dk.coldfire-第20部分

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　kept　thinking　of　all　the　good　he　could　do；　all　the　lives　he　could　save；　the　destinies　he　could　alter；　if　only　the　call　would　e　again：　〃Life　line。〃　
　Other　endeavors　seemed　frivolous　by　parison。　
　Having　been　the　instrument　of　a　higher　power；　he　now　found　it　difficult　to　settle　for　being　anything　less。　
　After　spending　the　day　collecting　what　information　she　could　find　on　James　Madison　Ironheart；　with　only　a　two…hour　nap　to　pensate　for　the　night　of　sleep　she　had　lost；　Holly　launched　her　long…anticipated　vacation　with　a　flight　to　Orange　County。　On　arrival；　she　drove　her　rental　car　south　from　the　airport　to　the　Laguna　Hills　Motor　Inn；　where　she　had　reserved　a　motel　room。　
　Laguna　Hills　was　inland；　and　not　a　resort　area。　But　in　Laguna　Niguel；　Laguna　Niguel；　and　other　coastal　towns　during　the　summer；　rooms　had　been　booked　far　in　advance。　She　didn't　intend　to　swim　or　sunbathe　anyway。　
　Ordinarily；　she　was　as　enthusiastic　a　pursuer　of　skin　cancer　as　anyone；　but　this　had　bee　a　working　vacation。　
　By　the　time　she　arrived　at　the　motel；　she　felt　as　if　her　eyes　were　full　of　sand。　When　she　carried　her　suitcase　into　her　room；　gravity　played　a　cruel　trick；　pulling　her　down　with　five　times　the　usual　force。　
　The　room　was　simple　and　clean；　with　enough　air…conditioning　to　recreate　the　environment　of　Alaska；　in　case　it　was　ever　occupied　by　an　Eskimoe　who　got　homesick。　
　From　vending　machines　in　the　breezeway；　she　purchased　a　packet　of　peanut…butter…and…cheese　crackers　and　a　can　of　diet　Dr　Pepper；　and　satisfied　her　hunger　while　sitting　in　bed。　She　was　so　tired　that　she　felt　numb。　
　All　of　her　senses　were　dulled　by　exhaustion；　including　her　sense　of　taste。　
　She　might　as　well　have　been　eating　Styrofoam　and　washing　it　down　with　mule　sweat。　
　As　if　the　contact　of　head　and　pillow　tripped　a　switch；　she　fell　instantly　asleep。　
　During　the　night；　she　began　to　dream。　It　was　an　odd　dream；　for　it　took　place　in　absolute　darkness；　with　no　images；　just　sounds　and　smells　and　tactile　sensations；　perhaps　the　way　people　dreamed　when　they　had　been　blind　since　birth。　She　was　in　a　dank　cool　place　that　smelled　vaguely　of　lime。　At　first　she　was　not　afraid；　just　confused；　carefully　feeling　her　way　along　the　walls　of　the　chamber；　They　were　constructed　from　blocks　of　stone　with　tight　mortar　joints。　After　a　little　exploration　she　realized　there　was　actually　just　one　wall；　a　single　continuous　sweep　of　stone；　because　the　room　was　circular。　The　only　sounds　were　those　she　made…and　the　background　hiss　and　tick　of　rain　drumming　on　a　slate　roof　overhead。　
　In　the　dream；　she　moved　away　from　the　wall；　across　a　solid　wood　floor；　hands　held　out　in　front　of　her。　Although　she　encountered　nothing；　her　curiosity　suddenly　began　to　turn　to　fear。　She　stopped　moving；　stood　perfectly　still；　certain　that　she　had　heard　something　sinister。　
　A　subtle　sound。　Masked　by　the　soft　but　insistent　rattle　of　the　rain。　It　came　again。　A　squeak。　
　For　an　instant　she　thought　of　a　rat；　fat　and　sleek；　but　the　sound　was　too　protracted　and　of　too　odd　a　character　to　have　been　made　by　a　rat。　
　More　a　creak　than　a　squeak；　but　not　the　creak　of　a　floorboard　underfoot；　either。　
　It　faded。　。　。　came　again　a　few　seconds　later。　。　。　faded。　。　。　
　came　again。　。　。　rhythmically。　
　When　Holly　realized　that　she　was　listening　to　the　protest　of　an　unoiled　mechanism　of　some　kind；　she　should　have　been　relieved。　Instead；　standing　in　that　tenebrous　room；　straining　to　imagine　what　machine　it　might　be；　felt　her　heartbeat　accelerate。　The　creaking　grew　only　slightly　louder；　but　speeded　up　a　lot；　instead　of　one　creak　every　five　or　six　seconds；　the　sound　came　every　three　or　four　seconds；　then　every　two　or　three；　then　once　a　second。　
　Suddenly　a　strange　rhythmic　whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh　struck　up；　as　if　in　syncopation　with　the　creaking。　It　was　the　sound　of　a　wide　flat　object　cutting　the　air。　
　Whoosh。　
　It　was　close。　Yet　she　felt　no　draft。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　had　the　crazy　idea　that　it　was　a　blade。　
　Whoosh。　
　A　large　blade。　Sharp。　Cutting　the　air。　Enormous。　
　Whoosh。　
　She　sensed　that　something　terrible　was　approaching；　an　entity　so　strange　that　even　light…and　the　full　sight　of　the　thing…would　not　provide　under　standing。　Although　she　was　aware　that　she　was　dreaming；　she　knew　she　had　to　get　out　of　that　dark　and　stony　place　quickly…or　die。　A　nightmare　couldn't　be　escaped　just　by　running　from　it；　so　she　had　to　wake　up；　but　could　not；　she　was　too　tired；　unable　to　break　the　bonds　of　sleep。　the　lightless　room　seemed　to　be　spinning；　she　had　a　sense　of　some　great　structure　turning　around　and　around　（creak；　whoosh）；　thrusting　up　into　the　rainy　night　（creak；　whoosh）　and　turning　（creak；　whoosh）；　cutting　there　（creak；　whoosh）；　she　was　trying　to　scream　（creak；　whoosh）；　but　she　couldn't　force　a　sound　from　herself　（whoosh；　whoosh；　whoosh）；　couldn't　awaken　couldn't　scream　for　help。　WHOOSH！　〃No！〃　Jim　sat　up　in　bed　as　he　shouted　the　one…word　denial。　He　was　clammy　and　trembling　violently。　
　He　had　fallen　fast　asleep　with　the　lamp　on；　which　he　frequently　did；　usually　not　by　accident　but　by　design。　For　more　than　a　year；　his　sleep　had　been　troubled　by　nightmares　with　a　variety　of　plots　and　a　panoply　of　boogeymen；　only　some　of　which　he　could　recall　when　he　woke。　
　The　nameless；　formless　creature　that　he　called　〃the　enemy；〃　and　of　which　he　had　dreamed　while　recuperating　at　Our　Lady　of　the　Desert　rectory；　was　the　most　frightening　figure　in　his　dreamscapes；　though　not　the　only　monster。　
　This　time；　however；　the　focus　of　the　terror　had　not　been　a　person　or　nature。　It　was　a　place。　The　windmill。　
　He　looked　at　the　bedside　clock。　Three…forty…five　in　the　morning。　
　；　In　just　his　pajama　bottoms；　he　got　out　of　bed　and　padded　into　the　kitchen。　
　The　fluorescent　light　seared　his　eyes。　Good。　He　wanted　to　evaporate　what　residue　of　sleep　still　clung　to　him。　
　The　damn　windmill。　
　He　plugged　in　the　coffeemaker　and　brewed　a　strong　Colombian　blend。　
　He　sipped　half　the　first　cup　while　standing　at　the　counter；　then　refilled　it　and　sat　down　at　the　breakfast　table。　He　intended　to　empty　the　pot　because　he　could　not　risk　going　back　to　bed　and　having　that　dream　again。　
　Every　nightmare　detracted　from　the　quality　of　rest　that　sleep　provided；　but　the　windmill　dream　actually　took　a　real　physical　toll。　
　Whenever　he　woke　from　it；　his　chest　always　ached；　as　though　his　heart　had　been　bruised　from　hammering　too　hard　against　his　breastbone。　
　Sometimes　the　shakes　took　hours　to　fade　away　pletely；　and　he　often　had　headaches　that；　like　now；　arced　across　the　top　of　his　skull　and　throbbed　with　such　power　that　it　seemed　as　if　an　alien　presence　was　trying　to　burst　out　of　him。　He　knew　that　if　he　looked　in　a　mirror；　his　face　would　be　unnervingly　pale　and　haggard；　with　blue…black　circles　around　the　eyes；　like　the　face　of　a　terminal　cancer　patient　from　whom　disease　had　sucked　the　juice　of　life。　
　The　windmill　dream　was　not　the　most　frequent　of　those　that　plagued　him；　and　in　fact　it　haunted　his　sleep　only　one　or　two　nights　a　month。　
　But　it　was　by　far　the　worst。　
　Curiously；　nothing　much　happened　in　it。　He　was　ten　years　old　again；　sitting　on　the　dusty　wooden　floor　of　the　smaller　upper　chamber；　above　the　main　room　that　held　the　ancient　millstones；　with　only　the　flickering　light　of　a　fat　yellow　candle。　Night　pressed　at　the　narrow　windows；　which　were　almost　like　castle　embrasures　in　the　limestone　walls。　Rain　tapped　against　the　glass。　Suddenly；　with　a　creak　of　unoiled　and　half　rusted　machinery；　the　four　great　wooden　sails　of　the　mill　began　to　turn　outside；　faster　and　faster；　cutting　like　giant　scythes　through　the　damp　air。　The　upright　shaft；　which　came　out　of　the　ceiling　and　vanished　through　a　bore　in　the　center　of　the　floor；　also　began　to　turn；　briefly　creating　the　illusion　that　the　round　floor　itself　were　rotating　in　the　manner　of　a　carousel。　One　level　below；　the　ancient　millstones　started　to　roll　against　each　other；　producing　a　soft　rumble　like　distant　thunder。　
　Just　that。　Nothing　more。　Yet　it　scared　the　hell　out　of　him。　
　He　took　a　long　pull　of　his　coffee。　
　Stranger　still：　in　real　life；　the　windmill　had　been　a　good　place；　never　the　scene　of　pain　or　terror。　It　had　stood　between　a　pond　and　a　cornfield　on　ù　his　grandparents'　f