dk.intensity-第13章

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　Anyway；　all　questions　of　fingerprints　and　other　evidence　are　moot；　because　he　will　never　be　caught。　He　is　thirty…three　years　old。　He　has　been　enjoying　himself　in　this　fashion　for　a　long　time；　and　he　has　never　had　a　close　call。
　Now　he　takes　the　pistol　out　of　the　open　console　between　the　pilot's　and　copilot's　chairs。　A　Heckler　&　Koch　P7…Earlier；　he　had　reloaded　the　thirteen…round　magazine。　Now　he　unscrews　the　sound　suppressor；　because　he　has　no　plans　to　visit　other　houses　this　night。　Besides；　the　baffles　are　probably　damaged　from　the　shots　that　he　has　fired；　diminishing　both　the　effect　of　the　silencer　and　the　accuracy　of　the　weapon。
　Occasionally　he　daydreams　about　what　it　would　be　like　if　the　impossible　happened；　if　he　were　interrupted　at　play　and　surrounded　by　a　SWAT　team。　With　his　experience　and　knowledge；　the　ensuing　showdown　would　be　thrillingly　intense。
　If　there　is　a　single　secret　behind　the　success　of　Edgler　Vess；　it　is　his　belief　that　no　twist　of　fate　is　either　good　or　bad；　that　no　experience　is　qualitatively　better　than　another。　Winning　twenty　million　dollars　in　the　lottery　is　no　more　to　be　desired　than　being　trapped　by　a　SWAT　team；　and　a　shootout　with　the　authorities　is　no　more　to　be　dreaded　than　winning　all　that　money。　The　value　of　any　experience　isn't　in　its　positive　or　negative　effect　on　his　life　but　in　the　sheer　luminous　power　of　it；　the　vividness；　the　ferocity；　the　amount　and　degree　of　pure　sensation　that　it　provides。　Intensity。
　Vess　puts　the　sound　suppressor　in　the　console　between　the　seats。　He　drops　the　pistol　into　the　right…hand　pocket　of　his　raincoat。　He　is　not　expecting　trouble。　Nevertheless；　he　goes　nowhere　unarmed。　One　can　never　be　too　careful。　Besides；　opportunities　often　arise　unexpectedly。
　In　the　driver's　seat　again；　he　takes　the　keys　from　the　ignition　and　checks　that　the　brake　is　firmly　set。　He　opens　the　door　and　gets　out　of　the　motor　home。
　All　eight　gasoline　pumps　are　self…service。　He　is　parked　at　the　outer　of　the　two　service　islands。　He　needs　to　go　to　the　cashier　in　the　associated　convenience　store　to　pay　in　advance　and　to　identify　the　pump　that　he'll　be　using　so　it　can　be　turned　on。
　The　night　breathes。　At　higher　altitudes；　a　strong　gale　drives　masses　of　clouds　out　of　the　northwest　toward　the　southeast。　Here　at　ground　level；　a　lesser　exhalation　of　cold　wind　huffs　between　the　pumps；　whistles　alongside　the　motor　home；　and　flaps　the　raincoat　against　Vess's　legs。　The　convenience　store…buff　brick　below；　white　aluminum　siding　above；　big　windows　full　of　merchandise…stands　in　front　of　rising　hills　that　are　covered　with　huge　evergreens；　the　wind　soughs　through　their　branches　with　a　hollow；　ancient；　lonely　voice。
　Out　on　Highway　101；　there　is　little　traffic　at　this　hour。　When　a　truck　passes；　it　cleaves　the　wind　with　a　cry　that　seems　strangely　Jurassic。
　A　Pontiac　with　Washington　State　license　plates　is　parked　at　the　inner　service　island；　under　the　yellow　sodium…vapor　lamps。　Other　than　the　motor　home；　it　is　the　only　vehicle　in　sight。　A　bumper　sticker　on　the　back　announces　that　ELECTRICIANS　KNOW　HOW　TO　PLUG　IT　IN。
　On　the　roof　of　the　building；　positioned　for　maximum　visibility　from　10　1；　is　a　red　neon　sign　that　announces　OPEN　24　HOURS。　Red　is　the　quality　of　the　sound　each　passing　truck　makes　out　there　on　the　highway。　In　the　glow；　his　hands　look　as　if　he　never　washed　them。
　As　Vess　approaches　the　entrance；　the　glass　door　swings　open；　and　a　man　es　out　carrying　a　family…size　bag　of　potato　chips　and　a　sixpack　of　Coke　in　cans。　He　is　a　chubby　guy　with　long　sideburns　and　a　walrus　mustache。
　Gesturing　at　the　sky；　he　says；　〃Storm's　ing；〃　as　he　hurries　past　Vess。　〃Good；〃　Vess　says。　He　likes　storms。　He　enjoys　driving　in　them。　The　more　torrential　the　raifi；　the　better。　With　lightning　flashing　and　trees　cracking　in　the　wind　and　pavement　as　slick　as　ice。
　The　guy　with　the　walrus　mustache　goes　to　the　Pontiac。　Vess　enters　the　convenience　store；　wondering　what　an　electrician　from　Washington　is　doing　on　the　road　in　northern　California　at　this　ungodly　hour　of　the　night。
　He's　fascinated　by　the　way　in　which　lives　connect　briefly；　with　a　potential　for　drama　that　is　sometimes　fulfilled　and　sometimes　not。　A　man　stops　for　gasoline；　lingers　to　buy　potato　chips　and　Coke；　makes　a　ment　on　the　weather　to　a　stranger…and　continues　on　his　journey。　The　stranger　could　as　easily　follow　the　man　to　the　car　and　blow　his　brains　out。　There　would　be　risks　for　the　shooter；　but　not　serious　risks；　it　could　be　managed　with　surprising　discretion。　The　man's　survival　is　ei…；4j
　uner　ruii　or　mystenous　meaning　or　utterly　meaningless；　Vess　is　unable　to　decide　which。
　If　fate　doesn't　actually　exist；　it　ought　to。
　The　small　store　is　warm；　clean；　and　brightly　lighted。　Three　narrow　aisles　extend　to　the　left　of　the　door；　offering　the　usual　roadside　merchandise：　every　imaginable　snack　food；　the　basic　patent　medicines；　magazines；　paperback　books；　postcards；　novelty　items　designed　to　hang　from　rearview　mirrors；　and　selected　canned　goods　that　sell　to　campers　and　to　people；　like　Vess；　who　travel　in　homes　on　wheels。　Along　the　back　wall　are　tall　coolers　full　of　beer　and　soft　drinks；　as　well　as　a　couple　of　freezers　containing　ice　cream　treats。　To　the　right　of　the　door　is　the　service　counter　that　separates　the　two　cashiers'　stations　and　the　clerical　area　from　the　public　part　of　the　store。
　Two　employees　are　on　duty；　both　men。　These　days；　no　one　works　alone　in　such　places　at　night…and　with　good　reason。
　The　guy　at　the　cash　register　is　a　redhead　in　his　thirties　with　freckles　and　a　two…inch…diameter　birthmark；　as　pink　as　uncooked　salmon；　on　his　pale　forehead。　The　mark　is　uncannily　like　the　image　of　a　fetus　curled　in　a　womb；　as　if　a　gestating　twin　had　died　early　in　the　mother's　pregnancy　and　left　its　fossilized　image　on　the　surviving　brother's　brow。
　The　redheaded　cashier　is　reading　a　paperback。　He　looks　up　at　Vess；　and　his　eyes　are　as　gray　as　ashes　but　clear　and　piercing。
　〃What　can　I　do　for　you；　sit？　〃
　〃I'm　at　pump　seven；〃　Vess　says。
　The　radio　is　tuned　to　a　country　station。　Alan　Jackson　sings　about　midnight　in　Montgomery；　the　wind；　a　whippoorwill；　a　lonesome　chill；　and　the　ghost　of　Hank　Williams。　
　〃How　you　want　to　pay？〃　asks　the　cashier。　
　〃If　I　put　any　more　on　the　credit　cards；　the　Bank　of　America's　going　to　send　someone　around　to　break　my　legs；〃　says　Vess；　and　he　slaps　down　a　hundred…dollar　bill。
　〃Figure　I'll　need　about　sixty　bucks'worth。　〃
　The　bination　of　the　song；　the　birthmark；　and　the　cashier's　haunting　gray　eyes　generates　in　Vess　an　eerie　sense　of　expectancy。　Something　exceptional　is　about　to　happen。
　〃Paying　off　Christmas　like　the　rest　of　us；　huh？〃　says　the　cashier　as　he　rings　up　the　sale。　〃Hell；　I'll　still　be　payin'　off　Christmas　next　Christmas。〃
　The　second　clerk　sits　on　a　stool　farther　along　the　counter。　He's　not　at　a　cash　register　but　is　laboring　on　the　bookkeeping　or　checking　inventory　sheets…anyway；　doing　some　kind　of　paperwork。
　Vess　has　not　previously　looked　directly　at　the　second　man；　and　now　he　discovers　that　this　is　the　exceptional　thing　he　felt　looming。
　〃Storm　ing；〃　he　says　to　the　second　clerk。　The　man　looks　up　from　the　papers　spread　on　the　counter。　He　is　in　his　twenties；　at　least　half　Asian；　and　strikingly　handsome。　No。　More　than　handsome。　Jet…black　hair；　golden　plexion；　eyes　as　liquid　as　oil　and　as　deep　as　wells。　There　is　a　gentle　quality　to　his　good　looks　that　almost　gives　him　an　effeminate　aspect…but　not　quite。
　Ariel　would　love　him。　He　is　just　her　type。
　〃Might　be　cold　enough　for　snow　in　some　of　the　mountain　passes；〃　says　the　Asian；　〃if　you're　going　that　way。〃
　He　has　a　pleasant…almost　musical…voice　that　would　charm　Ariel。
　He　is　really　quite　breathtaking。
　To　the　cashier　who　is　counting　out　change；　Vess　says；　〃Just　hold　on　to　that。　I　need　a　supply　of　munchies　too。　I'll　be　back　as　soon　as　I　fill　up　the　tank。〃
　He　leaves　quickly；　afraid　that　they　might　sense　his　excitement　and　bee　alarmed。
　Although　he's　been　in　the　store　no　more　than　a　minute；　the　night　seems　markedly　colder　than　it　was　when　he　went　inside。　Invigorating。　He　catches　the　fragrance　of　pine　trees　and　spruce…even　fir　from　far　to　the　north…inhales　the　sweet　greenness　of　the　heavily　timbered　hills　behind　him；　detects　the　crisp　scent　of　oning　rain；　smells　the　ozone　of　lightning　bolts　not　yet　hurled；　breathes　in　the　pungent　fear　of　small　animals　that　already　quake　in　the　fields　and　forests　in　anticipation　of　the　storm。
　After　she　was　certain　that　he　had　left　the　motor　home；　Chyna　crept　forward　through　the　vehicle；　holding　the　butcher　knife　in　front　of　her。
　The　windows　in　the　dining　area　and　the　lounge　were　curtained；　so　she　was　not　able　to　see　what　lay　outside。　At　the　front；　however；　the　windshield　revealed　that　they　had　stopped　at　a　service　station。
　She　had　no　idea　where　the　killer　was。　He　had　left　no　more　than　a　minute　earlier。　He　might　be　outside；　within　a　few　feet　of　the　door。
　She　hadn't　heard　him　removing　the　gas　cap　or　jacking　the　pump　nozzle　into　the　tank。　But　from　the　way　they　were　parked；　fuel　was　evidently　taken　on　board　from　the　starboard　side；　so　that　was　most　likely　where　he　would　be。
　Reluctant　to　proceeced　without　knowing　his　exact　whereabouts；　but　even　more　afraid　to　remain　in　the　motor　home；　she　slipped　into　the　driver's　seat。　The　headlights　were　off；　and　the　instrument　panel　was　dark；　but　there　was　enough　backglow　from　the　dining　nook　lamp　to　make　her　supremely　visible　from　outside。
　At　the　next　island；　a　Pontiac　pulled　away　from　the　pumps。　Its　red　taillights　swiftly　dwindled。
　As　far　as　she　could　see；　the　motor　home　was　now　the　only　vehicle　at　the　station。
　The　keys　weren't　in　the　ignition。　She　wouldn't　have　tried　to　drive　off　anyway。　That　had　been　an　option　back　in　the　vineyard；　when　there　had　been　no　help　nearby。　Here；　there　must　be　employees…and　whoever　pulled　off　the　highway　next。
　She　cracked　the　door；　wincing　at　the　hard　sound；　jumped　out；　and　stumbled　when　she　hit　the　ground。　The　butcher　knife　popped　from　her　hand　as　if　greased；　clattered　against　the　pavement；　and　spun　away。
　Certain　that　she　had　drawn　the　killer's　attention　and　that　he　was　already　bearing　down　on　her；　Chyna　scrambled　to　her　feet。　She　spun　left；　then　right；　with　her　hands　out　in　front　of　her　in　pathetic　defense。　But　the　eater　of　spiders　was　nowhere　to　be　seen　on　the　brightly　lighted　blacktop。
　She　pressed　the　door　shut；　searched　the　surrounding　pavement　for　the　knife；　couldn't　immediately　spot　it…and　froze　when　a　man　came　out　of　the　station　about　fifty　or　sixty　feet　away。　He　was　wearing　a　long　coat；　so　at　first　Chyna　was　sure　that　he　couldn't　be　the　killer；　but　then　immediately　she　recalled　the　inexplicable　rustling　of　fabric　to　which　she　had　listened　before　he　had　left　the　motor　home；　and　she　knew。
　The　only　place　to　hide　was　behind　one　of　the　pumps　at　the　next　service　island；　but　that　was　thirty　feet　away；　between　her　and　the　store；　with　a　lot　of　bright　exposed　pavement　to　cross。　Besides；　he　was　approaching　the　same　island　from　the　other　side；　and　he　would　reach　it　first；　catching　her　in　the　open。
　If　she　tried　to　get　around　the　motor　home；　he　would　spot　her　and　wonder　where　she　had　e　from。　His　psychosis　probably　included　a　measure　of　paranoia；　and　he　would　assume　that　she　had　been　in　his　vehicle。　He　woul