Skyfire by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online

temperatures of the late June day.
    He gulped down a cup of ice water and returned to the matter at hand, the large field of long grass before him. Reaching down, he plucked up a single blade of the long bright green grass and gently laid its bottom end against his tongue. With a wide smile of satisfaction, he noted its sweet taste.
    Not too long now, he thought.
    He studied the dimensions of the field. It would take another two days at the most, he figured. Then, if the weather stayed dry, he would cut it down-all twenty acres of it-bundle it, and sell it.
    "Probably get five small bags of gold," he said aloud with no small amount of pride. "Maybe six, if it dries real quick . . ."
    The strong wind once again blew off his baseball cap, and this time, a kind of reverse gust nearly carried it right over the edge of the cliff. Retrieving the cap just inches from the precipice, he gazed down at the wave-battered/
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    rocky shore some hundred and fifty feet below. Then, irresistibly, he stared out at the vast Atlantic Ocean beyond. He had already lost two of his favorite hats in that fashion-blown by a gust out to sea where they might or might not float into someone else's hands. Now he was down to his last hat, and it would be a big problem should he lose it.
    Once again gathering up his long hair and placing the cap-it was a fading Boston Red Sox chapeau-moK securely on his head, he breathed in deep of the ocean air and let the afternoon sun bake his face.
    This is the life, he thought again. This is what I've been waiting for.
    His hay farm was on the edge of Nauset Heights, a place located just above the crook in the elbow of Cape Cod. The twenty-acre, roughly rectangular plot sat on a long, high cliff that stretched for five miles on either side. This put him smack dab in the middle of an extraordinary piece of the famous cape's topography. Few places on the mostly flat, sand-and windswept cape were tall enough to merit the name "heights." Nauset was one of them.
    But the location of Hunter's small farm was unique in many other ways. To the east was an awesome view of the deep-blue Atlantic; to the north, the family of inland islands of Eastham. To the south was the long, thin green-and-beige finger of Nauset Beach, doing its best to hold back the sea from overflowing into Pleasant Bay and the Chathams beyond.
    But to Hunter's mind, it was the view to the west thai made this place so special.
    Few places on America's continental East Coast offered the unique vista of the sun rising out of the sea in the morning and setting over the water, Pacific-style, at th« end of the day. Because of its elevation and location easl of Cape Cod Bay, the view from Hunter's farm featured both.
    No wonder the previous owner had named the place, "SkyFire."
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    He gulped the last of his ice water, checked the dryness of his soil once again, and satisfied that all was right with his crop-and therefore with his entire world-walked back toward the farmhouse.
    It was small, just small enough. Six rooms, a pleasantly dilapidated porch on three sides, big root cellar, and an attic large enough to hold his two telescopes. Next to the house was a pair of bams. One, the biggest, held his modest arsenal of farm equipment: a rake, a bundler, a cutter and twine caddy, all pulled at various times by his cranky tractor. The hay was stored in the loft, where it coexisted both with a small family of bats and a larger brood of cats. He was also able to squeeze his trusty Chevy farm truck into the barn, as well as the rare 1969 Harley-David-son 1000SP motorcycle that he was forever working on.
    In the small garage attached to the bam he kept his Corvette.
    It was a 1983 model, white with chrome reverse all round, black leather interior, and the somewhat-standard 454 cubic-inch engine. Although it would not have been his first choice for year and model (a black '66 ragtop would have done nicely), Hunter had grown to love the '83 Vette. He had bought it two