Authors: Richard Bowker

Forbidden Sanctuary (32 page)

"Go to someplace that isn't scattered to the winds," I suggested. "Like Northeastern. See if anyone there remembers Cornwall."

Winfield nodded. "Exactly what I did. It was late in the day, however, and there weren't many people to talk to. So I started back to my hotel. On the way, someone shot at me. Two shots. Both just missed. I ran all the way to the hotel and didn't venture out of my room. Today I got a newspaper from room service and saw your ad, so I decided to risk a visit. And here I am."

"I see. It was after dark when you were shot at?"

"Twilight—almost dark."

"And this was near Northeastern?"

"Yes. Some side street off—what is it?—Huntington Avenue?"

I stopped rocking my chair and leaned forward. Winfield's face flickered in the lamplight. He started rubbing his hands again. "Dr. Winfield, this is not the South, I'm afraid. We lead difficult lives in a difficult world, and sometimes people get shot at—not because they're looking for their father or whatever, but because they're wearing a new coat."

Winfield's gaze shifted away from me. His nervousness seemed to turn to excitement. "That's a possibility, I grant you. But here is a more interesting possibility: 'controversial new cloning technique,' Mr. Sands. The technique makes it possible to clone
people.
That's quite an important skill, given our birthrate nowadays. What if someone doesn't want it known that the person who possesses this skill is still alive?"

"Who?"

"Well, for example, our present government, such as it is."

I half smiled, wondering if that was a joke. Dr. Winfield didn't smile back. "You mean cloning people to increase the population, rebuild the country?" I said. "Excuse me, but I'm not persuaded. The government would never be interested in that."

"All right, maybe so. Maybe some other group has Cornwall, and wants to keep the government from finding out."

My expression was apparently sufficient response.

"You can think it's farfetched, if you like," Winfield said. "You don't have to believe my theory to do your job—if I hire you."

"True." I fingered my gun. "You want a bodyguard?"

"Yes. And I want you to find out what happened to Cornwall, and who is trying to kill me."

"Two new dollars an hour, plus expenses," I said. "Ten dollars in advance."

Winfield gazed at the gun. "How do I know you're any good?" he asked. "You're just a name in the newspaper. You've got a crumby office, and you've got a gun. That's it. Any references? Any satisfied customers?"

I considered. "Forget about the ten dollars in advance," I said. "I'll work on the case tomorrow. If you're not satisfied with my progress, you can fire me—no charge."

Winfield considered in turn. What was there for him to consider? "All right," he said finally. "Why don't you escort me back to the hotel? You can report to me there tomorrow night."

"Okay. Fifty cents to escort you to the hotel. Refundable if you're killed on the way."

Winfield laughed. "You people are tough up here."

"Gotta be." I stood up and put on my ratty old parka. I picked up my gun, put out the light, and we left my office. Lower Washington Street was dark and deserted; the ancient, abandoned strip joints seemed to shiver in the chill air. Winfield looked around nervously. "Aren't there better neighborhoods for your office?" he asked.

"I like the rent. Where are you staying?"

"The Ritz."

"Ah." I walked Dr. Winfield to the Ritz. We didn't say much. No one tried to kill him. He handed over the fifty cents when we reached his room. "Tomorrow night," he said. "Find out for me about Cornwall."

"Tomorrow night," I agreed.

Winfield suddenly smiled. "I bet it will be something amazing." His gaze hovered somewhere above my left shoulder, and then he disappeared inside his room.