dk.intensity-第11章

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　She　left　the　er　of　the　bedroom　to　retrieve　the　butcher　knife；　which　she　had　dropped　when　she'd　been　rocked　backward　by　the　sight　of　the　dead　man　in　the　closet。　Then　she　went　around　the　bed　to　the　nightstand　and　switched　off　the　pharmacy　lamp。
　Being　in　the　dark　with　dead　people　didn't　frighten　her。　Only　the　living　were　a　danger。
　The　motor　home　slowed　again　and　then　turned　left。　Chyna　leaned　against　the　tilt　of　the　vehicle　to　keep　her　balance。
　They　must　be　on　State　Highway　29。　A　right　turn　would　have　taken　them　down　the　Napa　Valley；　south　into　the　town　of　Napa。　She　wasn't　sure　what　munities　lay　to　the　north；　other　than　St。　Helena　and　Calistoga。
　Even　between　the　towns；　however；　there　would　be　vineyards；　farms；　houses；　and　rural　businesses。　Wherever　she　got　out　of　the　motor　home；　she　should　be　able　to　find　help　within　a　reasonable　distance。
　She　sidled　blindly　to　the　door　and　stood　with　one　hand　on　the　knob；　waiting　for　instinct　to　guide　her　once　more。　Much　of　her　life　had　been　lived　like　a　balancing　act　on　a　spearpoint　fence；　and　on　a　particularly　difficult　night　when　she　was　twelve；　she　had　decided　that　instinct　was；　in　fact；　the　quiet　voice　of　God。　Prayers　did　receive　replies；　but　you　had　to　listen　closely　and　believe　in　the　answer。　At　twelve；　she　wrote　in　her　diary：　〃God　doesn't　shout；　He　whispers；　and　in　the　whisper　is　the　way。〃
　Waiting　for　the　whisper；　she　thought　about　the　battered　body　in　the　closet；　which　appeared　to　have　been　dead　for　less　than　a　day；　and　about　Laura；　still　warm　on　the　sagging　bed。　Sarah；　Paul；　Laura's　brother　Jack；　Jack's　wife；　Nina：　six　people　murdered　in　twenty…four　hours。　The　eater　of　spiders　was　not　an　ordinary　homicidal　sociopath。　In　the　language　of　the　cops　and　the　criminologists　who　specialized　in　searching　for　and　stopping　men　like　this；　he　was　hot；　going　through　a　hot　phase；　burning　up　with　desire；　need。　But　Chyna；　who　intended　to　follow　her　master's　in　psychology　with　a　doctorate　in　criminology；　even　if　she　had　to　work　six　years　waiting　tables　to　get　there；　sensed　that　this　guy　was　not　just　hot。　He　was　a　singularity；　conforming　only　in　part　to　standard　profiles　in　aberrant　psychology；　as　purely　alien　as　some…thing　from　the　stars；　a　runaway　killing　machine；　merciless　and　irresistible。　She　had　no　hope　of　eluding　him　if　she　didn't　wait　for　the　murmunng　voice　of　instinct。
　She　remembered　seeing　a　large　rearview　mirror　when　she'd　briefly　occupied　the　driver's　seat　earlier。　The　vehicle　had　no　rear　window；　so　the　mirror　was　there　to　provide　the　driver　with　a　view　of　the　lounge　and　the　dining　area　behind　him。　He　would　be　able　to　see　all　the　way　into　the　end　hall　that　served　the　bath　and　bedroom；　and　if　the　devil's　luck　was　with　him；　he　would　glance　up　just　when　Chyna　opened　the　door；　stepped　out；　and　was　exposed。
　When　the　moment　felt　right；　Chyna　opened　the　door。　A　small　blessing；　a　good　omen：　The　ceiling　light　in　the　hall　was　out。　Standing　in　gloom；　she　quietly　pulled　shut　the　bedroom　door。　The　lamp　above　the　dining　table　was　on　as　before。　At　the　front　of　the　vehicle　was　the　green　glow　of　the　instrument　panel…and　beyond　the　windshield；　the　headlights　were　silver　swords。
　After　moving　forward　past　the　bathroom　and　out　of　the　wele　shadows；　she　crouched　behind　the　paneled　side　of　the　dining　nook。　She　peered　across　the　crescent　booth　to　the　back　of　the　driver's　head；　about　twenty　feet　away。
　He　seemed　so　close…and；　for　the　first　time；　vulnerable。　Nevertheless；　Chyna　wasn't　foolish　enough　to　creep　forward　and　attack　him　while　he　was　driving。　If　he　heard　her　ing　or　glanced　at　the　rearview　mirror　and　spotted　her；　he　could　wrench　the　steering　wheel　or　slam　on　the　brakes；　sending　her　sprawling。　Then　he　might　be　able　to　stop　the　vehicle　and　get　to　her　before　she　could　reach　the　rear　door…or　he　might　swivel　in　his　chair　and　shoot　her　down。
　The　entrance　through　which　he　had　carried　Laura　was　immediately　to　Chyna's　left。　She　sat　on　the　floor　with　her　feet　in　the　step　well；　facing　this　door；　concealed　from　the　driver　by　the　dining　nook。
　She　put　the　butcher　knife　aside。　When　she　leaped　out；　she　would　probably　fall　and　roll…and　she　might　easily　stab　herself　with　the　knife　if　she　tried　to　take　it　with　her。
　She　didn't　intend　to　jump　until　the　driver　either　stopped　at　an　intersection　or　entered　a　turn　sharp　enough　to　require　him　to　cut　his　speed　dramatically。　She　couldn't　risk　breaking　a　leg　or　being　knocked　unconscious　in　a　fall；　because　then　she　wouldn't　be　able　to　get　away　from　the　road　and　safely　into　hiding。
　。jne　alan't　ciouut　that　he　would　be　aware　of　her　escape　even　as　it　began。　He　would　hear　the　door　open　or　the　wind　whistling　at　it；　and　he　would　see　her　either　in　his　rearview　or　in　his　side…mounted　mirror　as　she　made　her　break　for　freedom。　Even　in　the　unlikely　event　that　she　was　not　seen；　the　wind　would　slam　the　door　hard　behind　her　the　instant　she　was　gone；　the　killer　would　suspect　that　he　hadn't　been　alone　with　his　collection　of　corpses；　and　he'd　pull　off　the　highway　and　e　back　along　the　pavement；　panicky；　to　have　a　look。
　Or　perhaps　not　panicky。　Not　panicky　at　all。　More　likely；　he　would　search　with　grim；　methodical；　machine　efficiency。　This　guy　was　all　about　control　and　power；　and　Chyna　found　it　difficult　to　imagine　him　ever　succumbing　to　panic。
　The　motor　home　slowed；　and　Chyna's　heart　quickened。　As　the　driver　reduced　speed　further；　Chyna　rose　into　a　crouch　in　the　step　well　and　put　a　hand　on　the　lever…action　door　handle。
　They　came　to　a　full　stop；　and　she　pressed　down　on　the　handle；　but　the　door　was　locked。　Quietly　but　insistently　she　pressed　up；　down；　up…to　no　avail。
　She　couldn't　find　any　latch　button。　just　a　keyhole。　She　remembered　the　rattling　that　she'd　heard　when　she'd　been　in　the　bedroom　and　the　spider　eater　had　e　back　inside　and　closed　this　door。　Rattle；　rattle。　The　rattle　of　a　key；　perhaps。
　Maybe　this　was　a　safety　feature　to　prevent　kids　from　tumbling　out　into　traffic。　Or　maybe　the　crazy　bastard　had　modified　the　door　lock　to　enhance　security；　to　make　it　more　difficult　for　a　burglar　or　casual　intruder　to　stumble　upon　any　lip…sewn　or　shackled　cadavers　that　might　just　happen　to　be　aboard。　Can't　be　too　careful　when　you　have　dead　bodies　stacked　in　the　bedroom。　Prudence　requires　certain　security　measures。
　The　motor　home　pulled　forward　through　the　intersection　and　began　to　pick　up　speed　again。
　She　should　have　known　that　escape　wouldn't　be　easy。　Notbing　was　easy。　Ever。
　She　sat　down；　leaning　against　the　breakfast…nook　paneling；　still　facing　the　door；　thinking　furiously。
　Earlier；　on　her　way　back　through　the　vehicle　from　the　driver's　seat；　she'd　seen　a　door　on　the　other　side；　toward　the　front；　behind　the　co…pilot's　chair。　Most　motor　homes　had　two　doors；　but　this　was　a　rare　older　model　with　three。　She　was　reluctant　to　go　forward　to　escape；　however；　and　for　the　same　reason　that　she　didn't　want　to　attack　him：　He　might　see　her　ing；　rock　her　off　her　feet；　and　shoot　her　before　she　could　get　up。
　All　right；　she　had　one　advantage。　He　didn't　know　that　she　was　aboard。
　If　she　couldn't　just　open　a　door　and　jump　out；　if　she　was　going　to　have　to　kill　him；　she　could　lie　in　wait　here　past　the　dining　nook；　surprise　the　bastard；　gut　him；　step　over　him；　and　leave　by　the　front。　Just　minutes　ago　she　had　been　ready　to　kill　him；　and　she　could　make　herself　be　ready　again。
　The　engine　vibrations　rose　through　the　floor；　half　numbing　her　butt。　Total　numbing　would　have　been　wele；　the　carpet　soon　proved　to　be　inadequate　padding；　and　her　tailbone　began　to　ache。　She　shifted　her　weight　from　cheek　to　cheek；　leaned　forward　and　then　leaned　back；　nothing　provided　more　than　a　few　seconds　of　relief。　The　ache　spread　to　the　small　of　her　back；　and　mild　disfort　escalated　into　serious　pain。
　Twenty　minutes；　half　an　hour；　forty　minutes；　an　hour；　longer；　she　endured　the　agony　by　striving　to　imagine　all　the　ways　that　her　escape　might　unfold　once　the　motor　home　stopped　and　the　killer　got　out　from　behind　the　wheel。　Concentrating。　Thinking　it　through。　Planning　for　myriad　eventualities。　Finally；　however；　she　couldn't　think　about　anything　but　the　pain。
　The　motor　home　was　cool；　and　down　in　the　step　well；　there　was　no　heat　at　all。　The　engine　and　road　vibrations　penetrated　her　shoes；　beatingy　relentlessly　on　her　heels　and　soles。　She　flexed　her　toes；　afraid　that　her　cold；　achy　feet　and　stiffening　calf　muscles　would　develop　cramps　and　hobble　her　when　the　time　came　for　action。
　With　a　strange　hilarity　unnervingly　close　to　despair；　she　thought；　Forget　about　grief。　Forget　aboutjustice。　Rigbt　now　just　give　me　a　fortable　cbair　to　pamper　my　assjust　let　me　sitfor　a　wbile　until　myftet　are　warm　again；　and　lateryou　can　bave　my　life　ifyou　want　it。
　The　prolonged　inactivity　not　only　took　a　physical　toll　but　soon　began　to　depress　her。　Back　at　the　house　when　she'd　first　heard　the　intruder；　before　he　had　even　e　to　the　guest　room；　Chyna　had　known　that　safety　lay　in　movement。　Now　emotional　safety　lay　in　movement；　distraction。　But　circumstances　required　her　to　be　still　and　wait。　She　had　too　much　time　to　think…and　too　many　disturbing　thoughts　on　which　to　dwell。
　'；）he　worked　herself　into　such　a　state　of　distress　that　tears　welledwhich　was　when　she　realized　that　she　was　not　suffering　unduly　from　butt　ache　or　back　pain　or　the　cold　throbbing　in　her　feet。　The　real　pain　was　in　her　heart；　the　anguish　that　she　had　been　forced　to　repress　since　she'd　found　Paul　and　Sarah；　since　she'd　detected　the　vague　ammoniacal　scent　of　semen　in　Laura's　bedroom　and　had　seen　the　dimly　gleaming　links　of　the　shackling　chain。　Her　physical　pain　was　only　a　lame　excuse　for　tears。
　If　she　dared　weep　in　self…pity；　however；　then　aflood　would　e　for　Paul；　for　Sarah；　for　Laura；　for　the　whole　sorry　damn　screwed…up　human　race；　and　in　useless　resentment　at　the　fact　that　hard…won　hope　so　often　spiraled　into　nightmare。　She　would　bury　her　face　in　her　hands；　uselessly　wailing　the　question　that　had　been　asked　of　God　more　often　than　any　other：　〃why；　why；　why；　why；　why？〃
　Surrendering　to　tears　would　be　so　easy；　satisfying。　These　were　selfish　tears　of　defeat；　they　would　not　only　purge　the　heart　of　grief　but　also　wash　out　the　need　to　care　about　anyone；　anything。　Blessed　relief　could　be　hers　if　she　simply　admitted　that　the　long　struggle　to　understand　wasn't　worth　the　pain　of　experience。　Her　sobbing　would　bring　the　motor　home　to　a　sudden　halt；　and　the　driver　would　e　back　to　find　her　huddled　at　the　step　well。　He　would　club　her；　drag　her　into　the　bedroom；　rape　her　beside　the　body　of　her　friend；　there　would　be　terror　beyond　anything　that　she　had　ever　known　before；　but　it　would　be　brief。　And　this　time　it　would　be　final。　He　would　free　her　forever　from　the　need　to　ask　why；　from　the　torment　of　repeatedly　falling　through　the　fragile　floor　of　hope　into　this　too　familiar　desolation。
　For　a　long　time；　maybe　even　since　the　stormy　night　of　her　eighth　birthday　and　the　frenzied　palmetto　beetle；　she'd　known　that　being　a　victim　was　often　a　choice　people　made。　As　a　child；　she　hadn't　been　able　to　put　this　insight　into　words；　and　she　hadn't　known　why　so　many　people　chose　suffering；　when　older；　she　had　recognized　their　self…hatred；　masochism；　weakness。
　Not　all　or　even　most　suffering　is　at　the　hands　of　fate；　it　befalls　us　at　our　invitation。
　She'd　always　chosen　not　to　be　victimized；