Dean Koontz - Cold Fire

The life Holly had imagined for this woman-a calm and peaceful journey of small pleasures, warm and cozy, with perhaps more than its share of laughter-was clearly less than half the story.

The firm and loving tone that Viola used when she referred to Joe as "my husband" made it clear that no amount of time elapsed could fade his memory in her mind, and that there had been no other man since him.

Her life had been profoundly changed and constricted by his death.

Although she was obviously an optimistic soul and outgoing by nature, there was a shadow of tragedy on her heart.

One basic lesson that every good journalist learned early in his career was that people were seldom only what they seemed to be-and never less complex than the mystery of life itself Viola sipped her lemonade. "Too sweet. I always add too much sugar.

Sorry." She put her glass down. "Now tell me about this brother you're searching for. You have me quite intrigued.”

"As I told you when I called from Portland, I was an adopted child. The people who took me in were wonderful parents, I have no less love for them than I would for my real parents, but. well.

. ”

"Naturally, you have a desire to know your real parents.”

"It's as if. there's an emptiness in me, a dark place in my heart," Holly said, trying not to trowel it on too thick.

She was not surprised by the ease with which she lied, but by how well she did it. Deception was a handy tool with which to elicit information from a source who might otherwise be reluctant to talk.

Journalists as highly praised as Joe McGinniss, Joseph Wambaugh, Bob Woodward, and Carl Bernstein had at one time or another argued the necessity of dishonesty in dealing with interviewees, all in the service of getting at the truth.

But Holly had never been this skillful at it. At least she had the good grace to be dismayed and embarrassed by her lies-two feelings that she hid well from Viola Moreno.

"Though the adoption agency's records were barely adequate, I've learned that my real parents, my biological parents, died twenty-five years ago, when I was only eight." Actually, it was Jim Ironheart's parents who had died twenty-five years ago, when he was ten, a fact she had turned up in stories about his lottery win. "So I'll never have a chance to know them.”

"What a terrible thing. Now it's my turn to be sorry for you," Viola said with a note of genuine sympathy in her soft voice.

Holly felt like a heel. By concocting this false personal tragedy, she seemed to be mocking Viola's very real loss. She went on anyway: "But it's not as bleak as it might've been, because I've discovered I have a brother as I told you on the phone.”

Leaning forward with her arms on the table, Viola was eager to hear the details and learn how she could help. "And there's something I can do to help you find your brother?" "Not exactly. You see, I've already found him.”

"How wonderful!" "But. I'm afraid to approach him.”

"Afraid? But why?" Holly looked out at the greensward and swallowed hard a couple of times, as if choking on emotion and struggling to maintain control of herself.

She was good. Academy Award stuff. She loathed herself for it.

When she spoke, she managed to get a subtle and convincing tremor in her voice: "As far as I know, he's the only blood relative I have in the world, and my only link to the mother and father I'll never know.

He's my brother, Mrs. Moreno, and I love him. Even though I've never met him, I love him. But what if I approach him, open my heart to him.

and he wishes I'd never shown up, doesn't like me or something?" "Good heavens, of course he'll like you! Why wouldn't he like a nice young woman like you? Why wouldn't he be delighted to have someone as sweet as you for a sister?" I'm going to rot in hell for this, Holly thought miserably.

She said, "Well, it may sound silly to you, but I'm worried about it.

I've never made good first impressions with people-" "You've made an excellent one with me, dear.”

Grind my face under your heel, why don't you? Holly thought.

She said, "I want to be careful. I want to know as much as possible about him before I knock on his door. I want to know what he likes, what he doesn't like, how he feels about. oh, about all sorts of things. God, Mrs. Moreno, I don't want to blow this.”

Viola nodded. "I assume you've come to me because I know your brother, probably had him years ago in one of my classes?" "You do teach history at a junior high school here in Irvine-" "That's right. I've worked there since before Joe died.”

"Well, my brother wasn't one of your students. He was an English instructor in the same school. I traced him there, and learned you'd taught in the room next to his for ten years, you knew him well.”

Viola's face brightened into a smile. "You mean Jim Ironheart!" "That's right. My brother.”

"This is lovely, wonderful, this is perfect!" Viola enthused.

The woman's reaction was so excessive that Holly blinked in surprise and didn't know quite what to say next.

"He's a good man," Viola said with genuine affection. "I'd have liked nothing better than to've had a son like him. He comes around now and then for dinner, not as often as he used to, and I cook for him, mother him I can't tell you how much pleasure that gives me." A wistful expression had settled on her, and she was silent a moment. "Anyway.

you couldn't have asked for a better brother, dear.

He's one of the nicest people I've ever known, a dedicated teacher, so gentle and kind and patient.”

Holly thought of Norman Rink, the psychopath who had killed a clerk and two customers in that Atlanta convenience store last May, and who had been killed in turn by gentle, kind Jim Ironheart. Eight rounds from a shotgun at point-blank range. Four rounds fired into the corpse after Rink was obviously dead. Viola Moreno might know the man well, but she clearly had no concept of the rage that he could tap when he needed it.

"I've known good teachers in my time, but none as concerned about his students as Jim Ironheart was. He sincerely cared about them, as if they were his own kids." She leaned back in her chair and shook her head remembering. "He gave so much to them, wanted so much to make their lives better, and all but the worst-case misfits responded to him.

He had a rapport with his students that other teachers would sell their souls for, yet he didn't have to surrender a proper student-teacher relationship to get it.

So many of them try to be pals with their students, you see, and that never really works.”

"Why did he quit teaching?" Viola hesitated, smile fading. "Partly, it was the lottery.”

"What lottery?" "You don't know about that?" Holly frowned and shook her head.

Viola said, "He won six million dollars in January.”

"Holy smoke!" "The first time he ever bought a ticket.”

Allowing her initial surprise to metamorphose into a look of worry, Holly said, "Oh, God, now he's going to think I only came around because he's suddenly rich.”

"No, no," Viola hastened to assure her. "Jim would never think the worst of anyone.”

"I've done well myself," Holly lied. "I don't need his money, I wouldn't take it if he tried to give it to me. My adoptive parents are doctors, not wealthy but well-to-do, and I'm an attorney with a nice practice.”

Okay, okay, you really don't want his money, Holly thought with self disgust as caustic as acid, but you're still a mean little lying bitch with a frightening talent for invented detail, and you'll spend eternity standing hip-deep in dung, polishing Satan's boots.

Her mood changing, Viola pushed her chair back from the table, got up, and stepped to the edge of the patio. She plucked a weed from a large terra-cotta pot full of begonias, baby's breath, and copper-yellow marigolds. Absentmindedly rolling the slender weed into a ball between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, she stared thoughtfully out at the park-like grounds.