Shuteye for the Timebroker Read Online Free PDF

senses. He stood up shakily and looked around.
    The warlock had vanished. Where he had stood was a ragged hole. Peering within, Clayton saw a corresponding gaping mouth in the floor of the cellar. And in that hole, he caught the fleeting sight of a head full of red curls disappearing down the tunnels revealed by the blast.
    Apparently, Jill was immune to Goodnight’s awesome powers, having absorbed three centuries’ worth of the sorcerer’s own mana like a storage battery, via the blue gas.
    Someone had joined Clayton. Looking up, he saw Pug Lasswell, the town’s entire police force.
    “Pug,” said Clayton, “you’ve got to stop this woman, before she gets us all killed. Get down there and arrest her for unprovoked assault and disturbing the peace.”
    Lasswell’s sleepy features registered a slight uneasiness, which, for him, passed for the emotions a man about to be hanged might feel. He removed his badge from his shirt and pinned it on Clayton.
    “I used to get paid every other Tuesday,” said Lasswell. “Next check’ll have your name on it.”
    By the following morning, Clayton had decided what needed to be done. And he knew that only he could carry out the plan. Although he had finally convinced Lasswell to take his badge back, the policeman had made it plain he was going to do nothing to apprehend Captain Jill. So Clayton had spent a second night with little sleep, speculating over various possible ways to trap the captain. At last, one barely feasible solution occurred to him. And, as his subconscious had been trying to tell him, it involved the family Druid.
    In his antiquated truck, Clayton drove the familiar road to the farm, so drowsy he was barely able to keep his eyes open. There, he met Ethel at his root-framed door. The grumpy Druid looked in vain for a picnic basket, then opened his mouth to complain.
    Clayton cut him off, incapable of any niceties today. “Listen, Ethel—how would you like to come home with me for the day? Just a friendly visit.”
    Ethel was dumbstruck. He resumed his surliness with an effort. “Do you have any of those special magazines at your house?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ones I haven’t seen?”
    Clayton was growing impatient. “Yes, yes. All brand-new girls. Now, are you coming or not?”
    After a few seconds, trying to maintain his normal curtness, Ethel said, “I suppose the grove could survive a few hours without me.”
    In the truck, Ethel exuded a not unpleasant odor of loam and acorns. He stared with wonder at the passing scenery.
    Back at the house, Ethel consumed two apple pies, a steak, three baked potatoes, a quart of ice cream, and a quart of Colt 45, in that order. Then he fell asleep on the couch next to Granny, who was busily knitting nothing into nothing. Clayton used the quiet interval to catch a few winks himself.
    At around 6 p.m., Clayton heard the opening strains of a song from the sub-basement. Arming himself with a flashlight and a can of Mace, he descended to the tunnels.
    He found Captain Jill atop the nearly empty crate of bootlegged whiskey, already well on the road to inebriation.
    She spied him and raised her bottle in salute. “It never fails. In the end, anyone who has tasted my love returns. It was why my crew was so loyal. Ye’ve doubtless heard the phrase ‘iron fist in a velvet glove.’ Well, I ruled with velvet, too, a velvet—”
    “Stop right there!” Clayton said quickly. “I don’t want to hear such talk. I’ve come to ask you to cease and desist this juvenile hell-raising of yours and come to your senses. Despite all the damage you’ve caused, no one’s actually been hurt yet, and Blackwood Beach will gladly accept you as a citizen, if you would only surface and behave civilly.”
    Captain Jill did not deign to answer, save by depositing a loathsome wad of chewing tobacco on the floor at Clayton’s feet.
    Disgusted, Clayton returned upstairs to unleash his secret weapon.
    He roused Ethel from his stuporous sleep on the