dk.coldfire-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



　Simple　enough。　Nothing　unusual。　Nothing　mysterious。　
　Certainly　nothing　supernatural。　Just　good　genes。　
　Outside　in　the　park；　the　shadows　grew　deeper。　Except　at　those　places　where　lamplight　was　shed　upon　it；　the　pathway　disappeared　into　gathering　darkness。　The　trees　seemed　to　crowd　together。　
　Holly　put　down　the　knife　and　went　to　the　stove。　She　lowered　the　gas　flame　under　the　big　pot；　and　the　vigorously　bubbling　water　fell　to　a　slow　boil。　She　put　the　pasta　in　to　cook。　
　Back　at　the　cutting　board；　as　she　picked　up　the　knife；　she　looked　out　the　window　again。　Stars　began　to　appear　in　the　sky　as　the　purple　light　of　dusk　faded　to　black　and　as　the　crimson　smear　on　the　horizon　darkened　to　burgundy。　Below；　more　of　the　park　walkway　lay　in　shadow　than　in　lamplight。　
　Suddenly　she　was　gripped　by　the　peculiar　conviction　that　Jim　Ironheart　was　going　to　walk　out　of　darkness　into　a　pool　of　amber　light　on　the　pathway；　that　he　was　going　to　raise　his　head　and　look　directly　up　at　her　window；　that　somehow　he　knew　where　she　lived　and　had　e　back　for　her。　
　It　was　a　ridiculous　notion。　But　a　chill　quivered　along　her　spine；　tightening　each　knotted　vertebra。　
　Later；　near　midnight；　when　Holly　sat　on　the　edge　of　her　bed　switched　off　the　nightstand　lamp；　she　glanced　at　her　bedroom　window　through　which　she　also　had　a　view　of　the　park；　and　again　a　chill　ran　up　her　back。　She　started　to　lie　down；　hesitated；　and　got　up　instead。　In　panties　and　T…shirt；　her　usual　sleeping　attire；　she　moved　through　the　dark　room　to　the　window；　where　she　parted　the　sheers　between　the　drapes。　
　He　was　not　down　there。　She　waited　a　minute；　then　another。　He　did　appear。　Feeling　foolish　and　confused；　she　returned　to　bed。　
　She　woke　in　the　dead　hours　of　the　night；　shuddering。　All　she　could　remember　of　the　dream　were　blue　eyes；　intensely　blue；　with　a　gaze　that　penetrated　her　as　pletely　as　a　sharp　knife　slicing　through　soft　butter　She　got　up　and　went　into　the　bathroom；　guided　only　by　the　thin　moon　glow　that　filtered　through　the　sheers　over　the　window。　In　the　bath　room　she　did　not　turn　on　the　light。　After　she　peed；　she　washed　her　hands　and　stood　for　a　while　just　looking　at　her　dim；　amorphous　reflection　in　the　silvery…black　mirror。　She　washed　her　hands。　She　got　a　drink　of　cold　water　She　realized　that　she　was　delaying　her　return　to　the　bedroom　because　she　was　afraid　she　would　be　drawn　to　the　window　again。　
　This　is　ridiculous；　she　told　herself　What's　gotten　into　you？　She　reentered　the　bedroom　and　found　herself　approaching　the　window　instead　of　the　bed。　She　parted　the　sheers。　
　He　was　not　out　there。　
　Holly　felt　as　much　disappointment　as　relief　As　she　stared　into　the　night…swaddled　reaches　of　Council　Crest　Park；　an　extended　chill　quivered　through　her　again；　and　she　realized　that　only　half　of　it　was　generated　by　nameless　fear。　A　strange　excitement　coursed　through　her；　as　well；　a　first　ant　anticipation　of。　。　。　
　Of　what？　She　didn't　know。　
　Jim　Ironheart's　effect　on　her　was　profound　and　lingering。　She　had　not　experienced　anything　like　it。　Although　she　struggled　to　understand　what　she　was　feeling；　enlightenment　eluded　her。　Mere　sexual　attraction　was　the　explanation。　She　was　long　past　puberty；　and　neither　the　tidal　pull　hormones　nor　the　girlish　desire　for　romance　could　affect　her　like　this　At　last　she　returned　to　bed。　She　was　certain　that　she　would　lie　awake　for　the　rest　of　the　night；　but　to　her　surprise　she　soon　drifted　off　again。　As　she　tumbled　on　the　wire　of　consciousness；　she　heard　herself　mumble；　〃those〃　then　fell　into　the　yawning　void。　
　In　his　own　bed　in　Laguna　Niguel；　Jim　woke　just　before　dawn。　His　heart　was　pounding。　Though　the　room　was　cool；　he　was　bathed　in　sweat。　
　He'd　'been　having　one　of　his　frequent　nightmares；　but　all　he　could　recall　of　it　was　that　something　relentless；　powerful；　and　vicious　had　been　pursuing　him。　His　sense　of　onrushing　death　was　so　powerful　that　he　had　to　turn　on　the　lights　to　be　certain　that　something　inhuman　and　murderous　was　not　actually　in　the　room　with　him。　He　was　alone。　
　〃But　not　for　long；〃　he　said　aloud。　
　He　wondered　what　he　meant　by　that。　
　
　AUGUST　20　THROUGH　AUGUST　23
　
　Jim　Ironheart　peered　anxiously　through　the　dirty　windshield　of　the　stolen　Camaro。　The　sun　was　a　white　ball；　and　the　light　it　shed　was　as　white　a　bitter　as　powdered　lime。　
　Even　with　sunglasses；　he　had　to　squint。　Rising　sun…scorched　blacktop；　currents　of　superheated　air　formed　into　mirages　people　and　cars　and　lakes　of　water。　
　He　was　tired；　and　his　eyes　felt　abraded。　The　heat　illusions　bined　with　occasional　dust　devils　to　hamper　visibility。　The　endless　vistas　of　the　Mojave　Desert　made　it　difficult　to　maintain　an　accurate　perception　of　speed；　he　didn't　feel　as　if　the　car　was　streaking　along　at　nearly　a　hundred　miles　an　hour；　but　it　was。　In　his　condition；　he　should　have　been　driving　a　lot　slower。　
　But　he　was　filled　with　a　growing　conviction　that　he　was　too　late；　that　he　was　going　to　screw　up。　Someone　was　going　to　die　because　he　had　not　been　quick　enough。　
　He　glanced　at　the　loaded　shotgun　angled　in　front　of　the　other　bud　seat；　its　butt　on　the　floor；　barrels　pointed　away　from　him。　A　full　box　of　shells　was　on　the　seat。　
　Half　sick　with　dread；　he　pressed　the　accelerator　even　closer　to　the　floorboard。　The　needle　on　the　speedometer　dial　shivered　past　the　hundred　mark。　
　He　topped　a　long；　gradual　rise。　Below　lay　a　bowl…shaped　valley　twenty　or　thirty　miles　in　diameter；　so　alkaline　that　it　was　mostly　white；　barren　but　for　a　few　gray　tumbleweed　and　a　stubble　of　desert　scrub。　It　might　have　been　formed　by　an　asteroid　impact　eons　ago；　its　outlines　considerably　softened　by　the　passage　of　millennia　but　otherwise　still　as　primeval　as　any　place　on　earth。　
　The　valley　was　bisected　by　the　black　highway　on　which　mirages　of　water　glistened。　Along　the　shoulders；　heat　phantoms　shimmered　and　writhed　languorously。　
　He　saw　the　car　first；　a　station　wagon。　It　was　pulled　off　to　the　right　of　the　roadway；　approximately　a　mile　ahead；　near　a　drainage　culvert　where　no　water　flowed　except　during　rare　storms　and　flash　floods。　
　His　heart　began　to　pound　harder；　and　in　spite　of　the　rush　of　cool　air　ing　out　of　the　dashboard　vents；　he　broke　into　a　sweat。　This　was　it。　
　Then　he　spotted　the　motor　home；　too；　half　a　mile　beyond　the　car；　surfacing　out　of　one　of　the　deeper　water　mirages。　It　was　lumbering　away　from　him；　toward　the　distant　wall　of　the　valley；　where　the　highway　sloped　up　between　treeless；　red…rock　mountains。　
　Jim　slowed　as　he　approached　the　station　wagon；　not　sure　where　his　help　was　needed。　His　attention　was　drawn　equally　to　the　wagon　and　the　motor　home。　
　As　the　speedometer　needle　fell　back　across　the　gauge；　he　waited　for　a　dearer　understanding　of　his　purpose。　It　didn't　e。　Usually　he　was　pelled　to　act；　as　if　by　an　inner　voice　that　spoke　to　him　only　on　a　subconscious　level；　or　as　if　he　were　a　machine　responding　to　a　pre…programmed　course　of　action。　Not　this　time。　Nothing。　
　With　growing　desperation；　he　braked　hard　and　fishtailed　to　a　full　stop　next　to　the　Chevy　station　wagon。　He　didn't　bother　to　pull　onto　the　shoulder。　He　glanced　at　the　shotgun　beside　him；　but　he　knew　somehow　that　he　did　not　need　it。　Yet。　
　He　got　out　of　the　Camaro　and　hurried　toward　the　station　wagon。　luggage　was　piled　in　the　rear　cargo　area。　When　he　looked　through　the　side　window；　he　saw　a　man　sprawled　on　the　front　seat。　He　pulled　open　the　door　…and　flinched。　So　much　blood。　
　The　guy　was　dying　but　not　dead。　He　had　been　shot　twice　in　the　chest。　
　His　head　lay　at　an　angle　against　the　passenger…side　door；　reminding　Jim　of　Christ's　head　tilted　to　one　side　as　he　hung　upon　the　cross。　His　eyes　cleared　briefly　as　he　struggled　to　focus　on　Jim。　
　In　a　voice　as　frantic　as　it　was　fragile；　he　said；　〃Lisa。　。　。　
　Susie。　。　。　My　wife；　daughter。　。　。〃　
　Then　his　tortured　eyes　slipped　out　of　focus。　A　thin　wheeze　of　breath　escaped　him；　his　head　lolled　to　one　side；　and　he　was　gone。　
　Sick；　stricken　by　an　almost　disabling　sense　of　responsibility　for　the　stranger's　death；　Jim　stepped　back　from　the　open　door　of　the　station　wagon　and　stood　for　a　moment　on　the　black　pavement　under　the　searing　white　sun。　If　he　had　driven　faster；　harder；　he　might　have　been　there　a　few　minutes　sooner；　might　have　stopped　what　had　happened。　
　A　sound　of　anguish；　low　and　primitive；　rose　from　him。　It　was　almost　a　whisper　at　first；　swelling　into　a　soft　moan。　But　when　he　turned　away　from　the　dead　man　and　looked　down　the　highway　toward　the　dwindling　motor　home；　his　cry　quickly　became　a　shout　of　rage　because　suddenly　he　knew　what　had　happened。　
　And　he　knew　what　he　must　do。　
　In　the　Camaro　again；　he　filled　the　roomy　pockets　of　his　blue　slacks　with　shotgun　shells。　Already　loaded；　the　short…barreled　pump…action　12…gauge　was　within　easy　reach。　
　He　checked　the　rearview　mirror。　On　this　Monday　morning；　the　highway　was　empty。　No　help　in　sight。　It　was　all　up　to　him。　
　Far　ahead；　the　motor　home　vanished　through　shimmering　thermal　rents　like　undulant　curtains　of　glass　beads。　
　He　threw　the　Camaro　in　gear。　The　tires　spun　in　place　for　an　instant　then　skidded　on　the　clutching　sun…softened　blacktop；　issuing　a　scream　echoed　eerily　across　the　desert　vastness。　Jim　wondered　how　the　stranger　and　his　family　had　screamed　when　he'd　been　shot　point…blank　in　the　car　Abruptly　the　Camaro　overcame　all　resistance　and　rocketed　forward。　
　Tramping　the　accelerator　to　the　floor；　he　squinted　ahead　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　his　quarry。　In　seconds　the　curtains　of　heat　parted；　and　the　vehicle　hove　into　view　as　if　it　were　a　sailing　ship　somehow　making　way　through　that　dry　sea。　
　The　motor　home　couldn't　pete　with　the　Camaro；　and　Jim　was　riding　its　bumper。　It　was　an　old　thirty…foot　Road　king　that　had　seen　a　lot　of　miles。　Its　white　aluminum　siding　was　caked　with　dirt；　dented；　and　spotted。　The　windows　were　covered　with　yellow　curtains　that　had　no　doubt　once　been　white。　It　looked　like　nothing　more　than　the　home　of　a　couple　of　travel…loving　retirees　living　on　dwindling　Social　Security　and　unable　to　maintain　it　with　the　pride　they　had　when　it　had　been　new　Except　for　the　motorcycle。　A　Harley　was　chained　to　a　roof　rack　to　the　left　of　the　roof　service　ladder　on　the　back　of　the　motor　home。　It　wasn't　the　biggest　bike　made；　but　it　was　powerful…and　not　something　a　pair