The Long Twilight by Keith Laumer Read Free Book Online Page A

for the dizziness to pass then wormed his way up the bank, squinting against the downpour. A large tree afforded some slight shelter. He settled himself with his back to it, set about tearing strips from his prison garment to bind around his shin, in which a high-velocity pellet had scored a deep gouge before ricocheting off the bone.

    On the highway above, a car churned past, a red strobe light flashing atop it, its headlights drowning in the almost solid downpour. Grayle set off along the shore, keeping in the shelter of scrub liveoak and Australian pines, slipping and sliding in the dark over the twisted roots. He was almost on the house before he saw it: a black cuboid of unpainted concrete, tin-roofed, dark and silent under the sodden trees. A small car stood in the sandy drive. Grayle went forward, skirted the vehicle. As he rounded it, a light lanced out from near the house, caught him full in the face.

    "It's not worth stealing," a voice called over the drum of the rain. "But you're welcome to try."

    The voice was that of a woman. Grayle stood where he was, waiting.

    "You'd better be on your way," the voice said. "I keep a gun, you know. I have to, living where I do." She broke off; the light wavered.

    "That's a prison jacket. . ."

    The light moved over him, held on his face.

    "You escaped from Caine Island?" When Grayle said nothing, she went on: "You better get inside, I heard the sirens a few minutes ago. They're patrolling the road."

    Grayle took two swift steps, swept the light from her hand, reversed it, and flicked its beam across the woman. She was young, clean-featured, dark-haired, tall and slender, in a weatherproof trench coat. She didn't move, but turned her eyes aside from the light. There was no gun in her hands.

    "I'm sorry," Grayle said. "I had to be sure." He handed the light back to her. Silently she turned, led the way into the house. She switched on a light, pulled down the roller shades. After the cold wind, the warmth and comparative silence enveloped Grayle like a downy blanket.

    "You're hurt!" the girl said. Grayle braced his feet, fighting against a wave of dizziness.

    "Lethanol!" The girl's voice came from a remote distance. "I can smell it on you! Sit down . . ."

    The girl stood over him, a concerned look on her face. Water dripped from her hair, running down her cheek. For an instant she reminded him of someone: the image of a face with ringleted hair and a mobcap flickered and was gone. He couldn't remember her name. It had been so long, there were so many things forgotten . . .

    He pushed himself to his feet; he must not sleep now.

    She took his arm; he was aware of her voice but made no effort to follow the words. Fragments of old memories danced through his consciousness: a night in the rain on the field near Córdoba; standing by a stone wall, while booted feet tramped endlessly past, the blue-coated troops with their backpacks and fixed bayonets; a sudden, vivid evocation of the odor of tarred cordage and creaking timbers, of blown spume and salt fish, of leather and gunpowder . . .

    ". . . stay on your feet," the girl was saying. "I saw a demonstration back at Bloomington . . ." Her voice was low, well modulated, her diction good.

    He halted. "Do you have any high-protein food—meat, eggs . . .?"

    "Yes. Good idea."

    Grayle continued to pace up and down the small room. It was neat, clean, sparsely furnished with cheap plastic-and-steel-tube chairs and studio couch, a thin rug, a bookcase built of bricks and boards and filled with paperbacks. Framed magazine pictures decorated the walls. There were flowers in foil-covered tin cans. The kitchen was an alcove with a fold-out table, a minimal counter-top refrigerator, a tiny electric range. The aroma of bacon and eggs was almost painfully sharp.

    She put a plate on the table, added a big clay cup of black coffee.

    "Eat slowly," she said, watching him swallow the egg in two bites. "It won't help you