dk.coldfire-第15章

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！


ed　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'　farm。　To　a　young　boy　born　and　raised　in　the　city；　there　mill　had　been　an　exotic　and　mysterious　structure；　a　perfect　place　to　play　and　fantasize；　a　refuge　in　a　time　of　trouble。　He　could　not　understand　why　he　was　having　nightmares　about　a　place　that　held　only　good　memories　for　him。　
　After　the　frightening　dream　passed　without　waking　her；　Holly　Thor　slept　peacefully　for　the　rest　of　the　night；　as　still　as　a　stone　on　the　floor　the　sea。　
　Saturday　morning；　Holly　ate　breakfast　in　a　booth　at　the　motel　coffeeshop。　
　Most　of　the　other　customers　were　obviously　vacationers：　families　dressed　almost　as　if　in　uniforms　of　shorts　or　white　slacks　and　brightly　colored　shirts。　Some　of　the　kids　wore　caps　and　T…shirts　that　advertised　Sea　World　or　Disneyland　or　Knott's　Berry　Farm。　Parents　huddled　over　maps　and　brochures　while　they　ate；　planning　routes　that　would　take　them　to　one　of　the　tourist　attractions　that　California　offered　in　such　plenitude。　There　were　so　many　colorful　Polo　shirts　or　Polo…shirt　knockoffs　in　the　restaurant　that　a　visitor　from　another　planet　might　have　assumed　that　Ralph　Lauren　was　either　the　deity　of　a　major　religion　or　dictator　of　the　world。　
　As　she　ate　blueberry　pancakes；　Holly　studied　her　list　of　people　who　had　been　spared　from　death　by　Jim　Ironheart's　timely　intervention：　May　15　Sam　（25）　and　Emily　（5）　Newsome…Atlanta；　Georgia　（murder）　JUNE　5　Louis　Andretti　（28）…Corona；　California　（snakebite）　JUNE　21　Thaddeus　Johnson　（New　York；　New　York　（murder）　JUNE　30　Rachael　Steinberg　（23j…San　Francisco；　California　（murder）　JULY　S　Carmen　Diaz　（30）…Miami；　Florida　（fire）　JULY　14　Amanda　Cutter　（30）…Houston；　Texas　（murder）　JULY　20　Steven　Aimes　（57）…Birmingham；　Alabama　（murder）　AUGUST　1　Laura　Lenaskian　（28）…Seattle；　Washington　（drowning）　AUGUST　8　Doogie　Burkette　（11｝…Peoria；　Illinois　（drowning）　AUGUST　12　Billy　Jenkins　（8）…Portland；　Oregon　（traffic　fatality）　AUGUST　20　Lisa　（30）　and　Susan　（10）　Jawolski…Mojave　desert　（murder）　AUGUST　23　Nicholas　O'Conner　（6）　Boston；　Massachusetts　（explosion）　Certain　patterns　were　obvious。　Of　the　fourteen　people　saved；　six　were　children。　Seven　others　were　between　the　ages　of　twenty…three　and　thirty　Only　one　was　older…Steven　Aimes；　who　was　fifty…seven。　Ironheart　favored　the　young。　And　there　was　some　evidence　that　his　activities　were　increasing　in　frequency：　one　episode　in　May；　three　in　June；　three　in　July　and　now　five　already　in　August　with　a　full　week　of　the　month　remaining。　Holly　was　particularly　intrigued　by　the　number　of　people　on　the　list　who　would　have　been　murdered　without　Ironheart's　intervention。　
　Far　more　people　died　each　year　in　accidents　than　at　the　hands　of　others。　
　traffic　fatalities　alone　were　more　numerous　than　murders。　Yet　Jim　Ironheart　intervened　in　a　considerably　greater　number　of　homicides　than　accidents；　eight　of　the　fourteen　people　on　the　list　had　been　spared　from　the　malevolent　intentions　of　murderers；　over　sixty　percent。　
　Perhaps　his　premonitions　more　often　related　to　murder　than　to　other　forms　of　death　because　human　violence　generated　stronger　psychic　vibrations　than　accidents。　。　。　
　Holly　stopped　chewing　and　her　hand　froze　halfway　to　her　mouth　with　another　forkful　of　blueberry　pancake；　as　she　realized　just　how　strange　the　story　was。　She　had　been　operating　at　a　breathless　pace；　driven　by　reportorial　ambition　and　curiosity。　Her　excitement；　then　her　exhaustion；　had　prevented　her　from　fully　considering　all　of　the　implications　and　ramifications　of　Ironheart's　activities。　She　put　down　her　fork　and　stared　at　her　plate；　if　she　could　glean　answers　and　explanations　from　the　crumb　patterns　and　smears　in　the　same　way　that　gypsies　read　tea　leaves　and　palms。　
　What　the　hell　was　Jim　Ironheart？　A　psychic？　She'd　never　had　much　interest　in　extrasensory　perception　and　strange　mental　powers。　She　knew　there　were　people　who　claimed　to　be　able　to　〃see〃　a　murderer　just　by　touching　the　clothes　his　victim　wore；　who　sometimes　helped　police　find　the　bodies　of　missing　persons；　who　were　paid　well　by　the　National　Enquirer　to　foresee　world　events　and　forthing　developments　in　the　lives　of　celebrities；　who　said　they　could　channel　the　voices　of　the　dead　to　the　living。　But　her　interest　in　the　supernatural　was　so　minimal　that　she　had　never　really　formed　an　opinion　of　the　validity　of　such　claims。　
　She　didn't　necessarily　believe　that　all　those　people　were　frauds；　the　whole　subject　had　bored　her　too　much　to　bother　thinking　about　it　at　all。　
　She　supposed　that　her　dogged　rationality…and　cynicismcould　bend　far　enough　to　enpass　the　idea　that　now　and　then　a　psychic　actually　possessed　real　power；　but　she　wasn't　sure　that　〃psychic〃　was　an　adequate　description　of　Jim　Ironheart。　This　guy　wasn't　just　going　out　on　a　limb　in　some　cheap　tabloid　to　predict　that　Steven　Spielberg　would　make　another　bit　picture　next　year　（surprise！）；　or　that　Swartzenegger　would　still　speak　English　with　an　accent；　or　that　Tom　Cruise　would　dump　his　current　girlfriend；　or　that　Eddie　Murphy　would　still　be　black　for　the　foreseeable　future。　This　guy　knew　the　precise　facts　of　each　of　those　impending　deaths。　。　。　who；　when；　where；　how…far　enough　in　advance　to　derail　fate。　He　wasn't　bending　spoons　with　the　power　of　his　mind；