“told” to steal a car so it could not be traced to him, and to drive
into the Mojavi Desert. This time he might encounter adversaries even
more formidable than the two men in the Road king, but he was not as
worried as he’d been before. He knew he could die. Being the
instrument of a higher power came with no guarantees of immortality; he
was still only a man whose flesh could be torn, whose bones could be
broken, and whose heart could be stopped instantly with a well-placed
bullet. The amelioration of his fear was attributable solely to his
somewhat mystical journey on the Harley, two days with Father Geary, the
report of the stigmata that had appeared on him, and the resulting
conviction that a divine hand was at work in all of this.
Holly was on Bougainvillea Way, a block from Ironheart’s house, when a
dark-green Ford backed out of his driveway. She did not know what kind
of car he drove, but since he lived alone, she assumed the Ford had to
be his.
She speeded up, half intending to swing around him, angle across his
bow, force him to stop, and confront him right in the street. Then she
slowed down again, figuring discretion was seldom a fatal error.
She might as well see where he was going, what he was up to.
As she passed his house, the automatic garage door was rolling down Just
before it closed, she was able to see that no other car was in there.The
man in the Ford had to be Ironheart.
Because she had never been assigned to stories about paranoid drug lords
or bent politicians or corrupt businessmen, Holly was not expert at
tailing a surveillance subject through traffic. The skills and
techniques of clandestine operations were not necessary when you wrote
exclusives about Timber Trophies, performance artists in radiation suits
who juggled live mice on the steps of city hall and called it “art,” and
pie-eating contests. She was also mindful of the fact that Ironheart
had taken a two-week course in aggressive driving at a special school in
Marin County; if he knew how to handle a car well enough to shake off
pursuing terrorists, he would leave her in the dust about thirty seconds
after he realized she was following him.
She hung as far back as she dared. Fortunately, the Sunday-morning
traffic was heavy enough to allow her to hide behind other cars. But it
was light enough so she didn’t have to worry that the lanes would
suddenly clog up between her and Ironheart, cutting her off until he
disappeared from sight.
He drove east on Crown Valley Parkway to Interstate 5, then north toward
Los Angeles on 405.
By the time they had passed the clustered high rises around South Coast
Plaza, the primary shopping and office center for the two million people
in the Orange County metroplex, Holly’s mood was better than it had
been.
She was proving to be adept at mobile surveillance, staying from two to
six cars in back of Ironheart but always close enough to follow if he
abruptly swung onto an exit ramp. Her anger was tempered by the
pleasure she took in her skillful pursuit. Now and then she even found
herself admiring the clarity of the blue sky and the profusely flowering
pink and white oleanders that flanked the freeway at some places.
Passing Long Beach, however, she began to worry that she was going to
spend the whole day on the road with him, only to discover that wherever
he was going had nothing to do with the enigma that concerned her. Even
a self appointed superhero with clairvoyant powers might just spend a
day taking in a theater matinee, doing nothing more dangerous than
eating Szechuan Chinese with the chef’s hottest mustard.
She began to wonder, as well, if he might become aware of her through
his psychic powers. Sensing her a few cars back seemed a lot easier
than foreseeing the approaching death of a small boy in Boston.
On the other hand, maybe clairvoyance was an inconstant power, something
he could not turn on and off at will, and maybe it only worked on the