dk.coldfire-第21部分

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　In　the　main　room；　the　martial…arts　class　was　even　more　active　than　when　she　had　entered。　The　current　exercise　involved　a　group　attempt　to　gang　up　on　their　Korean　instructor；　but　he　was　blocking　and　throwing　and　whirling　and　leaping　like　a　dervish；　dealing　with　them　as　fast　as　they　came　at　him。　
　The　brunette　had　removed　her　silvery　jewelry。　She　had　changed　into　Reeboks；　looser　shorts；　a　different　T…shirt；　and　a　bra。　Now　she　was　doing　stretching　exercises　in　front　of　the　reception　counter。　
　〃One　o'clock；〃　she　explained　to　Holly。　〃My　lunch　hour。　I　always　run　four　or　five　miles　instead　of　eating。　Bye。〃　She　jogged　to　the　door；　pushed　through　it　into　the　warm　August　day；　and　sprinted　out　of　sight　along　the　front　of　the　shopping　center。　
　Holly　went　outside；　too；　and　stood　for　a　moment　in　the　lovely　sunshine　newly　aware　of　how　many　of　the　shoppers；　ing　to　and　going　from　their　cars；　were　in　good　physical　shape。　Having　moved　to　the　northwest　almost　a　year　and　a　half　ago；　she　had　forgotten　how　health　conscious　many　Southern　Californians　were…and　how　aware　of　their　appearance。　Per　capita　Orange　County　had　a　lot　fewer　jowls；　love　handles；　spare　tires；　pot　gut　and　pear…shaped　bottoms　than　Portland。　
　Looking　good　and　feeling　good　were　imperatives　of　the　southern…California　lifestyle。　It　was　one　of　the　things　she　loved　about　the　place。　It　was　also　one　of　the　things　she　hated　about　it。　
　She　went　next　door　to　the　bakery　for　lunch。　From　the　display　cases；　she　selected　a　chocolate　eclair；　a　creme　brulee　tart　with　kiwi　on　top；　a　piece　of　white…chocolate　macadamia…nut　cheesecake　with　Oreo…crumb　crust；　a　cinnamon　wheel；　and　a　slice　of　orange　roulade。　〃And　a　diet　Coke；〃　she　told　the　clerk。　
　She　carried　her　tray　to　a　table　near　a　window；　where　she　could　watch　the　passing　parade　of　taut；　tanned　bodies　in　summer　gear。　The　pastries　were　wonderful。　She　ate　a　little　of　this；　now　a　little　of　that；　savoring　each　bite；　intending　to　polish　off　every　crumb。　
　After　a　while　she　realized　someone　was　watching　her。　Two　tables　away；　a　heavyset　woman；　about　thirty…five；　was　staring　with　a　mixture　of　disbelief　and　envy；　she　only　had　one　miserable　fruit　tart；　a　bakery　junkie's　equivalent　of　a　Nutri/System　multi…grain　cracker。　
　Feeling　both　a　need　to　explain　herself　and　a　certain　sympathy；　Holly　said；　〃I　wish　I　wasn't　doing　this；　but　I　can't　help　it。　If　I　can't　do　anything　else；　then　I　always　hinge　when　I'm　horny。〃　
　The　heavyset　woman　nodded。　〃Me；　too。〃　
　She　drove　to　Ironheart's　place　on　Bougainvillea　Way。　She　knew　enough　about　him　now　to　risk　approaching　him；　and　that　was　what　she　intended　to　do。　But　instead　of　pulling　into　his　driveway；　she　cruised　slowly　past　the　house　again。　
　Instinct　told　her　that　the　time　was　not　right。　The　portrait　of　him　that　she　had　constructed　only　seemed　to　be　plete。　There　was　a　hole　in　it　somewhere。　She　sensed　that　it　would　be　dangerous　to　proceed　before　the　hole　had　been　painted　in。　
　She　returned　to　the　motel　and　spent　the　rest　of　the　afternoon　and　early　evening　sitting　by　the　window　in　her　room；　drinking　Alka…Seltzer；　then　diet　7…Up；　staring　out　at　the　jewel…blue　pool　in　the　middle　of　the　lushly　landscaped　courtyard；　and　thinking。　Thinking。　
　Okay；　she　told　herself；　the　story　to　date。　Ironheart　is　a　man　with　t　sadness　at　his　core；　probably　because　of　being　orphaned　when　he　was　only　ten。　Let's　say　he's　spent　a　lot　of　his　life　brooding　about　death；　especially　about　the　injustice　of　premature　death。　He　dedicates　his　life　to　teaching　and　helping　kids；　maybe　because　no　one　was　there　for　him　when　he　was　a　boy　and　had　to　cope　with　the　deaths　of　his　mother　and　father。　Then　Larry　Kakonis　mits　suicide。　Ironheart　is　shattered；　feels　he　should　have　been　able　to　prevent　it。　The　boy's　death　brings　to　the　surface　all　of　Ironheart's　buried　rage：　rage　at　fate；　destiny；　the　biological　fragility　of　the　human　species…rage　at　God。　In　a　state　of　severe　mental　distress　bordering　on　outright　imbalance；　he　decides　to　make　himself　over　into　Rambo　and　do　something　to　fight　back　at　fate；　which　is　a　weird　response　at　best；　absolutely　nuts　at　worst。　With　weight　lifting；　aerobic　endurance　training；　and　Tae　Kwon　Do；　he　turns　himself　into　a　fighting　machine。　He　learns　to　drive　like　a　stuntman。　He　bees　knowledgeable　in　the　use　of　all　manner　of　guns。　He's　ready。　
　Just　one　more　thing。　He　teaches　himself　to　be　a　clairvoyant；　so　he　can　win　the　lottery　and　be　independently　wealthy；　making　it　possible　to　devote　himself　to　his　crusade…and　so　he　can　know　just　when　a　premature　death　is　about　to　occur。　
　That　was　where　it　all　fell　apart。　You　could　go　to　a　place　like　Dojo　to　learn　martial　arts；　but　the　Yellow　Pages　had　no　listing　for　schools　of　clairvoyance。　Where　the　hell　had　he　gotten　his　psychic　power？　She　considered　the　question　from　every　imaginable　angle。　She　wasn't　trying　to　brainstorm　an　answer；　only　figure　out　an　approach　to　researching　possible　explanations。　But　magic　was　magic。　There　was　no　way　to　research　it。　
　She　began　to　feel　as　though　she　was　employed　by　a　sleazy　tabloid；　not　as　a　reporter　but　as　a　concocter　of　pieces　about　space　aliens　living　under　Cleveland；　half　gorilla　and　half　human　babies　born　to　amoral　female　zoo　keepers；　and　inexplicable　rains　of　frogs　and　chickens　in　Tajikistan。　
　But；　damn　it；　the　hard　facts　were　that　Jim　Ironheart　had　saved　fourteen　people　from　death；　in　every　corner　of　the　country；　always　at　the　penultimate　moment；　with　miraculous　foresight。　
　By　eight　o'clock；　she　had　the　urge　to　pound　her　head　against　the　table；　the　wall；　the　concrete　decking　around　the　pool　outside；　against　anything　hard　enough　to　crack　her　mental　block　and　drive　understanding　into　her。　
　She　decided　that　it　was　time　to　stop　thinking；　and　go　to　dinner。　
　She　ate　in　the　motel　coffeeshop　again　just　broiled　chicken　and　a　salad　to　atone　for　lunch　at　the　bakery。　She　tried　to　be　interested　in　the　other　customers；　do　a　little　people…watching。　But　she　could　not　stop　thinking　about　Ironheart　and　his　sorcery。　
　He　dominated　her　thoughts　later；　as　well；　when　she　was　lying　in　bed；　trying　to　sleep。　Staring　at　the　shadows　on　the　ceiling；　cast　by　the　landscape　lighting　outside　and　the　half　open　Levolor　blinds　on　the　window；　she　was　honest　enough　with　herself　to　admit　he　fascinated　her　on　other　than　professional　levels。　He　was　the　most　important　story　of　her　career；　yes；　true。　
　And；　yes；　he　was　so　mysterious　that　he　would　have　intrigued　anyone　reporter　or　not。　But　she　was　also　drawn　to　him　because　she　had　been　alone　a　long　time；　loneliness　had　carved　an　emptiness　in　her；　and　Jim　Ironheart　was　the　most　appealing　man　she　had　met　in　ages。　
　Which　was　insane。　
　Because　maybe　he　was　insane。　
　She　was　not　one　of　those　women　who　chased　after　men　who　were　wrong　for　her；　subconsciously　seeking　to　be　used；　hurt；　and　abandon　She　was　picky　when　it　came　to　men。　That　was　why　she　was　alone；　for　God's　sake。　
　Few　men　measured　up　to　her　standards。　
　Sure。　Picky；　she　thought　sarcastically。　That's　why　you've　got　this　thing　for　a　guy　who　has　delusions　of　being　Superman　without　the　tights　cape。　
　Get　real；　Thorne。　Jesus。　
　Entertaining　romantic　fantasies　about　James　Ironheart　was　short　sighted；　irresponsible；　futile；　and　just　plain　stupid。　
　But　those　eyes　Holly　fell　asleep　with　an　image　of　his　face　drifting　in　her　mind；　watch　over　her　as　if　it　were　a　portrait　on　a　giant　banner；　rippling　gently　against　cerulean　sky。　His　eyes　were　even　bluer　than　that　celestial　backdrop。　
　In　time　she　found　herself　in　the　dream　of　blindness　again。　The　circular　room。　Wooden　floor。　Scent　of　damp　limestone。　Rain　drumming　on　roof　Rhythmic　creaking。　Whoosh。　Something　was　ing　for　her；　out　of　the　darkness　that　had　somehow　e　alive；　a　monstrous　presence　she　could　neither　hear　nor　see　but　could　feel。　The　Enemy。　Whoosh。　It　closing　in　relentlessly；　hostile　and　savage；　radiating　cold　the　way　a　fu　radiated　heat。　Whoosh。　She　was　grateful　that　she　was　blind；　because　she　knew　the　thing's　appearance　was　so　alien；　so　terrifying；　that　just　the　sight　of　it　would　kill　her。　Whoosh。　Something　touched　her。　A　moist；　icy　tentacle　At　the　base　of　her　neck。　A　pencil…thin　tentacle。　She　cried　out；　and　the　tip　of　the　probe　bored　into　her　neck；　pierced　the　base　of　her　skull　Whoosh。　
　With　a　soft　cry　of　terror；　she　woke。　No　disorientation。　She　knew　immediately　where　she　was：　the　motel；　Laguna　Hills。　
　Whoosh。　
　The　sound　of　the　dream　was　still　with　her。　A　great　blade　slicing　through　the　air。　But　it　was　not　a　dream　sound。　It　was　real。　And　the　room　was　cold　as　the　pitch…black　place　in　the　nightmare。　As　if　weighted　down　by　a　heart　swollen　with　terror；　she　tried　to　move；　could　not。　She　smelled　limestone。　From　below　her；　as　if　there　were　vast　rooms　under　them　came　a　soft　rumbling　sound　of　she　somehow　knew…large　stones　were　grinding　against　each　other。　
　Whoosh。　
　Something　unspeakable　was　still　squirming　along　the　back　of　her　neck；　writhing　sinuously　within　her　skull；　a　hideous　parasite　that　had　chosen　her　for　a　host；　worming　its　way　into　her；　going　to　lay　its　eggs　in　her　brain。　But　she　could　not　move。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　could　see　nothing　but　bars　of　pale；　pale　light　against　part　of　the　black　ceiling；　where　the　moonsoft　glow　of　landscape　lighting　projected　the　image　of　the　windowblind　slats。　She　desperately　wanted　more　light。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　was　making　pathetic　whimpers　of　terror；　and　she　so　thoroughly　despised　herself　for　her　weakness　that　she　was　finally　able　to　shatter　her　paralysis。　Gasping；　she　sat　up。　Clawed　at　the　back　of　her　neck；　trying　to　tear　off　the　oily；　frigid；　wormlike　probe。　Nothing　there。　
　Nothing。　Swung　her　legs　over　the　edge　of　the　bed。　Fumbled　for　the　lamp。　
　Almost　knocked　it　over。　Found　the　switch。　Light。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　sprang　off　the　bed。　Felt　the　back　of　her　head　again。　Her　neck。　
　Between　her　shoulderblades。　Nothing。　Nothing　there。　Yet　she　felt　it。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　was　over　the　edge　of　hysteria　and　unable　to　return；　making　queer　little　animal　sounds　of　fear　and　desperation。　Out　of　the　corner　of　her　eye；　she　saw　movement。　Swung　around。　The　wall　behind　the　bed。　
　Sweating。　
　Glistening。　The　entire　wall　bulged　toward　her；　as　if　it　were　a　membrane　against　which　a　great　and　terrible　mass　was　pressing　insistently。　It　throbbed　repulsively；　like　an　enor