Dover Beach (38 page)

Hemphill wasn't there, so I asked Bobby instead. "What happened?"

Bobby leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his large stomach. He wasn't crying anymore, but his eyes had that distant, misty look I knew all too well. "I went to get him, over in Cambridge. Cornwall was with him. That was great—saved me a trip, and the Brits were real interested in biologists like them.

"Cornwall was dying to go. I didn't have to do any convincing with him. Most of them, I think they wanted to get out, but they wouldn't look too eager, they felt like they should pretend they wanted to stay, help the suffering, shit like that. So I had to do a little persuading, maybe pull the gun on them, and that would do the trick. But I didn't have to bother for Cornwall.

"Hemphill was a different story, the stupid shit. He wasn't going. Couldn't convince him—I don't know why. I took out the gun finally and I pointed it at him and I said, 'You're taking food out of my mouth, asshole, so you'd better come with me or you're a dead man.'

"And he wouldn't come, Wally. And Cornwall starts laughing and says something to him like, 'You've only got one life, pal. Don't waste it.' But he wouldn't budge. I never killed anyone before in my life—shit, I never even fired a gun. But I figured it was now or never. A guy has to eat, right?

"But I couldn't do it. Not in cold blood, Wally. I left him there and took Cornwall to the Brits. And that was the last I heard of either of them, until you started asking your damn questions on the way back from New Hampshire. Didn't feel like going into it then. Don't much feel like it now, for that matter."

"And then Hemphill showed up out of the blue a couple of weeks ago with a business proposition," I murmured.

Bobby looked at me, wondering how I knew that, but he let it pass. "Yeah," he said. "We recognized each other right away. And we got to talking, and I said, 'You know, I've thought a lot over the years about that time I almost killed you, and I've decided I was stupid. I shoulda killed you.' And you know what he said, Wally?"

I shook my head.

"He said, 'I wish you had. I wish you had.' How do you figure people, huh, Wally?"

Beats me.
I am not a brave man, Mr. Sands.
That's what Hemphill had said to me in McDonald's. He had managed to be brave once, with Bobby's gun pointed at him and Cornwall's laughter ringing in his ears, so that he could be there if his clone ever returned. But the joke was on him. Was that the real reason he hated Cornwall so much?

Beats me. The more I knew, the more I knew I didn't know. Hemphill, Cornwall, Winfield—their dreams and passions would always be slightly beyond my grasp. Now my fat friend Bobby was turning out to be a lot more complex than I could have imagined. And Kathy—if I had stayed with her, would I ever have really understood her? She probably didn't understand herself. Maybe real private eyes had a better handle on these things. But I was beginning to doubt it.

"I'm sorry to bring all this up, Bobby," I said. "You did a big favor for me—bigger than I realized—and I appreciate it."

Bobby shrugged. "Shit, what are friends for? It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back." I stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke. "Bobby, there's just one thing that still bothers me about this case."

Bobby looked at me, and I looked at him, and then he started to laugh.

I laughed too.

Bobby stood up and stuck out his hand. "So long, Sherlock."

I shook his hand. "Thanks, Bobby."

Chapter 33

Rush hour outside Park Street Station. Not much of a rush. By the cemetery, Ground Zero was sitting on a milk crate in the slush, playing his accordion. A few people were waiting, like me, for the train to come in. "Haven't seen you around lately, Walter," a casual acquaintance said.

"Been on a business trip."

"Oh? How's business?"

"Never been better."

I waited, and Jesus Christ came walking across the plaza, dragging his cross. His little boy handed out scraps of yellow paper to anyone who would take them. I reached into the pockets of my parka and felt around. Yes, it was there. I took it out. "Still have mine," I said when the boy came up to me. I showed it to him:

The End Is At Hand

"Do you heed the message, Walter?" Jesus Christ asked me.

"Sure do," I said. "Thanks for reminding me."

He nodded solemnly and walked on through the Common with his cross and his child. I heard the train rumble into the station below. After a few moments, the commuters started straggling out of the exit. Gwen was one of the last of them.

She almost walked past me, head down, intent on making her way home through the slush. "Happy New Year," I murmured.

She stopped. "Walter?"

"Hi."

She reached out and touched my arm, as if to make sure I was real. "What happened?" she asked.

"Long story. Maybe I'll write it all down someday."

"Is the case over?"

"Well, not exactly."

She stared at me. I had looked at that face so many times—those hollow cheeks, those deep, wise eyes. We were so young; we were so old. I remembered. "Then why are you here?" she asked. "The case is in England."

I shook my head. "That wasn't the real case. It took me a while to figure out, but I finally understood. The real case was back here in Boston. I just finished extracting a confession from one Robert Gallagher."

Gwen was silent.

One last, spectacular summary of the evidence. "He admitted forging the letter that sent me off to England," I went on. "But see, that couldn't be the whole story. Bobby can't write letters like that. And besides, he's almost blind, and he has to dictate to Doctor J, who's a fine fellow but can't spell for shit. No, there's only one person Bobby could turn to who could've written that letter. Only one person," I repeated. "And I taught her everything she knows."

Gwen tilted her head just a little. She denied nothing, she admitted nothing. "You came back," was all she said.

"I came back. Linc will call me a fool, but I came back."

I took her arm, and we started to walk away from the station. Gwen stopped after a few steps and stood facing me. "There's no good time to tell you," she said, "so I'll just say it. Linc killed himself New Year's Eve."

I stared at her, unwilling to believe it. "No."

"He was in terrible pain, Walter. It was only a matter of time."

Time," I repeated dumbly. Memories of Linc rushed through me. I know I'm dying, he said, but you're dying, too, everyone is dying. All that matters is what you do before you take that last breath. Time. I wanted to turn it around and go back and see him just one more time, but that's not the way things work around here. Linc was gone. "I wish I could've said good-bye to him."

"He loved you," Gwen said. "He loved all of us."

We walked a little farther, and then I stopped in front of Ground Zero. "You know 'As Time Goes By'?" I asked him.

His scarred face lit up.
"Cathablanca.
Nineteen-forty-three."

I tossed a nickel into his soggy hat. "Play it, Ground Zero. Play 'As Time Goes By.' "

He hit a few chords on his accordion and started to sing. It was awful. I listened for a verse, and then I turned to Gwen. "Shall we dance?"

She gave a little smile. "I'd like that very much."

And when two loverth woo...

"Did you get to all those places on Art's list?" Gwen asked as we danced. "Stratford-on-Avon, Dover Beach...?"

I shook my head. "Not a one."

"Do you regret it?"

"No, I guess I don't." And then I smiled. I had my title, just in the nick of time.

They thtill thay "I love you." On that you can rely...

"Did you know I'd come back?" I asked.

"I don't know anything about the future," she said. "I try not to think about it."

No matter what the future bringth...

And I thought of Linc and of Cornwall, of Hemphill and Winfield and Bobby and Kathy and Stretch and Art, of all of us dead and dying, the past that clings to us and the future that terrifies us. And there is nothing we can do but hold on to each other on that darkling plain.

And dance.

Ath time goth by.

So that's what Gwen and I did. As we had in the fallout shelter so long ago, as we would again (perhaps) in some unimaginable future.

We danced—in the slush, amid the ghosts of the ruined city.

The End

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Richard Bowker

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