The Distance Beacons (33 page)

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."