dk.coldfire-第4节

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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　raised　his　head　and　met　Holly's　gaze。　His　eyes　were　searingly　blue　and；　for　an　instant；　appeared　as　cold　as　if　they　were　not　human　eyes　at　all　but　the　visual　receptors　of　a　machine。　
　Then　he　smiled。　In　a　blink；　the　initial　impression　of　coldness　was　replaced　by　one　of　warmth。　In　fact　Holly　was　overwhelmed　by　the　clarity；　morning…sky　color；　and　beauty　of　his　eyes；　she　felt　as　if　she　were　peering　through　them　into　a　gentle　soul。　She　was　a　cynic　who　would　equally　distrust　a　nun　and　Mafia　boss　on　first　encounter；　so　her　instant　attraction　to　this　man　was　jolting。　Though　words　were　her　first　love　and　her　trade；　she　was　at　a　loss　for　them。　
　〃Close　call；〃　he　said；　and　his　smile　elicited　one　from　her。　
　Holly　waited　for　Jim　Ironheart　in　the　school　hallway；　outside　the　boys'　restroom。　All　of　the　children　and　teachers　had　at　last　gone　home。　The　building　was　silent；　except　for　the　periodic　muted　hum　of　the　maintenance　man's　electric　buffer　as　he　polished　the　vinyl　tile　up　on　the　second　floor。　The　air　was　laced　with　a　faint　perfume　of　chalk　dust；　craft　paste；　and　pine…scented　disinfectant　wax。　
　Outside　in　the　street；　the　police　probably　were　still　overseeing　a　couple　of　towing…pany　employees　who　were　righting　the　overturned　truck　in　order　to　haul　it　away。　The　driver　had　been　drunk。　At　the　moment　he　was　in　the　hospital；　where　physicians　were　attending　to　his　broken　leg；　lacerations；　abrasions；　and　contusions。　
　Holly　had　gotten　nearly　everything　she　required　to　write　the　story：　background　on　the　boy…Billy　Jenkins…who　had　nearly　been　killed；　the　feel　of　the　event；　the　reactions　of　the　eye…witnesses；　a　response　from　the　police　and　slurred　expressions　of　regret　mixed　with　self　pity　from　the　inebriated　driver　of　the　truck。　She　lacked　only　one　element；　but　it　was　the　most　important…information　about　Jim　Ironheart；　the　hero　of　the　whole　affair　Newspaper　readers　would　want　to　know　everything　about　him。　
　But　at　the　moment　all　she　could　have　told　them　was　the　guy's　name　and　that　he　was　from　southern　California。　
　His　brown　suitcase　stood　against　the　wall　beside　her；　and　she　kept　eying　it。　She　had　the　urge　to　pop　the　latches　and　explore　the　contents　of　the　bag；　though　at　first　she　didn't　know　why。　Then　she　realized　it　was　unusual　for　a　man　to　be　carrying　luggage　through　a　residential　neighborhood；　reporter　was　trained…if　not　genetically　pelled…to　be　curious　about　anything　out　of　the　ordinary。　
　When　Ironheart　came　out　of　the　restroom；　Holly　was　still　staring　at　the　suitcase。　She　twitched　guiltily；　as　if　caught　pawing　through　the　contents　of　the　bag。　
　〃How're　you　feeling？〃　she　asked。　
　〃Fine。〃　He　was　limping。　〃But　I　told　you…I'd　rather　not　be　interviewed。〃　
　He　had　bed　his　thick　brown　hair　and　blotted　the　worst　of　the　dirt　off　his　white　cotton　pants。　He　was　wearing　both　shoes　again；　although　the　left　was　torn　in　one　spot　and　battered。　
　She　said；　〃I　won't　take　much　of　your　time。〃　
　〃Definitely；〃　he　agreed；　smiling。　
　〃Oh；　e　on；　be　a　good　guy。〃　
　〃Sorry；　but　I'd　make　dull　copy　anyway。〃　
　〃You　just　saved　a　child's　life！〃　〃Ot