. I felt as if I had crossed a border.

Here is a survival skill I have learned. Generally, when you come upon an isolated farm surrounded by barbed wire, with searchlights and Dobermans and shotguns in evidence, it is a good idea to move on. Quickly. Not tonight, however.

"So how do you like this snow?" Bobby asked the boy.

The boy didn't reply.

"I don't think there was this much snow in the old days," Bobby went on. "Of course, they say that about a lot of things. But I think maybe they're right about the snow. A lot more snow than there used to be."

Bobby was nervous. I wished he would shut up.

The land extended flat and unbroken on both sides until it disappeared in the darkness. The road along which we were traveling was plowed and newly paved. We were headed for a sprawling house that blazed with light about a half mile in front of us. Several smaller buildings were scattered like seedlings around it. There was a large barn and a silo off to one side, and in the distance a windmill loomed like a creature from a fairytale.

"Stop," the boy said when we had reached the house.

Mickey pulled up by the front porch.

Another figure stood by the door, holding another shotgun. The boy got out and waved, and the figure motioned for us to come in.

"Here goes," Bobby muttered. We got out and crunched across the snow to the open door.

"Wipe your feet," the figure commanded.

We wiped our feet and walked inside.

"Come with me." The figure took off her cap—it was a girl with a misshapen face. We followed her while our senses reeled. Warmth: the house was warmer than the van, warmer than the Ritz; a month's supply of logs blazed in a fireplace. Light: electric lights, shining out from chandeliers and sconces, reflecting off mirrors and polished mahogany furniture. Smells: the sharp sweet scent of burning birch, the rich aroma of something sweet being baked. Apple pie? Strudel?