instinctive perception of danger. Holly tried to remember if she had
been aware of the racing engine as early as when Ironheart had collided
with her, but she could not recall. Maybe she had heard it but had not
been as alert to meaning as he had. Or perhaps she hadn’t heard it at
all because she’d been trying to shake off the indefatigable Louise
Tarvohl, who had insisted on walking with her to her car; she had felt
that she’d go stark raving crazy if she were forced to listen to even
another minute of the poet’s chatter, she knew she had been distracted
by the desperate need to escape.
Now, in her kitchen, she was conscious of only one sound: the vigorously
boiling water in the big pot on the stove. She should turn the gas
down, put in the pasta, set the timer. . . . Instead she stood at the
cutting board, tomato in one hand and knife in the other, staring out at
the park but seeing the fateful intersection near the McAlbery School.
Even if Ironheart had heard the approaching engine from halfway down the
block, how could he so quickly determine the direction from which the
truck was approaching, that its driver was out of control, and that the
children were consequently in danger? The crossing guard, initially
much closer to the sound than Ironheart, had been taken by surprise, as
had the kids themselves.
Okay, well, some people had sharper senses than others-which was why
composers of symphonies could hear more complex harmonies and rhythms in
music than could the average concert goer, why some baseball players
could see a pop fly against a glary sky sooner than others, and why a
master viniculturist could appreciate subtler qualities of a rare
vintage than could a stoned-blind wino who was only concerned with the
effect.
Likewise, some people had far quicker reflexes than others, which was
part of what made Wayne Gretzky worth millions a year to a professional
ice hockey team. She had seen that Ironheart had the lightning reflexes
of an athlete. No doubt he was also blessed with especially keen
hearing. Most people with a notable physical advantage also had other
gifts: it was all a matter of good genes. That was the explanation.
Simple enough. Nothing unusual. Nothing mysterious.
Certainly nothing supernatural. Just good genes.
Outside in the park, the shadows grew deeper. Except at those places
where lamplight was shed upon it, the pathway disappeared into gathering
darkness. The trees seemed to crowd together.
Holly put down the knife and went to the stove. She lowered the gas
flame under the big pot, and the vigorously bubbling water fell to a
slow boil. She put the pasta in to cook.
Back at the cutting board, as she picked up the knife, she looked out
the window again. Stars began to appear in the sky as the purple light
of dusk faded to black and as the crimson smear on the horizon darkened
to burgundy. Below, more of the park walkway lay in shadow than in
lamplight.
Suddenly she was gripped by the peculiar conviction that Jim Ironheart
was going to walk out of darkness into a pool of amber light on the
pathway, that he was going to raise his head and look directly up at her
window, that somehow he knew where she lived and had come back for her.
It was a ridiculous notion. But a chill quivered along her spine,
tightening each knotted vertebra.
Later, near midnight, when Holly sat on the edge of her bed switched off
the nightstand lamp, she glanced at her bedroom window through which she
also had a view of the park, and again a chill ran up her back. She
started to lie down, hesitated, and got up instead. In panties and
T-shirt, her usual sleeping attire, she moved through the dark room to
the window, where she parted the sheers between the drapes.
He was not down there. She waited a minute, then another. He did
appear. Feeling foolish and confused, she returned to bed.
She woke in the dead hours of the night, shuddering. All she could
remember of the dream were blue eyes, intensely blue, with a gaze that