Cold Fire

"Did something terrible happen to you there, or what?" He shook his head. "No. Not at all. I loved that place. It was.

a sanctuary.”

"Then why did you go pale when I mentioned it?" "Did I?" "Picture an albino cat chasing a mouse around a corner and running into a Doberman. That pale.”

"Well, when I dream of the mill, it's always frightening-" "Don't I know it. But if it was a good place in your life, a sanctuary like you say, then why does it feature in nightmares?" "I don't know.”

"Here we go again.”

"I really don't," he insisted. "Why did you dream about it, if you've never even been there?" She drank more beer, which did not clarify her thinking. "Maybe because you're projecting your dream at me. As a way to sort of make a connection between us, draw me to you.”

"Why would I want to draw you to me?" "Thanks a lot.”

"Anyway, like I told you before, I'm no psychic, I don't have abilities like that. I'm just an instrument.”

"Then it's this higher power of yours," she said. "It's sending me the same dream because it wants us to connect.”

He wiped one hand down his face. "This is too much for me right now.

I'm so damned tired.”

"Me, too. But it's only nine-thirty, and we've still got a lot to talk about.”

"I only slept about an hour last night," he said.

He really did look exhausted. A shave and a shower had made him presentable, but the bruise-dark rings around his eyes were getting darker; end he had not regained color in his face after turning pale at the mention of her windmill dreams.

He said, "We can pick this up in the morning.”

She frowned. "No away. I'll come back in the morning, and you won't let me in.”

"I'll let you in.”

"That's what you say now.”

"If you're having that dream, then you're part of this whether I like it or not.”

His tone of voice had gone from cool to cold again, and it was clear that what he meant by "whether I like it or not" was really "even though I don't like it.”

He was a loner, evidently always had been. Viola Moreno, who had great affection for him, claimed he was well-liked by his students and colleagues. She'd spoken of a fundamental sadness in him, however, that separated him from other people, and since quitting his teaching position, he had seen little of Viola or his other friends from that life. Though intrigued by the news that he and Holly were sharing a dream, though he had called her "refreshing," though he was to some degree attracted at her, he obviously resented her intrusion into his solitude.

Holly said, "No good. You'll be gone when I get here in the morning, I won't know where you went, maybe you'll never come back.”

He had no energy for resistance. "Then stay the night.”

"You have a spare bedroom?" "Yeah. But there's no spare bed. You can sleep on the family-room couch, I guess, but it's damned old and not too comfortable.", She carried her halfempty beer into the adjacent family room, and tested the sagging, brown sofa. "It'll be good enough.”

"Whatever you want." He seemed indifferent, but she sensed that his indifference was a pretense. "You have any spare pajamas?" "Jesus.”

"Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't bring any.”

"Mine'll be too big for you.”

"Just makes them more comfortable. I'd like to shower, too. I'm sticky from tanning lotion and being in the sun all afternoon.”

With the put-upon air of a man who had found his least favorite relative standing on his doorstep unannounced, he took her upstairs, showed her the guest bath, and got a pair of pajamas and a set of towels for her.

"Try to be quiet," he said. "I plan to be sound asleep in five minutes.”

Luxuriating in the fall of hot water and clouds of steam, Holly was pleased that the shower did not take the edge off her beer buzz.

Though she had slept better last night than Ironheart claimed to have, she had not gotten a solid eight hours in the past few days, and she was looking for ward to a Corona-induced sleep even on the worn and lumpy sofa.

At the same time, she was uneasy about the continued fuzziness of her mind. She needed to keep her wits about her. After all, she was in the house of an undeniably strange man who was largely a cipher to her, a walking mystery. She understood little of what was in his heart, was pumped secrets and shadows in greater quantity than blood. For all his coolness toward her, he seemed basically a good man with benign intentions, and it was difficult to believe that he was a threat to her.

On the other hand, it was not unusual to see a news story about a berserk mass murderer who after brutally slaying his friends, family, and coworkers was described by his astonished neighbors as "a really nice guy." For all she knew, in spite of his claim to be the avatar of God, by day Jim Ironheart heroically risked his own life to save the lives of strangers-and, by night, tortured kittens with maniacal glee.