than dreamstuff.
She was convinced that he would have the answers. Last night, for only
the second time in her thirty-three years, she’d encountered the unknown
been sideswiped by the supernatural. The first time had been on August
12 when Ironheart had miraculously saved Billy Jenkins from being mow
down by a truck in front of the McAlbery School-although she hadn
realized until later that he had stepped right out of the Twilight Zone:
Though she was willing to cop to a lot of faults, stupidity was not one
of them. Anyone but a fool could see that both collisions with the
paranormal, Ironheart and the nightmare-made-real, were related.
She was more than merely angry. She was pissed.
As she cruised down Crown Valley Parkway, she realized that her anger
sprang, in part, from the discovery that her big, career-making story
was turning out not to be strictly about amazement and wonder and
courage and hope and triumph, as she had anticipated. Like the vast
majority articles that had appeared on the front pages of newspapers
since invention of the printing press, this story had a dark side.
Jim had showered and dressed for church. He did not regularly attend
Sunday Mass any more, or the services of any other of the religions to
which he had been sporadically committed over the years. But having
been in the control of a higher power since at least last May, when he
had flown to Florida to save the lives of Sam and Emily Newsome, he was
disposed to think about God more than usual. And since Father Geary had
told him about the stigmata that had marked his body while he lay
unconscious on the floor of Our Lady of the Desert, less than a week
ago, he had felt the tidal pull of Catholicism for the first time in a
couple of years. He didn’t actually expect that the mystery of recent
events would be cleared up by answers he would find in church-but he
could hope.
As he plucked his car keys off the pegboard on the kitchen wall beside
the door to the garage, he heard himself say, “Life line.”
Immediately, his plans for the day were changed. He froze, not sure
what to do. Then the familiar feeling of being a marionette overcame
him, and he hung the keys back on the pegboard.
He returned to the bedroom and stripped out of his loafers, gray slacks,
dark-blue sportcoat, and white shirt. He dressed in chinos and a blousy
Hawaiian shirt, which he wore over his pants in order to be as
unhampered as possible by his clothing.
He needed to stay loose, flexible. He had no idea why looseness and
flexibility were desirable for what lay ahead, but he felt the need just
the same.
Sitting on the floor in front of the closet, he selected a pair of
shoes-the most comfortable, broken-in pair of Rockports that he owned.
He tied them securely but not too tightly. He stood up and tested the
fit. Good.
He reached for the suitcase on the top shelf, then hesitated. He was
not sure that he would require luggage. A few seconds later, he knew
that he would be traveling light. He slid the closet door shut without
taking down the bag.
No luggage usually meant that his destination would be within driving
distance and that the round-trip, including the time needed to perform
whatever work was expected of him, would take no more than twenty-four
hours. But as he turned away from the closet, he surprised himself by
saying, “Airport.” Of course, there were a lot of places to which he
could fly round-trip in a single day.
He picked his wallet off the dresser, waited to see if he felt compelled
to put it down again, and finally slipped it into his hip pocket.
Evidently he would need not only money but ID-or at least he would not
risk exposure by carrying it.
As he walked to the kitchen again and took the car keys off the
pegboard, fear played through him, although not as strongly as it had
the last time he had left his house on a mission. That day he had been