In the Country of the Blind by Michael Flynn

Author:Michael Flynn [Flynn, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction
ISBN: 9780765344984
Google: 7Y4htfoEGlgC
Amazon: 076534498X
Publisher: Baen
Published: 1990-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

PART 3

THE ENEMY OF

MINE ENEMY

Then

The grass was still damp where the bearded man knelt by the grave. It soaked into his trouser legs, giving them a pungent, woolen smell. His knees felt cold. He placed a vase of freshly-cut flowers before the headstone, twisting it into the ground so that it would not topple. Then he pushed himself to his feet and made the sign of the cross. A brief gust of wind caught his open mackintosh and it snapped behind him. He pulled his western-style hat tighter down on his bead.

Anyone watching-and he had to assume that someone was watching-would think that he was a friend of the person in the grave; that it was only a coincidence that he was in the graveyard on this particular day. That he was, at any rate, unconnected with the funeral now beginning a scant dozen yards away. That was what he hoped any observer would assume. But, when the ceremonies started, the bearded man glanced curiously at the cortege, as would be expected of any mortal man.

A small crowd, garbed against the imminent resumption of the rain, clustered around an open grave. A few precautionary umbrellas sprouted, mushroomlike, among them. Above, in the moist sky, the sun strove vainly to dispel the damp.

A spare, wooden casket rested beside the hole in the ground. Two men in work clothes flanked the nearby heap of freshly turned earth. The glistening clay was wet and heavy-the diggers could scarcely have had an easy time of it. They leaned on their shovels, watching the proceedings with professional detachment.

The bearded man turned back to the headstone and clasped his hands and bowed his head as if he were saying a prayer for his dear departed. As he was. His lips moved; and tears tracked the curves of his cheeks as he strained to hear the words the minister was speaking to the crowd.

"From the clay we came, and to it we return. Yet what lieth beyond the grave, my brothers and sisters? Yea, a better life, amen. We store up merits in our life on this earth against that day of glory and righteousness. Isaac Shelton was a good man. If we may presume on God's mercy, we might say with bold assurance that Isaac has gone to dwell among the angels. For all those who knew him can attest that here was a good and righteous man, who walked every day in the fear of the Lord, amen."

"Amen," said Brady Quinn. He kept his eyes fixed on the grave he had chosen to justify his presence in the cemetery. Rueben Judge had told him he was mad to go near Isaac's funeral. Grosvenor Weil, or his agents, would expect it. They would be watching. A disguise? The beard dyed black; the limp imparted by the pebble in his left hoot . . . a flimsy charade, easily pierced. Of what value all the years of hiding if, when They most expected him, he exposed himself?

But the years of separation had lain heavy on Brady's shoulders.

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