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"What does he do with all that stuff?"

  "He keeps what he wants and trades the rest. Drives up to Maine and dickers with the border guards. They're corrupt as hell, thank God. Imagine, all the problems we've got, and the government bans the sale of computer equipment. What a world."

  "Why don't you go up to Maine yourself—eliminate the middleman?"

  "Because Fitch'd kill me. Also, I'm nervous enough just going to New Hampshire. What was it he called Boston?"

  "A wilderness of tigers."

  "Yeah. That goes double for fucking Maine."

  I smiled, suppressing a memory or two. The snow had tapered off, but progress was still slow along what was left of the highway. We had it all to ourselves.

  "God, 93 used to be such a good road," Bobby murmured. "I remember leaving MIT early on Fridays and whipping up north to go skiing. Imagine wanting to be out in the snow."

  "You used to work at MIT, Bobby?"

  "Yeah, in the business office. Why?"

  "Did you happen to know a professor named Robert Cornwall?"

  Bobby looked at me as if I were crazy. "Why do you wanna know something like that?"

  "I got a case today. Somebody's looking for Robert Cornwall."

  "Who's looking for him?"

  "His, uh, son. Did you know Cornwall?"

  Bobby slowly shook his head. "I didn't really pal around with the professors, Wally. I was just a local kid tryin' to make a few bucks. Jesus, what makes the guy's kid think he can find him after all these years?"

  "He's been down South. It's the first chance he's had to look."

  "Sounds like a waste of time to me."

  I didn't reply. I'd heard that before.

  "I'd lay any odds he's dead," Bobby went on. "Hundred things could've killed him, from typhoid to starvation—well, to the goddamn Brits. People are starting to forget about the Brits, you know, now that we're supposed to be such good friends. But Jesus, did they ever fuck us over. We were just starting to get back on our feet around here, and they come in and screw everything up. Said they were doing us a favor. They did the Irish a favor too, I suppose. Fuck their favors. They should've left us alone."

  "Okay, Bobby," I said softly. The Brits were his favorite subject, and he could veer into it from the strangest angles. We both fell silent. We weren't far from the city now. I started thinking about home. I started thinking about my case.

  "Trouble," Mickey said. He pointed back over his shoulder. A police car was behind us, flashing its red and blue beacon.

  "What the hell do they want?" Bobby muttered. "I pay off enough people around here."

  "Should I stop?" Mickey asked. "Probably can't outrun em."

  "Yeah, I guess so. Dammit."

  Mickey stopped the van. The police car pulled up behind us.

  "Let me do the talking," Bobby said. "Maybe they're just killing time."

  I got out and let Bobby clamber down into the slush. I stayed next to the van and looked back at the police car. A cop was walking toward Bobby. Another cop sat on the passenger's side and watched. I turned back to Mickey. "One cop usually in a cop car, right?" I asked.

  "Right," he said. "Maybe it's a special patrol. Looking for smugglers."

  "Sure."

  The cop came up to Bobby and glanced at me and Mickey. He was tall and skinny. His cap perched precariously on top of his head; a well-aimed rock would've knocked it off. "You got a permit to be driving this thing outside the city limits?" he asked Bobby.

  "Officer, I think we should have a little talk," Bobby said.

  "No permit? What's in the back?"

  "Now, Officer, I'm sure that we can come to a meeting of the minds about—"

  "Open it up, asshole." The cop reached out and pushed Bobby toward the back of the van. I saw a lot of wrist and forearm.

  "The goddamn uniform doesn't fit," I said to Mickey. The cop still sitting in the car made a movement. I saw a glint of metal. I reached back into the van, picked up the shotgun, and blasted out the windshield.

  The tall cop and Bobby fell to the ground. The other cop made a move as if to slide across the front seat to the driver's side. I aimed a little above him and shot again. He lay still.

  The tall cop had grabbed Bobby and was struggling to get the gun out of his holster. I got down from the van, ran through the slush, and clubbed him with the butt of the shotgun. He fell back with a howl of pain and let Bobby go. I reached down and took his gun.

  "The other one's getting away," Mickey called out.

  I looked up. The other cop had gotten out of the car and was running with difficulty, bobbing and weaving close to the ground. "Let him go," I said.

  Bobby staggered to his feet and looked at me with a mixture of fear and astonishment. "What the fuck are you doin', Wally?"

  "They're not cops," I said. "They must've stolen the car. Or maybe it's a fake." I poked the tall guy lying at my feet. "Who sent you? O'Malley?"

  He rubbed his jaw where I had clubbed him, and he didn't reply. I undid the safety of his revolver and fired a bullet into the ground three inches to the left of his jaw. He looked up at me, shotgun in one hand, his revolver in the other, Smith and Wesson bulging in my pocket. He was a little afraid. "Yeah," he gasped. "O'Malley. He just wanted to hassle you, that's all. We weren't gonna do nothin'."

  I looked at Bobby. He was shaking. "Kill him," he said. "He was gonna kill us, right?"

  I shrugged and kicked the guy. "Tell your boss not to mess with Bobby Gallagher," I said. "Now get lost."

  The guy studied me for an instant to see if it was a trick; then he scrambled to his feet and raced off after his buddy.

  "I told you to kill him," Bobby screamed at me.

  "Oh, give it a rest, Bobby," I said. "You wouldn't have killed him either." I walked back to the van. Bobby followed. Mickey went over to the police car and silently started draining the oil and gas from it and removing the more useful parts.

  "Sometimes we gotta do things we don't want to do," Bobby said to me. "We can't let O'Malley think we're soft."

  "I don't kill people," I said. "Too many people have died."

  "Ah, shit," he replied. But he couldn't seem to think of anything else to add, and he was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, it was on an entirely different topic. "How long you been back from the army, Wally?"

  "A couple of months, I guess."

  "And you finally got your first case today?"

  "Well, I've only been running the ad for a week or two."

  "I've been thinking maybe you should give up on this private-eye business and come to work for me full-time. I mean, being a private eye's a cute idea and all, but you know and I know it's not going anywhere. You've just been reading too many books. You're too smart to waste your time dreaming. I could use some more help, especially if I'm gonna be dealing with Fitch. Toughen you up a little bit and you'll be great at it."

  "Thanks, Bobby, but I don't think so."

  "Oh, come on, you really think you can be a private eye like those guys in the books? Maybe you're not as smart as you look."

  "Maybe. But anyway, I've got a case now, and I figure I should see it through."

  Bobby shook his head. "Waste of time," he said softly.

  Mickey got into the van. "Ready," he said.

  Bobby looked at him. "What do you think of this private-eye shit?"

  Mickey grinned. "Wally'd get my business." He tossed me something. "Besides, now he's official."

  I looked at Mickey's gift. It was a badge.

  Bobby shook his head some more. "Too many books," he muttered. "Let's go."

  I put the badge in my pocket. Mickey started up the van, and we were silent as we made our way back to the sleeping city.

  Chapter 4

  Gwen was waiting for me in the front parlor when I arrived. She was wearing her patched blue robe and a couple pairs of woolen socks. "How did it go?" she asked.

  "Oh, fine."

  "No problems?"

  I shook my head. "I thi
nk I'll have a glass of cider." We went out to the kitchen. With Gwen, I was never sure if my lies were successful. I always had the feeling that she understood everything, and that sometimes she just decided to let me get away with one.

  She poured us each some cider, and we sat at the table. I told her all about the farm and Lavinia and Mr. Fitch and the electric lights and the tapestries on the wall. And then I remembered something. "I brought you a present." I reached into my pocket and took out a piece of cake I had grabbed from the Rose Medallion plate.

  "Oh, Walter. Thank you."

  "It was either this or a hard disk, and I figured you had more use for cake."

  She smiled and ate the cake.

  "Bobby wants me to go to work for him full-time," I said.

  I waited for a response, but none came. She looked at me and sipped her cider.

  "I told him to forget it. I'm a private eye now. No time for stuff like that."

  She nodded, "You must feel good about getting that case."

  "Yeah. Well." No sense going into it. She knew how good I felt. I finished my cider and stood up. "You should get some sleep," I said.

  Gwen stood up too. She took the lamp in one hand, and my hand in the other, and we went upstairs. We paused as we passed Linc's bedroom. He was breathing heavily; he muttered something unintelligible in his sleep. Gwen's hand squeezed mine. We went into our bedroom.

  She set the lamp on the night table and pulled the bedcovers down. I took off my shoes. We got into bed, and she put out the lamp.

  The darkness was total. We pulled up the covers. I put my arm around Gwen, and she snuggled into the crook of my shoulder. "Do you feel like it?" I asked.

  "I guess not," she said.

  "Okay."

  We were silent for a while. The darkness became less total. I could make out the looming bulk of the dresser, the elegant curves of the escritoire, the useless outline of the useless radiator.

  "I'm glad you're safe," Gwen said.

  "So am I," I said. Glad to see the dresser and the escritoire for another day. Glad to see her. Across the hall, Linc snorted and groaned.

  "Someday," I murmured, "sleep will come easy."

  "And dreams will come true," Gwen replied.

  "Someday."

  We didn't say anything then. I stroked her hair, and we breathed together, and eventually her breathing became deep and regular. I listened to it for a long while, and then carefully pulled my arm from beneath her head. She settled herself onto the pillow, still asleep. I got out of bed, groped for the lamp, found it, and made my way out into the hall. I was an old hand at this. I lit the lamp in the darkness and walked slowly up the creaking stairs to the third floor. The lamp threw spooky shadows against the walls. I wasn't afraid of spooks, though; there was too much else to be afraid of in this world. At the top of the stairs, I turned right. More shadows, more spooks, beckoning to me in the dim light, writhing in their lust for life, for freedom. The room reeked of the past, overpowered me with the musty odor of lives lived, of genius spent. It was an odor as exciting as any perfume. I entered the room.

  Too many books, Bobby had said. An accusation.

  Guilty. I stared at them:

  Confess, Fletch

  The Dreadful Lemon Sky

  The Good-bye Look

  Ten Little Indians

  The Case of the Amorous Aunt

  Green with mildew, brown and brittle with age, dying but not dead yet. Not dead yet.

  It occurred to me that I needed a title. What good was a case without a title? Confess, Clone. The Case of the Confused Clone. I was new at this.

  The Godwulf Manuscript

  God Save the Child

  Early Autumn

  In those books Spenser was still alive. Still working out at the health club, drinking beer, listening to the Red Sox. Ah, would that it were not fiction. That way madness lies, as Mr. Fitch would say. But maybe you had to be mad to stay alive nowadays. God Save the Clone. Early Winter. No, try again.

  Farewell, My Lovely

  The Maltese Falcon

  Penance for Jerry Kennedy

  The Big Sleep

  Trent's Last Case

  Trent's Last Case. An old, old British mystery with a couple of twists at the end. I took it off the shelf and glanced through it. Private eyes were nowhere to be found, although I liked the first sentence.

  Sands's First Case. The possessive sounded ugly. Sandman. That was Linc's nickname for me. I didn't like it. The Sandman went around putting people to sleep, and I—I only did that for Gwen.

  I smiled.

  The Sandman's First Case.

  It would have to do, until I came up with something better.

  I rummaged through a rotting carton of textbooks until I found one on cellular biology. I took it out, sat in my old, overstuffed armchair, and read by lamplight until dawn. Then I tiptoed back downstairs and got back into the warm bed beside Gwen.

  I shut my eyes and snuggled up to Gwen, and after a while sleep came for the Sandman—short and troubled as always, but enough to let him make it through another day.

  Chapter 5

  Stretch and Gwen left for work early. Linc stayed home. He had a job at the Salvage Market downtown, but he had been showing up less and less lately. He sat at the kitchen table and watched with amusement as I prepared to go out into the cold cruel world.

  "So the Sandman starts his case," he said. "Is he nervous?"

  "A private eye is never nervous," I replied.

  "Should I wish him luck?" he asked. "Or do private eyes not need luck?"

  "A little luck never hurt anyone."

  "Good luck, then."

  "Thanks, Linc."

  He came and stood at the door as I carried my bicycle down the front steps and wobbled off.

  The day was crisp and clear for a change, and Louisburg Square glistened in the sunlight. As was my custom, I stopped off at the north side of the square and said hello to the statue of Christopher Columbus, which by some absurd historical irony had managed to survive everything unscathed.

  "Discovered any new worlds recently?" I asked it.

  As usual, it didn't deign to reply.

  "Well, if you do, let me know. I'm always interested in hearing about new worlds."

  The statue had nothing to tell me, so I continued my journey.

  It wasn't a very good day for bicycling, but I had a feeling I might be covering a lot of ground, so I decided to risk a fall or two onto the ice. I took a right on Mount Vernon Street and coasted down to Charles; then left on Charles, past the Garden and the Common, and right on Boylston. There were no cars, and only a couple of other brave souls on bicycles. Everyone else was on foot, hurrying to jobs in buildings that were scarcely warmer than the outside air. Another day, another new dollar.

  I turned left by the empty shell of the Public Library, then right onto Huntington. A mile or so south on Huntington was Northeastern University.

  Odd what the Frenzy got and what it missed. The library, of course, but why Symphony Hall? MIT, certainly, but why not Northeastern? People said the Frenzy was antilearning, antiscience. But maybe, I thought, it had more to do with power. When the people went crazy on those awful nights, maybe they just ransacked the places that somehow symbolized to them the power of the old world. The forces that ran the old world also ran MIT, ran the Symphony, ran Harvard. They were the forces that had to be destroyed.

  Northeastern? Well, Northeastern was different. Northeastern produced engineers, but they were working-class engineers, struggling to make tuition payments and pass calculus. They were victims as much as anyone else. So Northeastern survived to become a power in the new world that had been created.

  Just a theory, of course. Probably ascribed too much rationality to what was the ultimate irrational act. I thought of all the books in the Public Library that were now ashes. The new world could have used those books.

  An ancient man was guarding the bicycles in the quadrangle outside the main buildin
g. I parked my bike at the end of the row and tossed him a penny. He tipped his cap.

  I went into the main building. It wasn't warm, but there was heat coming from somewhere. I took off my cap. After a little searching I found the cafeteria. Students were moving in and out, lounging at tables, reading bulletin boards. I looked at them, searching for a familiar face.

  None at the moment. I wouldn't have to wait long, I was sure.

  The faces I saw seemed happy and full of adolescent high spirits. Strange. Perhaps they knew something I didn't. I bought a Globe from a blind guy huddled in a corner and sat at an empty table near the door. I read "Garrick Petitions South for Winter Fuel Aid" by Gwendolyn Phillips very carefully, and I skimmed the rest. After a while I heard someone call my name.

  "Walter Sands! What are you doing here?"

  I looked up. It was Cindy Tappen. She seemed a lot more, well, mature than I remembered—her body had filled out nicely, and the once scruffy hair was now short and curled. She had on tight, faded jeans, leg warmers, and an ancient leather jacket. She was even wearing lipstick. What was this younger generation coming to? "Hi, Cindy. Can I buy you some cider?"

  "No, that's okay." She sat next to me and gave my arm a squeeze. "So how're you doing, Walter? When did you get back into town?"

  "A couple of months ago."

  "In the army, right? What were you up to?"

  "Guarding the salvagers down in Washington."

  "Oh, wow. I bet that was exciting."

  "Pretty boring, actually. And depressing."

  "Oh, well, sorry to hear it. Back with Gwen and those folks?"

  I nodded. "I've been meaning to look you up, but—"

  Cindy smiled. "Yeah, yeah. So now what? Thinking of school?"

  "Not really. I've got some other, um, angles I'm working on."