dk.coldfire-第16章

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here；　how…far　enough　in　advance　to　derail　fate。　He　wasn't　bending　spoons　with　the　power　of　his　mind；　wasn't　speaking　in　the　gravelly　voice　of　an　ancient　spirit　named　Rama…Lama…Dingdong；　wasn't　reading　futures　in　entrails　or　wax　drippings　or　Tarot　cards。　He　was　saving　lives　for　God's　sake；　altering　destinies；　having　a　profound　impact　not　only　on　those　he　saved　from　death　but　on　the　lives　of　the　friends　and　families　who　would　have　been　left　shattered　and　bereaved。　And　the　reach　of　his　power　extended　three　thousand　miles　from　Laguna　Niguel　to　Boston！　In　fact；　maybe　his　heroics　were　not　confined　to　the　borders　of　the　continental　United　States。　She　had　not　researched　the　international　media　for　the　past　six　months。　Perhaps　he　had　saved　lives　in　Italy；　France；　Germany；　Japan；　Sweden；　or　in　Pago　Pago　for　all　she　knew。　
　The　word　〃psychic〃　definitely　was　inadequate。　Holly　couldn't　even　think　of　a　suitable　one…word　description　of　his　powers。　
　To　her　surprise；　a　sense　of　wonder　had　possessed　her；　like　nothing　she　had　felt　since　she　was　a　kid。　Now；　an　element　of　awe　stole　over　her　as　well；　and　she　shivered。　
　Who　was　this　man？　What　was　he？　Little　more　than　thirty　hours　ago；　when　she　had　seen　the　story　about　young　Nicholas　O'Conner　in　Boston；　Holly　had　known　she　was　on　to　a　big　story。　By　the　time　she　examined　the　material　that　Newsweb　found　for　her　she　felt　it　might　be　the　biggest　story　of　her　career；　regardless　of　how　long　she　worked　as　a　reporter。　
　Now　she　had　begun　to　suspect　that　it　might　grow　into　the　biggest　story　of　this　decade。　
　〃Everything　okay？〃　Holly　said；　〃Everything's　weird；〃　before　she　realized　that　she　had　not　asked　the　question　of　herself　The　waitress…Bernice；　according　to　the　name　embroidered　on　her　uniform　blouse…was　standing　beside　the　table；　looking　concerned。　Holly　realized　that　she　had　been　staring　intently　at　her　plate　while　she'd　been　thinking　about　Jim　Ironheart；　and　she　had　not　taken　a　bite　in　some　time。　
　Bernice　had　noticed　and　thought　something　was　wrong。　
　〃Weird？〃　Bernice　said；　frowning。　
　〃Uh；　yeah…it's　weird　that　I　should　e　into　what　looks　like　an　ordinary　coffeeshop　and　get　the　best　blueberry　pancakes　I've　ever　eaten。〃　
　Bernice　hesitated；　perhaps　trying　to　decide　if　Holly　was　putting　her　on。　
　〃You。　。　。　you　really　like　'em？〃　〃Love　them；〃　Holly　said；　forking　up　a　mouthful　and　chewing　the　cold　sodden　pancakes　with　enthusiasm。　
　〃That's　nice！　You　want　anything　else？〃　〃Just　the　check；〃　Holly　said。　
　She　continued　to　eat　the　pancakes　after　Bernice　left；　because　she　was　hungry　and　they　were　there。　
　As　she　ate；　Holly　looked　around　the　restaurant　at　the　colorfully　decked　out　vacationers　who　were　absorbed　in　discussions　of　amusements　experienced　and　amusements　yet　to　e；　and　the　thrill　of　being　an　insider　coursed　through　her　for　the　first　time　in　years。　She　knew　something　they　did　not。　She　was　a　reporter　with　a　carefully　husbanded　secret。　When　fully　researched；　when　written　up　in　crystalline　prose　as　direct　and　yet　evocative　as　Hemingway's　best　journalism　（well；　she　was　going　to　try　for　that；　anyway）；　the　story　would　earn　front…page；　top…of　the…page　exposure　in　every　major　newspaper　in　the　country；　in　the　world。　
　And　what　made　it　so　good；　what　made　her　tingle；　was　that　her　secret　had　nothing　to　do　with　a　political　scandal；　toxic　dumping；　or　the　other　myriad　forms　of　terror　and　tragedy　that　fueled　the　engine　of　modern　news　media。　Her　story　would　be　one　of　amazement　and　wonder；　courage　and　hope。　a　story　of　tragedy　avoided；　lives　spared；　death　thwarted。　
　Life　is　so　good；　she　thought；　unable　to　stop　grinning　at　her　fellow　diners。　
　First　thing　after　breakfast；　with　the　aid　of　a　book　of　street　maps　called　the　Thomas　Guide；　Holly　located　Jim　Ironheart's　house　in　Laguna　Niguel。　
　She　had　tracked　down　the　address　via　puter　from　Portland；　by　checking　the　public　records　of　real…estate　transactions　in　Orange　County　since　the　first　of　the　year。　She　had　assumed　that　anyone　winning　six　million　dollars　in　a　lottery　might　spend　some　of　it　on　a　new　house；　and　she　had　assumed　correctly。　He　hit　the　jackpot…presumably　thanks　to　his　clairvoyance…in　early　January。　On　May　3；　he　finalized　the　purchase　of　a　house　on　Bougainvillea　Way。　Since　the　records　did　not　show　that　he　had　sold　any　property；　he　apparently　had　been　renting　before　his　windfall。　
　She　was　somewhat　surprised　to　find　him　living　in　such　a　modest　house。　
　The　neighborhood　was　new；　just　off　Crown　Valley　Parkway；　and　in　the　neat；　well…landscaped；　precision…planned　tradition　of　south　Orange　County。　The　streets　were　wide；　gracefully　curved；　lined　with　young　palms　and　melaleucas；　and　the　houses　were　all　of　patible　Mediterranean　styles　with　roofs　in　different　shades　of　red　and　sand　and　peach　tiles。　But　even　in　such　a　desirable　south…county　city　as　Laguna　Niguel；　where　the　per…square…foot　cost　of　a　tract　home　could　rival　that　of　a　Manhattan　penthouse；　Ironheart　could　easily　have　afforded　better　than　he　had　purchased：　It　looked　like　a　little　more　than　two　thousand　square　feet；　the　smallest　model　in　the　neighborhood；　creamy…white　stucco；　large…pane　French　windows　but　no　other　apparent　custom　features；　a　lush　green　lawn；　but　small　with　azaleas　and　impatiens　and　a　pair　of　willowy　queen　palms　that　cast　lacy　shadows　on　the　walls　in　the　temperate　morning　sun。　
　She　drove　by　slowly；　giving　the　house　a　thorough　looking　over。　No　car　stood　in　the　driveway。　The　drapes　were　drawn　at　the　windows。　She　had　no　way　of　knowing　if　Ironheart　was　homeshort　of　going　up　to　his　front　door　and　ringing　the　bell。　Eventually；　she　would　do　just　that。　
　But　not　yet。　
　At　the　end　of　the　block；　she　turned　around　and　drove　past　the　house　again。　The　place　was　attractive；　pleasant；　but　so　ordinary。　It　was　hard　to　believe　that　an　exceptional　man；　with　astonishing　secrets；　lived　behind　those　walls。　
　Viola　Moreno's　townhouse　in　Irvine　was　in　one　of　those　park…like　munities　the　Irvine　pany　had　built　in　the　sixties　and　seventies；　where　the　plum…thorn　hedges　had　entered　woody　maturity　and　the　red…gum　eucalyptuses　and　Indian　laurels　towered　high　enough　to　spread　a　wealth　of　shade　on　even　the　brightest　and　most　cloudless　of　summer　days。　It　was　furnished　with　an　eye　to　fort　rather　than　style：　an　overstuffed　sofa　modious　armchairs；　and　plump　footstools；　everything　in　earth　tones；　with　traditional　landscape　paintings　meant　to　soothe　rather　than　challenge　the　eye　and　mind。　Stacks　of　magazines　and　shelves　of　books　were　everywhere　at　hand。　Holly　felt　at　home　the　moment　she　crossed　the　threshold。　
　Viola　was　as　weling　and　easy　to　like　as　her　home。　She　was　about　fifty；　Mexican…American；　with　flawless　skin　the　shade　of　lightly　tarnished　copper　and　eyes　that　were　merry　in　spite　of　being　as　liquid…black　as　squid　ink。　Though　she　was　on　the　short　side　and　had　broadened　a　little　with　age；　it　was　easy　to　see　that　her　looks　would　once　have　turned　men's　heads　hard　enough　to　crack　vertebrae；　she　was　still　a　lovely　woman。　She　took　Holly's　hand　at　the　door；　then　linked　arms　with　her　to　lead　her　through　the　small　house　and　out　to　the　patio；　as　if　they　were　old　friends　and　had　not　just　spoken　for　the　first　time　on　the　phone　the　previous　day。　
　On　the　patio；　which　overlooked　a　mon　greensward；　a　pitcher　of　icy　lemonade　and　two　glasses　stood　on　a　glass…topped　table。　The　rattan　chairs　were　padded　with　thick　yellow　cushions。　
　〃I　spend　a　lot　of　my　summer　out　here；〃　Viola　said　as　they　settled　into　chairs。　The　day　was　not　too　hot；　the　air　dry　and　clean。　〃It's　a　beautiful　little　corner　of　the　world；　isn't　it？〃　The　broad　but　shallow　green　vale　separated　this　row　of　townhouses　from　the　next；　shaded　by　tall　trees　and　decorated　with　a　couple　of　circular　of　red　and　purple　impatiens。　Two　squirrels　scampered　down　a　gentle　slop　and　across　a　meandering　walkway。　
　〃Quite　beautiful；〃　Holly　agreed　as　Viola　poured　lemonade　into　their　glasses。　
　〃My　husband　and　I　bought　it　when　the　trees　were　just　sticks　and　the　Hydroseeded　greenbelt　was　still　patchy。　But　we　could　visualize　what　it　would　be　like　one　day；　and　we　were　patient　people；　even　when　we　were　young。〃　She　sighed。　〃Sometimes　I　have　bad　moments；　I　get　bitter　about　his　dying　so　young　and　never　having　a　chance　to　see　what　this　all　grew　up　into。　But　mostly　I　just　enjoy　it；　knowing　Joe　is　somewhere　better　than　this　world　and　that　somehow　he　takes　pleasure　in　my　enjoyment。〃　
　〃I'm　sorry；〃　Holly　said；　〃I　didn't　know　you'd　been　widowed。〃　
　〃Of　course　you　didn't；　dear。　How　could　you　know？　Anyway；　it　was　a　long　time　ago；　back　in　1969；　when　I　was　just　thirty　and　he　was　thirty…two　My　husband　was　a　career　Marine；　proud　of　it；　and　so　was　I。　
　So　am　I；　still；　though　he　died　in　Vietnam。〃　
　Holly　was　startled　to　realize　that　many　of　the　early　victims　of　that　conflict　would　now　have　been　past　middle…age。　The　wives　they　left　behind　had　now　lived　far　more　years　without　them　than　with　them。　How　long　until　Vietnam　seemed　as　ancient　as　the　crusades　of　Richard　the　Lionheart　or　the　Peloponnesian　Wars？　〃Such　a　waste；〃　Viola　said　with　an　edge　to　her　voice。　But　the　edge　was　gone　an　instant　later　when　she　said；　〃So　long　ago。　。　。〃　
　The　life　Holly　had　imagined　for　this　woman…a　calm　and　peaceful　journey　of　small　pleasures；　warm　and　cozy；　with　perhaps　more　than　its　share　of　laughter…was　clearly　less　than　half　the　story。　
　The　firm　and　loving　tone　that　Viola　used　when　she　referred　to　Joe　as　〃my　husband〃　made　it　clear　that　no　amount　of　time　elapsed　could　fade　his　memory　in　her　mind；　and　that　there　had　been　no　other　man　since　him。　
　Her　life　had　been　profoundly　changed　and　constricted　by　his　death。　
　Although　she　was　obviously　an　optimistic　soul　and　outgoing　by　nature；　there　was　a　shadow　of　tragedy　on　her　heart。　
　One　basic　lesson　that　every　good　journalist　learned　early　in　his　career　was　that　people　were　seldom　only　what　they　seemed　to　be…and　never　less　plex　than　the　mystery　of　life　itself　Viola　sipped　her　lemonade。　〃Too　sweet。　I　always　add　too　much　sugar。　
　Sorry。〃　She　put　her　glass　down。　〃Now　tell　me　about　this　brother　you're　searching　for。　You　have　me　quite　intrigued。〃　
　〃As　I　told　you　when　I　called　from　Portland；　I　was　an　adopted　child。　The　people　who　took　me　in　were　wonderful　parents；　I　have　no　less　love　for　them　than　I　would　for　my　real　parents；　but。　。　。　well。　
　。　。〃　
　〃Naturally；　you　have　a　desire　to　know　your　real　parents。〃　
　〃It's　as　if。　。　。　there's　an　emptiness　in　me；　a　dark　place　in　my　heart；〃　Holly　said；　trying　not　to　trowel　it　on　too　thick。　
　She　was　not　surprised　by　the　ease　with　which　she　lied；　but　by　how　well　she　did　it。　Deception　was　a　handy　tool　with　which　to　elicit　information　from　a　source　who　might　otherwise　be　reluctant　to　talk。　
　Journalists　as　highly　praised　as　Joe　McGinniss；　Joseph　Wambaugh；　Bob　Woodward；　and　Carl　Bernstein　had　at　one　time　or　another　argued　the　necessity　of　dishonesty　in　dealing　with　interviewees；　all　in　the　service　of　getting　at　the　truth。　
　But　Holly　had　never　been　this　skillful　at　it。　At　least　she　had　the　good　grace　to　be　dismayed　and　embarrassed　by　her　lies…two　feelings　that　she　hid　well　from　Viola　Moreno。　
　〃Though　the　adoption　agency's　records　were　barely　adequate；　I've　learned　that　my　real　parents；　my　biological　parents；　died　twenty…five　years　ago；　when　I　was　only　eight。〃　Actually；　it　was　Jim　Ironheart's　parents　who　had