dk.coldfire-第39节

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ry　is　you're　working　on；〃　her　mother　said；　〃you　can　take　a　bus　the　rest　of　the　way；　and　a　bus　home。〃　
　Knowing　she　was　loved　did　not　improve　Holly's　mood。　
　Though　her　hair　was　a　tangled　mess　and　she　smelled　of　smoke；　she　walked　to　a　nearby　shopping　center；　where　she　used　her　Visa　card　to　purchase　a　change　of　clothes：　socks；　underwear；　blue　jeans；　a　white　blouse；　and　a　lightweight　denim　jacket。　She　bought　new　Reeboks；　too；　because　she　could　not　shake　the　suspicion　that　the　discolorations　on　her　old　pair　were　bloodstains。　
　In　her　room　again；　she　took　the　longest　shower　of　her　life；　lathering　and　relathering　herself　until　one　entire　plimentary　motel…size　bar　of　soap　had　been　reduced　to　a　crumbling　sliver。　She　still　did　not　feel　clean；　but　she　finally　turned　the　water　off　when　she　realized　that　she　was　trying　to　scrub　away　something　that　was　inside　of　her。　
　She　ordered　a　sandwich；　salad；　and　fruit　from　room　service。　When　it　came；　she　could　not　eat　it。　
　She　sat　for　a　while；　just　staring　at　the　wall。　
　She　dared　not　turn　on　the　television。　She　didn't　want　to　risk　catching　a　news　report　about　the　crash　of　Flight　246。　
　If　she　could　have　called　Jim　Ironheart；　she　would　have　done　so　at　once。　
　She　would　have　called　him　every　ten　minutes；　hour　after　hour；　until　he　arrived　home　and　answered。　But　she　already　knew　that　his　number　was　not　listed。　
　Eventually　she　went　down　to　the　cocktail　lounge；　sat　at　the　bar；　and　ordered　a　beer…a　dangerous　move　for　someone　with　her　pathetic　tolerance　for　alcohol。　Without　food　to　acpany　it；　one　bottle　of　Beck's　would　probably　knock　her　unconscious　for　the　rest　of　the　night。　
　A　traveling　salesman　from　Omaha　tried　to　strike　up　a　conversation　with　her。　He　was　in　his　mid…forties；　not　unattractive；　and　seemed　nice　enough；　but　she　didn't　want　to　lead　him　on。　She　told　him；　as　nicely　as　she　could；　that　she　was　not　looking　to　get　picked　up。　
　〃Me　neither；〃　he　said；　and　smiled。　〃All　I　want　is　someone　to　talk　to。〃　
　She　believed　him；　and　her　instincts　proved　reliable。　They　sat　at　the　bar　together　for　a　couple　of　hours；　chatting　about　movies　and　television　shows；　edians　and　singers；　weather　and　food；　never　touching　on　politics；　plane　crashes；　or　the　cares　of　the　world。　To　her　surprise；　she　drank　three　beers　and　felt　nothing　but　a　light　buzz：　〃Howie；〃　she　said　quite　seriously　when　she　left　him；　〃I'll　be　grateful　to　you　for　the　rest　of　my　life。〃　
　She　returned　to　her　room　alone；　undressed；　slid　under　the　sheets；　and　felt　sleep　stealing　over　her　even　as　she　put　her　head　on　the　pillow。　
　Pulling　the　covers　around　her　to　ward　off　the　chill　of　the　air　conditioner；　she　spoke　in　a　voice　slurred　more　by　exhaustion　than　by　beer：　〃Snuggle　down　in　my　cocoon；　be　a　butterfly　soon。〃　Wondering　where　that　had　e　from　and　what　she　meant　by　it；　she　fell　asleep。　
　Whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh。　。　。　
　Though　she　was　in　the　stone…walled　room　again；　the　dream　was　different　in　many　ways　from　what　it　had　been　previously。　For　one　thing；　she　was　not　blind。　A　fat　yellow　candle　stood　in　a　blue　dish；　and　its　dancing　orange　flame　revealed　stone　walls；　windows　as　narrow　as　embrasures；　a　wooden　floor；　a　turning　shaft　that　came　through　the　ceiling　above　and　disappeared　through　a　hole　into　the　room　below；　and　a　heavy　door　of　iron…bound　timbers。　Somehow　she　knew　that　she　was　in　the　upper　chamber　of　an　old　windmill；　that　the　sound…whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh…was　produced　by　the　mill's　giant　sails　cutting　the　turbulent　night　wind；　and　that　beyond　the　door　lay　curved　limestone　steps　that　led　down　to　the　milling　room。　
　Though　she　was　standing　when　the　dream　began；　circumstances　changed　with　a　ripple；　and　she　was　suddenly　sitting；　though　not　in　an　ordinary　chair。　
　She　was　in　an　airline　seat；　belted　in　place；　and　when　she　turned　her　head　to　the　left；　she　saw　Jim　Ironheart　seated　beside　her。　〃This　old　mill　won't　make　it　to　Chicago；〃　he　said　solemnly。　And　it　seemed　quite　logical　that　they　were　flying　in　that　stone　structure；　lifted　by　its　four　giant　woodslat　sails　the　way　an　airliner　was　kept　aloft　by　its　jets　or　propellers。　〃We'll　survive；　though…won't　we？〃　she　asked。　Before　her　eyes；　Jim　faded　and　was　replaced　by　a　ten…year…old　boy。　She　marveled　at　this　magic。　Then　she　decided　that　the　boy's　thick　brown　hair　and　electric…blue　eyes　meant　he　was　Jim　from　another　time。　
　According　to　the　liberal　rules　of　dreams；　that　made　his　transformation　less　magical　and；　in　fact；　altogether　logical。　The　boy　said；　〃We'll　survive　if　it　doesn't　e。〃　And　she　said；　〃What　is　it？〃　And　he　said；　〃The　Enemy。〃　Around　them　the　mill　seemed　to　respond　to　his　last　two　words；　flexing　and　contracting；　pulsing　like　flesh；　just　as　her　motel…room　wall　in　Laguna　Hills　had　bulged　with　malevolent　life　last　night。　She　thought　she　glimpsed　a　monstrous　face　and　form　taking　its　substance　from　the　very　limestone。　〃We'll　die　here；〃　the　boy　said；　〃we'll　all　die　here；〃　and　he　seemed　almost　to　wele　the　creature　that　was　trying　to　e　out　of　the　wall。　WHOOSH！　Holly　came　awake　with　a　start；　as　she　had　at　some　point　during　each　of　the　past　three　nights。　But　this　time　no　element　of　the　dream　followed　her　into　the　real　world；　and　she　was　not　terrified　as　she　had　been　before。　
　Afraid；　yes。　But　it　was　a　low…grade　fear；　more　akin　to　disquiet　than　to　hysteria。　
　More　important；　she　rose　from　the　dream　with　a　buoyant　sense　of　liberation。　Instantly　awake；　she　sat　up　in　bed；　leaned　back　against　the　headboard；　and　folded　her　arms　across　her　bare　breasts。　She　was　shivering　neither　with　fear　nor　because　of　a　chill；　but　with　excitement。　
　Earlier　in　the　night；　tongue　lubricated　by　beer；　she　had　spoken　a　truth　as　she　had　slipped　off　the　precipice　of　sleep：　〃Snuggle　down　in　my　cocoon；　be　a　butterfly　soon。〃　Now　she　knew　what　she　had　meant；　and　she　understood　the　changes　that　she　had　been　going　through　ever　since　she　had　stumbled　onto　Ironheart's　secret；　changes　that　she　had　only　begun　to　realize　were　under　way　when　she　had　been　in　the　VIP　lounge　at　the　airport　after　the　crash。　
　She　was　never　going　back　to　the　Portland　Press　She　was　never　going　to　work　on　a　newspaper　again。　
　She　was　finished　as　a　reporter。　
　That　was　why　she　had　overreacted　to　Anlock；　the　CNN　reporter　at　the　airport。　Loathing　him；　she　was　nevertheless　eaten　by　guilt　on　a　subconscious　level　because　he　was　chasing　a　major　story　that　she　was　ignoring　even　though　she　was　a　part　of　it。　If　she　was　a　reporter；　she　should　have　been　interviewing　her　fellow　survivors　and　rushing　to　write　it　up　for　the　Press。　No　such　desire　touched　her；　however；　not　even　for　a　fleeting　moment；　so　she　took　the　raw　cloth　of　her　subconscious　self　disgust　and　tailored　a　suit　of　rage　with　enormous　shoulders　and　wide；　wide　lapels；　then　she　dressed　herself　in　it　and　strutted　and　seethed　for　the　CNN　camera；　all　in　a　frantic　attempt　to　deny　that　she　didn't　care　about　journalism　any　more　and　that　she　was　going　to　walk　away　from　a　career　and　a　mitment　that　she　had　once　thought　would　last　all　her　life。　
　Now　she　got　out　of　bed　and　paced；　too　excited　to　sit　still。　
　She　was　finished　as　a　reporter。　
　Finished。　
　She　was　free。　As　a　working…class　kid　from　a　powerless　family；　she　had　been　obsessed　by　a　lifelong　need　to　feel　important；　included；　a　real　insider。　
　As　a　bright　child　who　grew　into　a　brighter　woman；　she　had　been　puzzled　by　the　apparent　disorderliness　of　life；　and　she　had　been　pelled　to　explain　it　as　best　she　could　with　the　inadequate　tools　of　journalism。　
　Ironically；　the　dual　quest　for　acceptance　and　explanations…which　had　driven　her　to　work　and　study　seventy…　and　eighty…hour　weeks　for　as　long　as　she　could　remember…had　left　her　rootless；　with　no　significant　lover；　no　children；　no　real　friends；　and　no　more　answers　to　the　difficult　questions　of　life　than　those　with　which　she　had　started。　Now　she　was　suddenly　free　of　those　needs　and　obsessions；　no　longer　concerned　about　belonging　to　any　elite　club　or　explaining　human　behavior。　
　She　had　thought　she　hated　journalism。　She　didn't。　
　What　she　hated　was　her　failure　at　it；　and　she　had　failed　because　journalism　had　never　been　the　right　thing　for　her。　
　To　understand　herself　and　break　the　bonds　of　habit；　all　she　had　needed　was　to　meet　a　man　who　could　work　miracles；　and　survive　a　devastating　airline　tragedy。　
　〃Such　a　flexible　woman；　Thorne；〃　she　said　aloud；　mocking　herself。　
　〃So　insightful。〃　
　Why；　good　heavens；　if　meeting　Jim　Ironheart　and　walking　away　from　a　plane　crash　hadn't　made　her　see　the　light；　then　surely　she'd　have　figured　it　out　just　as　soon　as　Jiminy　Cricket　rang　her　doorbell　and　sang　a　cleverly　rhymed　lesson…teaching　song　about　the　differences　between　wise　and　stupid　choices　in　life。　
　She　laughed。　She　pulled　a　blanket　off　the　bed；　wound　it　around　her　nude　body；　sat　in　one　of　the　two　armchairs；　drew　her　legs　up　under　her；　and　laughed　as　she　had　not　laughed　since　she　had　been　a　giddy　teenager。　
　No；　that　was　where　the　problem　began：　she　had　never　been　giddy。　
　She　had　been　a　serious…minded　teenager；　already　hooked　on　current　events；　worried　about　World　War　III　because　they　told　her　she　was　likely　to　die　in　a　nuclear　holocaust　before　she　graduated　from　high　school；　worried　about　overpopulation　because　they　told　her　that　famine　would　claim　one　and　a　half　billion