She checked the dateline. Laguna Niguel. California. Southern
California. The Southland.
The piece was not accompanied by a photograph, but the reporter’s
description of the man included a reference to blue eyes and thick brown
hair. She was sure he was her James Ironheart.
She was not surprised to have found him. She had known that with
determined effort she would locate him sooner or later. What surprised
her was the subject of the piece in which his full name appeared at
last. She expected it to be yet one more story about snatching someone
out of death’s grasp, and she was not prepared for the headline: LAGUNA
NIGUEL AlAN WINS SIX MILLION LOTTO JACKPOT.
Having followed the rescue of Nicholas O’Conner with his first
untroubled night of sleep in the last four, Jim departed Boston on
Friday afternoon, August 24. Gaining three hours on the cross-country
trip, he arrived at John Wayne Airport by 3:10 P.M. and was home half
an hour later.
He went straight into his den and lifted the flap of carpet that
revealed the safe built into the floor of the closet. He dialed the
combination; opened the lid, and removed five thousand dollars, ten
percent of the cash he kept there.
At his desk, he packed the hundred-dollar bills into a padded Jiffy
envelope and stapled it shut. He typed a label to Father Leo Geary at
Our Lady of the Desert, and affixed sufficient postage. He would mail
it first thing in the morning.
He went into the family room and switched on the TV. He tried several
movies on cable, but none held his interest. He watched the news for a
while, but his mind wandered. After he heated a microwave pizza popped
open a beer, he settled down with a good book-which bored him He paged
through a stack of unread magazines, but none of the articles was
intriguing.
Near twilight he went outside with another beer and sat on the patio The
palm fronds rustled in a light breeze. A sweet fragrance rose from star
jasmine along the property wall. Red, purple, and pink impatiently
shone with almost Day-Glo radiance in the dwindling light; and as the
sun finished setting, they faded as if they were hundreds of small
lightbulbs on a rheostat. Night floated down like a great tossed cape
of almost weightless black silk.
Although the scene was peaceful, he was restless. Day by day, week by
week, since he had saved the lives of Sam Newsome and his daughter Emily
on May 15, Jim had found it increasingly difficult to involve himself in
the ordinary routines and pleasures of life. He was unable to relax.
kept thinking of all the good he could do, all the lives he could save,
the destinies he could alter, if only the call would come again: “Life
line.”
Other endeavors seemed frivolous by comparison.
Having been the instrument of a higher power, he now found it difficult
to settle for being anything less.
After spending the day collecting what information she could find on
James Madison Ironheart, with only a two-hour nap to compensate for the
night of sleep she had lost, Holly launched her long-anticipated
vacation with a flight to Orange County. On arrival, she drove her
rental car south from the airport to the Laguna Hills Motor Inn, where
she had reserved a motel room.
Laguna Hills was inland, and not a resort area. But in Laguna Niguel,
Laguna Niguel, and other coastal towns during the summer, rooms had been
booked far in advance. She didn’t intend to swim or sunbathe anyway.
Ordinarily, she was as enthusiastic a pursuer of skin cancer as anyone,
but this had become a working vacation.
By the time she arrived at the motel, she felt as if her eyes were full
of sand. When she carried her suitcase into her room, gravity played a
cruel trick, pulling her down with five times the usual force.
The room was simple and clean, with enough air-conditioning to recreate
the environment of Alaska, in case it was ever occupied by an Eskimoe
who got homesick.
From vending machines in the breezeway, she purchased a packet of
peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers and a can of diet Dr Pepper, and