Cold Fire

She recalled an old saying, a real chestnut that had become a cliche in the hands of the pop psych crowd: God grant me the courage to change those things I can't accept, to accept those things I can't change, and the wisdom to know the difference. Cliche or not, that was an eminently sane attitude.

When the two pieces of bread popped up, she plucked them from the toaster. As she toasted two more, she said, "If God wanted to save Nicholas O'Conner from being fried when that power-company vault went up, why didn't He just prevent it from exploding in the first place?" "I don't know.”

"Doesn't it seem odd to you that God has to use you, run you clear across the country, throw you at the O'Conner boy an instant before that 17,000-volt line blows up? Why couldn't He just. oh, I don't know.

just spit on the cable or something, fix it up with a little divine saliva before it went blooey? Or instead of sending you all the way to Atlanta to kill Norman Rink in that convenience store, why didn't God just tweak Norman's brain a little, give him a timely stroke?" Jim artfully tilted the pan to turn over the omelette. "Why did He make mice to torment people and cats to kill the mice? Why did He create aphids that kill plants, then ladybugs to eat the aphids? And why didn't He give us eyes in the back of our head-when He gave us so many reasons to need them there?" She finished lightly buttering the first two slices of toast. "I see what you're saying. God works in mysterious ways.”

"Very.”

They ate at the breakfast table. In addition to toast, they had sliced tomatoes and cold bottles of Corona with the omelettes.

The purple cloth of twilight slid across the world outside, and the undraped form of night began to reveal itself Holly said, "You aren't entirely a puppet in these situations.”

"Yes, I am.”

"You have some power to determine the outcome.”

"None.”

"Well, God sent you on Flight Two forty-six to save just the Dubroveks.”

"That's right.”

"But then you took matters into your own hands and saved more than just Christine and Casey. How many were supposed to die?" "A hundred and fifty-one.”

"And how many actually died?" "Forty-seven.”

"Okay, so you saved a hundred and two more lives than He sent you to save.”

"A hundred and three, counting yours-but only because He allowed me to do it, helped me to do it.”

"What-you're saying God wanted you to save just the Dubroveks, but then He changed His mind?" "I guess so.”

"God isn't sure what He wants?" "I don't know.”

"God is sometimes confused?" "I don't know.”

"God is a waffler?" "Holly, I just don't know.”

"Good omelette.”

"Thank you.”

"I have trouble understanding why God would ever change His mind about anything. After all, He's infallible, right? So He can't have made the wrong decision the first time.”

"I don't concern myself with questions like that. I just don't think about it.”

"Obviously," she said.

He glared at her, and she felt the full effect of his eyes in their arctic mode. Then focusing on his food and beer, he refused to respond to Holly's next few conversational gambits.

She realized that she was no closer to winning his trust than she had been when he had reluctantly invited her in from the patio. He was still judging her, and on points she was probably losing. What she needed was a solid knockout punch, and she thought she knew what it was, but she didn't want to use it until the right moment.

When Jim finished eating, he looked up from his empty plate and said, "Okay, I've listened to your pitch, I've fed you, and now I want you to go.”

"No, you don't.”

He blinked. "Miss Thorne-" "You called me Holly before.”

"Miss Thorne, please don't make me throw you out.”

"You don't want me to go," Holly said, striving to sound more confident than she felt. "At all the scenes of these rescues, you've given only your first name. No one's learned anything more about you.

Except me. You told me you lived in southern California. You told me your last name was Ironheart.”

"I never said you were a bad reporter. You're good at prying information" "I didn't pry. You gave it. And if it wasn't something you wanted to give, a grizzly bear with an engineering degree and crowhar couldn't pry it out of you. I want another beer.”

"I asked you to go.”

"Don't stir yourself I know where you keep the suds.”

She got up, stepped to the refrigerator, and withdrew another bottle of Corona. She was walking on the wild side now, at least for her, but a third beer gave her an excuse-even if a flimsy one to stay and argue with him.

She had downed three bottles last night, at the motel cocktail lounge in Dubuque. But then she had still been saturated with adrenaline, as superalert and edgy as a Siamese cat on Benzedrine, which canceled out the alcohol as fast as it entered her bloodstream.