Cold Fire

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-company 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 compelled-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 combed 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, come on, be a good guy.”

"Sorry, but I'd make dull copy anyway.”

"You just saved a child's life!" "Other than that, I'm boring.”

Something about him belied his claim to dullness, although at first Holly could not pinpoint the reason for his strong appeal. He was about thirty-five, an inch or two under six feet, lean but well-muscled.

Though he was attractive enough, he didn't have the looks that made her think of movie stars. His eyes were beautiful, yes, but she was never drawn to a man merely because of his looks and certainly not because of one exceptional feature.

He picked up his suitcase and began to limp along the corridor.

"You should see a doctor," she said, falling in at his side.

"At worst, it's sprained.”

"It still should be treated.”

"Well, I'll buy an Ace bandage at the airport, or when I get back home.”

Maybe his manner was what she found so appealing. He spoke softly, smiled easily, rather like a Southern gentleman, though he had no accent.

He also moved with unusual grace even when he was limping. She remembered how she had been reminded of ballet when, with the fluidity of a dancer, he had swept the little boy out of the path of the hurtling truck.

Exceptional physical grace and an unforced gentility were appealing in a man. But neither of those qualities was what fascinated her. Something else. Something more elusive.

As they reached the front door, she said, "If you're really intent on going home again, I can give you a ride to the airport.”

"Thank you. That's very kind, but I don't need a ride.”

She followed him onto the porch. "It's a damned long walk.”

He stopped, and frowned. "Oh. Yeah. Well. there's got to be a phone I'll call a cab.”

"Come on, you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not a serial killer. I don't keep a chainsaw in my car.”

He stared at her a beat, then grinned disarmingly. "Actually, you look more like the type who favors bludgeoning with a blunt instrument.”

"I'm a reporter. We use switchblades. But I haven't killed anyone this week.”

"Last week?" "Two. But they were both door-to-door salesmen.”

"It's still homicide.”

"Justifiable, though.”

"Okay, I accept your offer.”

Her blue Toyota was at the far curb, two back from the parked car in which the drunk driver had slammed. Downhill, the tow truck was just hauling away the totaled pickup, and the last of the policemen was getting into a patrol car. A few overlooked splinters of tempered glass from the truck's broken windows still glimmered on the blacktop in the late-afternoon sunshine.

They rode for a block or so in silence.

Then Holly said, "You have friends in Portland?" "Yeah. From college.”

"That's who you were staying with?" "Yeah.”