Dover Beach (31 page)

I considered. Kathy's apartment was hardly mine to offer. But perhaps she wouldn't mind if a deal could be worked out. "Give me, say, a hundred and twenty pounds to check out of the hotel," I said. "Then we can go back to Kathy's, and you can rest up there for a day or so."

Winfield seemed dubious. "Why would she go along with that?" he asked. "She doesn't think I'm her father's clone. She probably blames me for everything."

"Oh, I think she's pretty well convinced you're a clone. It'll be up to you to make her trust you."

"All right." He fished into his pocket, counted out the bills, and handed them over. "You believe it, too, don't you?" he asked eagerly. "I am his clone, right? It's obvious."

"Yes," I said. "It's obvious." I left him standing in the alley and went back to the hotel.

The desk clerk was on the phone. His eyes narrowed when he saw me approach. I laid the money down in front of him and watched his eyes widen.

He hung up quickly. "Wot'd yer do, 'old up a bank?" he asked me.

"Precisely. Remarkable deduction. I'm checking out of Room 28. Kindly pass me the key. Oh, and I'd like any mail that may have come for me."

The clerk sullenly got the bill, counted out the money, and gave me my change. Then he handed over the key and the letter.

"Thank you so much." I looked at the letter. The return address said:

R. Gallagher

E Street

S. Boston, MA USA

I put the letter in my pocket and headed upstairs.

The room was exactly as I had left it on Christmas Day. I quickly packed everything and took a final look around. Would I miss the place? Not really. Every place has its memories. You do your best to ignore them. I lugged the bags back downstairs.

Mr. Ormsby was standing in the lobby, staring at me suspiciously. "Wanna search me for towels and soap?" I asked. He didn't respond. I put the bags down and took out a pound coin. "Listen," I said. "I just want to show that there are no hard feelings about all this." I stuffed the coin into the breast pocket of his suit. "You look a little peckish, Mr. Ormsby. Why don't you go have an ice-cream cone on me. And keep the change, okay?" I picked up the bags and walked out of the hotel.

I hailed a cab—never did that before in my life—and instructed the driver to stop in front of the alley. Winfield jumped in, and we were off to Kathy's. In the cab, Winfield kept twisting around and looking out the rear window.

"See anyone?" I asked.

"They're too clever to let themselves be noticed."

I didn't ask why they cared if we noticed them—if they wanted us, why not just capture us? Winfield's paranoia was too complete to be worth questioning.

Once inside Kathy's flat, I made him some tea and toast while he sat shivering on the sofa. He consumed both greedily, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The warmth and safety of the flat seemed to drain him of whatever energy he had left.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" I said. "There's a spare bedroom you can use."

"I s'pose." He stood up with an effort. He happened to glance out the window, and then turned away quickly. "There's someone out there," he said.

"Oh, I don't think so," I said.

He glared at me. "There's someone out there," he repeated.

"All right," I agreed. "But what can we do about it?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he said. "I can't think anymore."

"Look," I said. "Go to bed and we'll talk about it later, okay? Maybe they're just hanging around, hoping you'll lead them to Cornwall."

He didn't have the strength to disagree. "Will you stay here?" he asked.

"I'll be here." I led him into the spare bedroom. He managed to take his shoes off, and then he fell back on the mattress, asleep.

I covered him with a blanket and took his gun away. Back in the living room, I glanced out the window. I couldn't see anyone. I took Winfield's dirty dishes out to the kitchenette and washed them.

I was beginning to think that helping Winfield was a stupid idea. I should just call Grimby and have the police cart him away, innocent or not. I didn't need him here, and neither did Kathy. Him and his paranoia, him and his solipsism.
They're out to get me because I'm a clone.... My existence forced them to act, don't you see?
If he hadn't offered me a way out of my dilemma at the hotel—

My dilemma. I took out the letter from Bobby and stared at it, smiling. At least something had worked out right. I started to open it, and then abruptly stopped.

My existence forced them to act, don't you see?

No, not quite, but—

The morning newspaper was sitting there on the counter in the kitchenette. I glanced through it quickly, confirming my memory of what I had already read. Then I went and got a map of England I had noticed in the rolltop desk when cleaning up Christmas night, and I studied it for a long while. Then I made a few phone calls.

I had a Theory, don't you see? The kind private eyes have all the time, I suppose, but I wasn't used to theories, and this one tantalized and bewildered me. A real private eye would know in his gut if his theory was right, I suppose, but all my gut told me was how much I didn't know, how much still didn't make sense. I thought and I thought and I thought. I was still thinking when Kathy returned to the flat late in the afternoon.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi." We kissed shyly. "Um, we have a visitor," I said. I showed her Winfield, still passed out in the spare bedroom.

Kathy gave me the puzzled look I had been anticipating.

"He was waiting for me outside the hotel," I explained. "I let him come here in exchange for paying the room bill." The truth, although not quite the whole truth. And anyway, there was something more important on my mind. "Listen," I said. "We can talk about him later. I want to talk about your father now."

Kathy's puzzled expression turned frightened. "What about him?"

"Come with me," I said softly. I brought her back to the living room, and we sat down on the sofa. "Did you happen to notice this story in the newspaper today?" I showed her the headline: "CASTLE FROME TEEN MURDERED." Kathy shook her head. "There have been two other stories like that since—well, since the day before Christmas," I went on. "I don't have the newspapers, but 'SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD FOUND MURDERED IN EAST NORTON' was the headline for the first story, and the next one was
'
CHRISTMAS DAY SHOOTING IN SHREWSBURY: MURDER HUNT FOR YOUTH'S KILLER.' I remember stuff like that."

"I don't understand," Kathy whispered. "What does this have to do with my father?"

I showed Kathy the map, on which I had marked the three murder sites. They formed a rough semicircle around Oxford. "East Norton is a little ways off the Ml," I pointed out. "That looks to me to be the route a bus would take between London and Nottingham. I called around this afternoon, Kathy. None of the murders have been solved."

"Are you saying my father committed these murders?" Kathy asked, her voice rising. She thrust the map back at me with barely a glance.

"I think it's a possibility we have to consider," I replied. "I think the victims may be the clones he created at Bromford. They were probably scattered all over the country when his project ended, but it wouldn't have been that difficult for him to keep track of where they were."

I paused, frightened by the coldness in Kathy's expression. I had known this wouldn't be easy. "Go on," she said.

"Seeing Winfield affected your father terribly, Kathy. We both saw that. But why would he deny that Winfield was his clone? It's obvious that he is. I think your father must have become profoundly disenchanted with his work over the years—a lot of people seem to think cloning is terribly immoral. You yourself said he's changed, become more normal. And maybe that explains why he's drinking so much. The shock of finding out that an adult clone of his has survived might have triggered something in him—might have made him decide once and for all that he should rid the world of these creatures. And maybe that's what he's doing now."

Kathy was shaking her head. "This is so absurd. I'm sitting here listening to you accuse my father of murdering children in cold blood. That's hardly 'normal,' is it? Walter, weren't you there the other night? Didn't you see the same person I saw? He's an old man, Walter. He's changed, but he hasn't become a murderer. You don't have any evidence, you just have—have newspaper headlines."

"I understand that," I said softly. And I didn't mention the one other piece of evidence I had: Winfield himself. Winfield, I knew, was willing to steal, and, in his solipsistic universe, I was pretty sure he'd be willing to murder too. He probably would have murdered Cornwall that night in Oxford, if I hadn't stopped him. If Winfield could do it, why not the man who had cloned him?

But of course the argument didn't quite make it. How did I know that they would behave the same way? I wasn't going to convince Kathy if I couldn't do a better job of convincing myself. "Look," I said, "I'm not at all sure I'm right, Kathy. But if I am, then we have to do something immediately, before someone else dies."

She suddenly closed her eyes. I don't think she liked the mention of death. "Do what?" she whispered.

"Well, go to the police, I guess. Tell Grimby. The Ministry of Science must have some record of the clones and what was done with them. The police could at least get a hold of that list and find out if I'm right. If I'm wrong, then I owe you a very deep apology."

Tears leaked from beneath her eyelids. "Don't go to the police, Walter," she said. "I beg you. I don't think I could stand that."

"But we've got to do something, Kathy. I know it's only a theory, and maybe not a very good one, but lives may be at stake."

Her nose was running. Her face looked like it was about to be washed away. "Find that list of clones, Walter," she said when she had regained a little control. "I know you can do it. And if you're right, do whatever you like. I'll help you. Just don't go to the police with nothing but this. Okay?"

It seemed pointless to me, and I wasn't at all sure I'd be able to find the list, but how could I argue with her—how could I make her go against her love and loyalty?

"Okay, Kathy," I said. "Grimby probably wouldn't believe me any more than you did. I guess I'll have to find the list."

* * *

It was an awkward afternoon. It didn't become any less awkward a couple of hours later when Winfield came out of the bedroom, yawning and scratching at his beard.

He nodded to Kathy; she nodded back. "I didn't do it—any of it," he said to her.

"That's what Walter has been telling me," Kathy replied.

"Do you believe me?"

"I don't really know what to believe anymore."

"I think this is more complicated than any of us can imagine," Winfield went on. "Did Sands tell you that I'm being followed?"

She shook her head.

Winfield glared at me.

"I didn't want to worry her," I said. I shrugged at Kathy while he went to the window and stared out.

"Still there," he announced. "He's the one who broke into your apartment—him or one of his cronies."

"I guess we're safe here," I said, "if they haven't come in to get us yet."

Winfield sat down and drummed his fingers on his thigh. "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" he murmured.

I didn't even consider telling him about my theory. But I figured I had to say something to shut him up for a while. If I found Cornwall, after all, the case would be over, and I wouldn't have to worry about Winfield again. "I'm going to look into this government conspiracy tomorrow," I said. "We can plan a course of action once I've learned a little more."

Winfield nodded. "Good idea. What exactly are you going to do?"

"Um, well, I haven't formulated it too clearly yet, but I'll be starting at the Ministry of Science."

"Yeah. That's the place to start. Be careful, though."

"I'll be careful," I said, surprised at his solicitude.

Winfield drummed his fingers some more. "Got any liquor here?" he asked. The question was apparently directed at Kathy, although he was gazing off into space when he asked it.

"No. I'm sorry," Kathy said.

He looked around, bored and thirsty, but saw nothing that interested him. "Guess I'll get cleaned up," he muttered. "Bathroom?"

Kathy pointed the way, and he left us.

"Does he remind you of your father?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "I love my father."

* * *

Later, the three of us ate a silent meal together; then Winfield (after a quick glance out the window) retreated to his room.

"I suppose I should go to bed too," Kathy said.

"Do you have another rehearsal tomorrow?"

She nodded. "I was quite awful today. I expect I won't be much better tomorrow." She paused a moment, then said, "Will you be staying up?"

A little awkwardness here. "Yes," I replied. "I guess I'll be staying up."

"All right. Well, good night, then."