dk.coldfire-第7节

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　〃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　of　retirees　typically　tooled　around　on。　
　In　spite　of　the　cycle；　nothing　about　the　Road　king　was　suspicious。　
　In　its　wake　Jim　Ironheart　was　overe　by　a　sense　of　evil　so　strong　there　might　as　well　have　been　a　black　tide　washing　over　him　with　all　the　power　of　the　sea　behind　it。　He　gagged　as　if　he　could　smell　the　corruption　of　them　to　whom　the　motor　home　belonged。　
　At　first　he　hesitated；　afraid　that　any　action　he　took　might　jeopardize　woman　and　child　who　were　evidently　being　held　captive。　But　the　worse　thing　he　could　do　was　delay。　The　longer　the　mother　and　daughter　were　in　the　hands　of　the　people　in　the　Road　king；　the　less　chance　they　had　of　ing　out　of　it　alive。　
　He　swung　into　the　passing　lane。　He　intended　to　get　a　couple　of　miles　ahead　of　them　and　block　the　road　with　his　car。　
　In　the　Road　king's　rearview　mirror；　the　driver　must　have　seen　Jim　stop　at　the　station　wagon　and　get　out　to　inspect　it。　Now　he　let　the　Camaro　pull　almost　even　before　swinging　the　motor　home　sharply　left；　bashing　it　against　the　side　of　the　car。　
　Metal　shrieked　against　metal；　and　the　car　shuddered。　
　The　steering　wheel　spun　in　Jim's　hands。　He　fought　for　control　and　kept　The　Road　king　pulled　away；　then　swerved　back　and　bashed　him　again；　？　driving　him　off　the　blacktop　and　onto　the　unpaved　shoulder。　
　For　a　few　hundred　yards　they　rattled　forward　at　high　speed　in　those　positions：　the　Road　king　in　the　wrong　lane；　risking　a　head…on　collision　with　any　oning　traffic　that　might　be　masked　by　the　curtains　of　heat　and　sun　glare；　the　Camaro　casting　up　huge　clouds　of　dust　behind　it；　speeding　precariously　along　the　brink　of　the　two…foot　drop…off　that　separated　the　raised　roadbed　from　the　desert　floor　beyond。　
　Even　a　light　touch　of　the　brakes　might　pull　the　car　a　few　inches　to　the　left；　causing　it　to　drop　and　roll。　He　only　dared　to　ease　up　on　the　accelerator　and　let　his　speed　fall　gradually。　
　The　driver　of　the　Road　king　reacted；　reducing　his　speed；　too；　hanging　at　Jim's　side。　Then　the　motor　home　moved　inexorably　to　the　left；　inch　by　inch；　edging　relentlessly　onto　the　dirt　shoulder。　
　Being　much　the　smaller　and　less　powerful　of　the　two　vehicles；　the　Camaro　could　not　resist　the　pressure。　It　was　pushed　leftward　in　spite　of　Jim's　efforts　to　hold　it　steady。　The　front　tire　found　the　brink　first；　and　that　corner　of　the　car　dropped。　He　hit　the　brakes；　it　didn't　matter　any　more。　
　Even　as　he　jammed　his　foot　down　on　the　pedal；　the　rear　wheel　followed　the　front　end　into　empty　space。　The　Camaro　tipped　and　rolled　to　the　left。　
　Using　a　safety　harness　was　a　habit　with　him；　so　he　was　thrown　sideways　and　forward；　and　his　sunglasses　flew　off；　but　he　didn't　crack　his　face　against　the　window　post　or　shatter　his　breastbone　against　the　steering　wheel。　Webs　of　cracks；　like　the　work　of　a　spider　on　Benzedrine；　spread　across　the　windshield。　He　squeezed　his　eyes　shut；　and　gummy　bits　of　tempered　glass　imploded　over　him。　The　car　rolled　again；　then　started　to　roll　a　third　time　but　only　made　it　halfway；　ing　to　rest　o