dk.coldfire-第3章

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　In　the　house　part　of　the　structure　directly　in　front　of　him；　kids　were　ing　out　of　the　double　doors；　onto　the　porch；　and　down　the　steps。　
　Laughing　and　chattering；　carrying　books　and　large　drawing　tablets　and　bright　lunchboxes　decorated　with　cartoon　characters；　they　approached　Jim　along　the　school　walk；　passed　through　the　open　gate　in　the　spearpoint　iron　fence；　and　turned　either　uphill　or　down；　moving　away　from　him　in　both　directions。　
　Two　minutes　left。　He　didn't　have　to　look　at　his　watch。　His　heart　was　pounding　two　beats　for　every　second；　and　he　knew　the　time　as　surely　as　if　he　had　been　a　clock。　
　Sunshine；　filtered　through　the　interstices　of　the　arching　trees；　fell　in　delicate　patterns　across　the　scene　and　the　people　in　it；　as　if　everything　had　been　draped　over　with　an　enormous　piece　of　gossamer　lace　work　stitched　from　golden　thread。　That　netlike　ornamental　fabric　of　light　seemed　to　shimmer　in　time　to　the　rising　and　falling　music　of　the　children's　shouts　and　laughter；　and　the　moment　should　have　been　peaceful；　idyllic。　
　But　Death　was　ing。　
　Suddenly　he　knew　that　Death　was　ing　for　one　of　the　children；　not　for　any　of　the　three　teachers　standing　on　the　porch；　just　for　one　child。　Not　a　big　catastrophe；　not　an　explosion　or　fire　or　a　falling　airplane　that　would　wipe　out　a　dozen　of　them。　Just　one；　a　small　tragedy。　But　which　one？　Jim　refocused　his　attention　from　the　scene　to　the　players　in　it；　studying　the　children　as　they　approached　him；　seeking　the　mark　of　imminent　death　on　one　of　their　fresh　young　faces。　But　they　all　looked　as　if　they　would　live　forever。　
　〃Which　one？〃　he　said　aloud；　speaking　neither　to　himself　nor　to　the　children　but　to。　。　。　。　Well；　he　supposed　he　was　speaking　to　God。　〃Which　one？〃　Some　kids　went　uphill　toward　the　crosswalks　at　that　intersection；　and　others　headed　downhill　toward　the　opposite　end　of　the　block。　In　both　directions；　women　crossing　guards　in　bright…orange　safety　vests；　holding　big　red　paddlelike　〃stop〃　signs；　had　begun　to　shepherd　their　charges　across　the　streets　in　small　groups。　No　moving　cars　or　trucks　were　in　sight；　so　even　without　the　crossing　guards　there　seemed　to　be　little　threat　from　traffic。　
　One　and　a　half　minutes。　
　Jim　scrutinized　two　yellow　vans　parked　at　the　curb　downhill　from　him。　
　For　the　most　part；　McAlbery　seemed　to　be　a　neighborhood　school；　where　kids　walked　to　and　from　their　homes；　but　a　few　were　boarding　the　vans　The　two　drivers　stood　by　the　doors；　smiling　and　joking　with　the　ebullient；　energetic　passengers。　None　of　the　kids　boarding　the　vans　seemed　doomed；　and　the　cheery　yellow　vehicles　did　not　strike　him　as　morgue　wagons　in　bright　dress。　
　But　Death　was　nearer。　
　It　was　almost　among　them。　
　An　ominous　change　had　stolen　over　the　scene；　not　in　reality　but　in　Jim's　perception　of　it。　He　was　now　less　aware　of　the　golden　lace　work　of　light　than　he　was　of　the　shadows　within　that　bright　filigree：　small　shadows　the　shape　of　leaves　or　bristling　clusters　of　evergreen　needles；　larger　shadows　in　the　shape　of　tree　trunks　or　branches；　geometric　bars　of　shade　from　the　iron　rails　of　the　spearpoint　fence。　Each　blot　of　darkness　seemed　to　be　a　potential　doorway　through　which　Death　might　arrive。　
　One　minute。　
　Frantic；　he　hurried　downhill　several　steps；　among　the　children；　drawing　puzzled　looks　as　he　glanced　at　one　then　another　of　them；　not　sure　what　sort　of　sign　he　was　searching　for；　the　small　suitcase　banging　against　his　leg　Fifty　seconds。　
　The　shadows　seemed　to　be　growing；　spreading；　melting　together　all　around　Jim。　
　He　stopped；　turned；　and　peered　uphill　toward　the　end　of　the　block　where　the　crossing　guard　was　standing　in　the　intersection；　holding　up　her　red　〃stop〃　sign；　using　her　free　hand　to　motion　the　kids　across。　Five　of　them　were　in　the　street。　Another　half　dozen　were　approaching　the　corner　and　soon　to　cross。　
　One　of　the　drivers　at　the　nearby　school　vans　said；　〃Mister；　is　something　wrong？〃　Forty　seconds。　
　Jim　dropped　the　suitcase　and　ran　uphill　toward　the　intersection；　still　uncertain　about　what　was　going　to　happen　and　which　child　was　at　risk。　He　was　pushed　in　that　direction　by　the　same　invisible　hand　that　had　made　him　pack　a　suitcase　and　fly　to　Portland。　Startled　kids　moved　out　of　his　way　At　the　periphery　of　his　vision；　everything　had　bee　ink…black。　He　was　aware　only　of　what　lay　directly　ahead　of　him。　From　one　curb　to　the　other　the　intersection　appeared　to　be　a　scene　revealed　by　a　spotlight　on　an　other　wise　night…dark　stage。　
　Half　a　minute。　
　Two　women　looked　up　in　surprise　and　failed　to　get　out　of　his　way　fast　enough。　He　tried　to　dodge　them；　but　he　brushed　against　a　blonde　in　summery　white　dress；　almost　knocking　her　down。　He　kept　going　because　he　could　feel　Death　among　them　now；　a　cold　presence。　
　He　reached　the　intersection；　stepped　off　the　curb；　and　stopped。　Four　kids　in　the　street。　One　was　going　to　be　a　victim。　
　But　which　of　the　four？　And　a　victim　of　what？　Twenty　seconds。　
　The　crossing　guard　was　staring　at　him。　
　All　but　one　of　the　kids　were　nearing　the　curb；　and　Jim　sensed　that　the　walks　were　safe　territory。　The　street　would　be　the　killing　ground。　
　He　moved　toward　the　dawdler；　a　little　red…haired　girl；　who　turned　and　looked　at　him　in　surprise。　
　Fifteen　seconds。　
　Not　the　girl。　He　looked　into　her　jade…green　eyes　and　knew　she　was　safe。　
　Jim　knew　it　somehow。　
　All　the　other　kids　had　reached　the　sidewalk。　
　Fourteen　seconds。　
　Jim　spun　around　and　looked　back　toward　the　far　curb。　Four　more　children　had　entered　the　street　behind　him。　
　Thirteen　seconds。　
　The　four　new　kids　started　to　arc　around　him；　giving　him　wary　sidelong　looks。　He　knew　he　appeared　to　be　a　little　deranged；　standing　in　the　street；　wide…eyed；　gaping　at　them；　his　face　distorted　by　fear。　
　Eleven　seconds。　
　No　cars　in　sight。　But　the　brow　of　the　hill　was　little　more　than　a　hundred　yards　above　the　intersection；　and　maybe　some　reckless　fool　was　rocketing　up　the　far　side　with　the　accelerator　jammed　to　the　floorboard。　
　As　soon　as　the　image　flashed　through　his　mind；　Jim　knew　it　was　a　prophetic　glimpse　of　the　instrument　Death　would　use：　a　drunk　driver。　
　Eight　seconds。　
　He　wanted　to　shout；　tell　them　to　run；　but　maybe　he　would　only　panic　them　and　cause　the　marked　child　to　bolt　straight　into　danger　rather　than　away　from　it。　
　Seven　seconds。　
　He　heard　the　muffled　growl　of　an　engine；　which　instantly　changed　to　a　loud　roar；　then　a　piston…shattering　scream。　A　pickup　truck　shot　over　the　brow　of　the　hill。　It　actually　took　flight　for　an　instant；　afternoon　sun　flashing　off　its　windshield　and　coruscating　across　its　chromework；　as　if　it　were　a　flaming　chariot　descending　from　the　heavens　on　judgment　day。　With　a　shrill　bark　of　rubber　against　blacktop；　the　front　tires　met　the　pavement　again；　and　the　rear　of　the　truck　slammed　down　with　a　jarring　crash。　
　ù　Five　seconds。　
　The　kids　in　the　street　scattered…except　for　a　sandy…haired　boy　with　violet　eyes　the　shade　of　faded　rose　petals。　He　just　stood　there；　holding　a　lunchbox　covered　with　brightly　colored　cartoon　figures；　one　tennis　shoe　untied；　watching　the　truck　bear　down　on　him；　unable　to　move；　as　if　he　sensed　that　it　wasn't　just　a　truck　rushing　to　meet　him　but　his　destiny　was　inescapable。　He　was　an　eight…　or　nine…year…old　boy　with　nowhere　to　go　but　to　the　grave。　
　Two　seconds。　
　Leaping　directly　into　the　path　of　the　oning　pickup；　Jim　grabbed　the　kid。　In　what　felt　like　a　dream…slow　swan　dive　off　a　high　cliff；　he　carried　the　boy　with　him　in　a　smooth　arc　to　the　pavement；　rolling　toward　the　leaf　littered　gutter；　feeling　nothing　from　his　impact　with　the　street；　his　nerves　so　numbed　by　terror　and　adrenaline　that　he　might　as　well　have　been　tumbling　across　a　field　of　lush　grass　and　soft　loam。　
　The　roar　of　the　truck　was　the　loudest　thing　he　had　ever　heard；　as　if　were　a　thunder　within　him；　and　he　felt　something　strike　his　left　foot；　bad　as　a　hammer　blow。　In　the　same　instant　a　terrible　wrenching　force　seem　to　wring　his　ankle　as　if　it　were　a　rag。　A　white…hot　current　of　pain　crackled　up　his　leg；　sizzling　into　his　hip　joint；　exploding　in　that　socket　of　bone　like　a　Fourth　of　July　bottle　rocket　bursting　in　a　night　sky。　
　Holly　started　after　the　man　who　had　collided　with　her；　angry　and　intending　to　tell　him　off　But　before　she　reached　the　intersection；　a　gray…an　red　pickup　erupted　over　the　brow　of　the　hill；　as　if　fired　out　of　a　giant　slingshot。　She　halted　at　the　curb。　
　The　scream　of　the　truck　engine　was　a　magic　incantation　that　slowed　the　flow　of　time；　stretching　each　second　into　what　seemed　to　be　a　minute　From　the　curb；　she　saw　the　stranger　sweep　the　boy　out　of　the　path　of　the　pickup；　executing　the　rescue　with　such　singular　agility　and　grace　that　almost　appeared　to　be　performing　a　mad；　slow…motion　ballet　in　the　street　She　saw　the　bumper　of　the　truck　strike　his　left　foot；　and　watched　in　horror　as　his　shoe　was　torn　off　and　tossed　high　into　the　air；　tumbling　end　over　end。　Peripherally；　she　was　aware　of　the　man　and　boy　rolling　toward　the　gutter；　the　truck　swerving　sharply　to　the　right；　the　startled　crossing　guard　dropping　the　paddlelike　〃stop〃　sign；　the　truck　ricocheting　off　a　car　parked　across　the　street；　the　man　and　boy　ing　to　rest　against　the　curb；　truck　tipping　onto　its　side　and　sliding　downhill　in　cascades　of　yellow　and　blue　sparks…but　all　the　while　her　attention　was　focused　primarily　on　the　shoe　tumbling　up；　up；　into　the　air；　silhouetted　against　the　blue　sky；　hanging　at　the　apex　of　its　flight　for　what　seemed　like　an　hour；　then　tumbling　slowly；　slowly　down　again。　
　She　couldn't　look　away　from　it；　was　mesmerized　by　it；　because　she　had　the　macabre　feeling　that　the　foot　was　still　in　the　shoe；　torn　off　at　the　ankle；　bristling　with　splinters　of　bone；　trailing　shards　of　arteries　and　veins。　Down　it　came；　down；　down；　straight　toward　her；　and　she　felt　a　scream　swelling　in　the　back　of　her　throat。　
　Down。　。　。　down。　。　。　
　The　battered　shoe…a　Reebok…plopped　into　the　gutter　in　front　of　her；　she　lowered　her　eyes　to　it　the　way　she　always　looked　into　the　face　of　the　monster　in　a　nightmare；　not　wanting　to　see　but　unable　to　turn　away；　dually　repelled　by　and　attracted　to　the　unthinkable。　The　shoe　was　empty。　
　No　severed　foot。　Not　even　any　blood。　
　She　swallowed　the　unreleased　scream。　She　tasted　vomit　in　the　back　of　her　throat；　and　swallowed　that　too。　
　As　the　pickup　came　to　rest　on　its　side　more　than　half　a　block　down　the　hill；　Holly　turned　the　other　way　and　ran　to　the　man　and　boy。　She　was　the　first　to　reach　them　as　they　started　to　sit　up　on　the　blacktop。　
　Except　for　a　scraped　palm　and　a　small　abrasion　on　his　chin；　the　child　appeared　to　be　unhurt。　He　was　not　even　crying。　
　She　dropped　to　her　knees　in　front　of　him。　〃Are　you　okay；　honey？〃　Though　dazed；　the　boy　understood　and　nodded。　〃Yeah。　My　hand　hurts　little；　that's　all。〃　
　The　man　in　the　white　slacks　and　blue　T…shirt　was　sitting　up。　He　had　pulled　his　sock　halfway　off　his　foot　and　was　gingerly　kneading　his　left　ankle。　Though　the　ankle　was　swollen　and　already　inflamed；　Holly　was　still　surprised　by　the　absence　of　blood。　
　The　crossing　guard；　a　couple　of　teachers；　and　other　kids　gathered　around；　and　a　babble　of　excited　voices　rose　on　all　sides。　The　boy　was　helped　up　and　drawn　into　a　teacher's　arms。　
　Wincing　in　pain　as　he　continued　to　massage　his　ankle；　the　injured　man　ra