Bright of the Sky by Kay Kenyon Read Free Book Online Page B

cedar trees dripped rain from limb to limb, a patter so light it might have been the background radiation of the universe. A drift of lavender smoke slid through the woods, like the cremated remains of unwanted visitors. Quinn waited for them to reveal their positions.
    It was easier to trespass in a soggy wood than a dry one, since every fallen stick was likely rotted and willing to bend rather than snap. But that very fact would lead people to move too quickly, and sooner or later, Quinn would hear them. A spike of noise off to the left, a chuffing of breath, or the soft scrape of cedar fingers against a wool cap . . . Quinn rose and, avoiding the squeaky middle plank of the deck, crept down the stairs into the woods.
    His falling-down cottage by the sea held little worth stealing. Most of what he had, he’d be happy to give any truly needy burglar. But he would die to protect his trains. He’d spent two years of his life assembling the most intricate standard-gauge model railroad in the history of the bungalow hobbyist. The fact that it was probably worth almost $400,000 was not the point. It was the care with which he had hand-selected every piece, maintained the precious antique system with the sweat of his brow, and the fact that his house without it would be intolerably empty. The idea that someone would break in and summarily dump his Lionel 381 Olympian into a duffel bag filled him with a simmering resentment. He’d show them, by God. Clutching his shotgun, with the dual modes of paint spray and hot laser stream, he crept forward, swiveling his head, listening.
    He keyed the gun to view his integrated communications environment protecting his five acres. The system had triangulated the intruder’s position through sound patterns. By the graph on his gun’s display, he was fifteen yards to the southeast of Quinn’s position, moving toward the road. He keyed in the scope, looking in the infrared. Yes, a figure moving.
    He advanced. He’d give him a dousing of orange paint to brand him for a guaranteed six days, according to the fabber’s warranty.
    Carving through the mist came a river of golden smoke, knifing up his nose and tracing a bitter gully down his throat. He couldn’t help it; he coughed.
    Now the woods grew unnaturally quiet. Even the perpetual dripping of the trees ceased.
    Then a block of shadow emerged from the night, moving fast, some thirty feet away. Having given away his position already, Quinn shouted, “Stop where you are. Or you’re a dead man.”
    Someone laughed.
    Then he was crashing after the shadow. As it fled toward the road, Quinn hurdled over fallen logs, propelled by adrenaline. As the moon took sudden command of a blank spot in the canopy, he could see a figure trying to make it up the steep embankment by the road.
    “Stop!” he yelled again, and then he brought the nozzle of his gun up, determined to paint the fellow before he got to his car. He pulled the trigger, and by sound, he knew he’d sent off a lethal stream of laser instead of paint. The intruder was down, hit by the mistaken blast of laser, lying wounded, possibly dead. Quinn’s heart coiled, and he broke into a sweat that made him simultaneously hot and cold. He saw the end of his life before him: a virtual courtroom, a real-time cell.
    Shaking, he came closer to the form, now lying immobile in the rotting leaves. He reached down and flung the body over to face him.
    He called for lights, and they bloomed from his hidden illumination network.
    Before him lay a girl in city clothes, ripped and dirty. She was staring in consternation at his gun. He’d missed.
    “Jesus,” was all he could say. She was young. Maybe fifteen. Lord God, he had almost killed a child. He let the gun fall to forest floor.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, and tears were just behind the words.
    “Jesus,” he repeated. He was frozen to the spot, unable to move, but not because she looked afraid, but because she looked familiar. Her eyes