dk.coldfire-第28部分

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　He　leaned　against　the　sink。　For　at　least　the　thousandth　time　in　the　year；　he　wondered　what　in　God's　name　was　happening　to　him。　
　In　his　sleep　he　had　gone　to　the　windmill　again。　Never　before　had　the　same　nightmare　troubled　him　two　nights　in　a　row。　Usually；　weeks　passed　between　reoccurrences。　
　Worse；　there　had　been　an　unsettling　new　element…more　than　just　the　rain　on　the　narrow　windows；　the　lambent　flame　of　the　candle　and　tire　dancing　shadows　it　produced；　the　sound　of　the　big　sails　turning　outside　the　low　rumble　of　the　millstones　below；　and　an　inexplicable　pall　of　fear。　
　This　time　he'd　been　aware　of　a　malevolent　presence；　out　of　sight　but　drawing　nearer　by　the　second；　something　so　evil　and　alien　that　he　could　not　even　imagine　its　form　or　full　intentions。　He　had　expected　it　to　burst　out　of　the　limestone　wall；　erupt　through　the　plank　floor；　or　explode　in　upon　him　from　the　heavy　timbered　door　at　the　head　of　the　mill　stairs。　He　had　been　unable　to　decide　which　way　to　run。　Finally　he　had　yanked　open　the　door　and　awakened　with　a　scream。　If　anything　had　been　there；　he　could　not　remember　what　it　had　looked　like。　
　Regardless　of　the　appearance　it　might　have　had；　Jim　knew　what　to　call　it：　the　enemy。　Except　that　now　he　thought　of　it　with　a　capital　〃T〃　and　a　capital　〃E。〃　The　Enemy。　The　amorphous　beast　that　haunted　many　of　his　other　nightmares　had　found　its　way　into　the　windmill　dream；　where　it　had　never　terrorized　him　before。　
　Crazy　as　it　seemed；　he　sensed　that　the　creature　was　not　merely　a　fantasy　spawned　by　his　subconscious　while　he　slept。　It　was　as　real　as　he　himself　Sooner　or　later　it　would　cross　the　barrier　between　the　world　dreams　and　the　waking　world　as　easily　as　it　had　crossed　the　barrier　between　different　nightmares。　
　Holly　never　considered　going　back　to　bed。　She　knew　she　would　not　sleep　again　for　many　hours；　until　she　was　so　exhausted　that　she　would　be　unable　to　keep　her　eyes　open　no　matter　how　much　strong　black　coffee　she　drank。　
　Sleep　had　ceased　to　be　a　sanctuary。　It　was；　instead；　a　source　of　danger；　a　highway　to　hell　or　somewhere　worse；　along　which　she　might　encounter　an　inhuman　traveler。　
　That　made　her　angry。　Everyone　needed　and　deserved　the　refuge　of　sleep。　
　As　dawn　came；　she　took　a　long　shower；　carefully　but　diligently　scrubbing　the　shallow　lacerations　on　her　sides；　although　the　soap　and　hot　water　stung　the　open　flesh。　She　worried　that　she　would　develop　an　infection　as　strange　as　the　briefly　glimpsed　monstrosity　that　had　inflicted　her　wounds。　
　That　sharpened　her　anger。　
　By　nature；　she　was　a　good　Girl　Scout；　always　prepared　for　any　eventuality。　When　traveling；　she　carried　a　few　first…aid　supplies　in　the　same　kit　with　her　Lady　Remington　shaver：　iodine；　gauze　pads；　adhesive　tape；　Band…Aids；　a　small　aerosol　can　of　Bactine；　and　a　tube　of　ointment　that　was　useful　for　soothing　minor　burns。　After　toweling　offù　from　the　shower；　she　sat　naked　on　the　edge　of　the　bed；　sprayed　Bactine　on　her　wounds；　then　daubed　at　them　with　iodine。　
　She　had　bee　a　reporter；　in　part；　because　as　a　younger　woman　she　had　believed　that　journalism　had　the　power　to　explain　the　world；　to　make　sense　of　events　that　sometimes　seemed　chaotic　and　meaningless。　
　More　than　a　decade　of　newspaper　employment　had　shaken　her　conviction　that　the　human　experience　could　be　explained　all　or　even　most　of　the　time。　But　she　still　kept　a　well…ordered　desk；　meticulously　arranged　files；　and　neat　story　notes。　In　her　closets　at　home；　her　clothes　were　arranged　according　to　season；　then　according　to　the　occasion　（formal；　semi…formal；　informal）；　then　by　color。　If　life　insisted　on　being　chaotic；　and　if　journalism　had　failed　her　as　a　tool　for　bringing　order　to　the　world；　at　least　she　could　depend　on　routine　and　habit　to　create　a　personal　pocket　universe　of　stability；　however　fragile；　beyond　which　the　disorder　and　tumult　of　life　were　kept　at　bay。　
　The　iodine　stung。　
　She　was　angrier。　Seething。　
　The　shower　disturbed　the　clots　that　had　coagulated　in　the　deeper　scratches　on　her　left　side。　She　was　bleeding　slightly　again。　She　sat　quietly　on　the　edge　of　the　bed　for　a　while；　holding　a　wad　of　Kleenex　against　the　wounds；　until　the　lacerations　were　no　longer　oozing。　
　By　the　time　Holly　had　dressed　in　tan　jeans　and　an　emerald…green　blouse；　it　was　seven…thirty。　
　She　already　knew　how　she　was　going　to　start　the　day；　and　nothing　could　distract　her　from　her　plans。　She　had　no　appetite　whatsoever　for　breakfast。　
　When　she　stepped　outside；　she　discovered　that　the　morning　was　cloudy　and　unusually　temperate　even　for　Orange　County；　but　the　sublime　weather　had　no　mellowing　influence　on　her　and　did　not　tempt　her　to　pause　even　for　a　moment　to　relish　the　early　sun　on　her　face。　She　drove　the　rental　car　across　the　parking　lot；　out　to　the　street；　and　headed　toward　Laguna　Niguel。　She　was　going　to　ring　James　Ironheart's　doorbell　and　demand　a　lot　of　answers。　
　She　wanted　his　full　story；　the　explanation　of　how　he　could　know　when　people　were　about　to　die　and　why　he　took　such　extreme　risks　to　save　to　strangers。　But　she　also　wanted　to　know　why　last　night's　bad　dream　had　bee　real；　how　and　why　her　bedroom　wall　had　begun　to　glisten　and；　throb　like　flesh；　and　what　manner　of　creature　had　popped　out　of　her　nightmare　and　seized　her　in　talons　formed　of　something　more　substantial　than　dreamstuff。　
　She　was　convinced　that　he　would　have　the　answers。　Last　night；　for　only　the　second　time　in　her　thirty…three　years；　she'd　encountered　the　unknown　been　sideswiped　by　the　supernatural。　The　first　time　had　been　on　August　12　when　Ironheart　had　miraculously　saved　Billy　Jenkins　from　being　mow　down　by　a　truck　in　front　of　the　McAlbery　School…although　she　hadn　realized　until　later　that　he　had　stepped　right　out　of　the　Twilight　Zone：　Though　she　was　willing　to　cop　to　a　lot　of　faults；　stupidity　was　not　one　of　them。　Anyone　but　a　fool　could　see　that　both　collisions　with　the　paranormal；　Ironheart　and　the　nightmare…made…real；　were　related。　
　She　was　more　than　merely　angry。　She　was　pissed。　
　As　she　cruised　down　Crown　Valley　Parkway；　she　realized　that　her　anger　sprang；　in　part；　from　the　discovery　that　her　big；　career…making　story　was　turning　out　not　to　be　strictly　about　amazement　and　wonder　and　courage　and　hope　and　triumph；　as　she　had　anticipated。　Like　the　vast　majority　articles　that　had　appeared　on　the　front　pages　of　newspapers　since　invention　of　the　printing　press；　this　story　had　a　dark　side。　
　Jim　had　showered　and　dressed　for　church。　He　did　not　regularly　attend　Sunday　Mass　any　more；　or　the　services　of　any　other　of　the　religions　to　which　he　had　been　sporadically　mitted　over　the　years。　But　having　been　in　the　control　of　a　higher　power　since　at　least　last　May；　when　he　had　flown　to　Florida　to　save　the　lives　of　Sam　and　Emily　Newsome；　he　was　disposed　to　think　about　God　more　than　usual。　And　since　Father　Geary　had　told　him　about　the　stigmata　that　had　marked　his　body　while　he　lay　unconscious　on　the　floor　of　Our　Lady　of　the　Desert；　less　than　a　week　ago；　he　had　felt　the　tidal　pull　of　Catholicism　for　the　first　time　in　a　couple　of　years。　He　didn't　actually　expect　that　the　mystery　of　recent　events　would　be　cleared　up　by　answers　he　would　find　in　church…but　he　could　hope。　
　As　he　plucked　his　car　keys　off　the　pegboard　on　the　kitchen　wall　beside　the　door　to　the　garage；　he　heard　himself　say；　〃Life　line。〃　
　Immediately；　his　plans　for　the　day　were　changed。　He　froze；　not　sure　what　to　do。　Then　the　familiar　feeling　of　being　a　marionette　overcame　him；　and　he　hung　the　keys　back　on　the　pegboard。　
　He　returned　to　the　bedroom　and　stripped　out　of　his　loafers；　gray　slacks；　dark…blue　sportcoat；　and　white　shirt。　He　dressed　in　chinos　and　a　blousy　Hawaiian　shirt；　which　he　wore　over　his　pants　in　order　to　be　as　unhampered　as　possible　by　his　clothing。　
　He　needed　to　stay　loose；　flexible。　He　had　no　idea　why　looseness　and　flexibility　were　desirable　for　what　lay　ahead；　but　he　felt　the　need　just　the　same。　
　Sitting　on　the　floor　in　front　of　the　closet；　he　selected　a　pair　of　shoes…the　most　fortable；　broken…in　pair　of　Rockports　that　he　owned。　
　He　tied　them　securely　but　not　too　tightly。　He　stood　up　and　tested　the　fit。　Good。　
　He　reached　for　the　suitcase　on　the　top　shelf；　then　hesitated。　He　was　not　sure　that　he　would　require　luggage。　A　fe