dk.intensity-第17章

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when　the　final　curtain　falls　on　a　perfect　performance　and　when　the　wild　applause　begins；　a　sense　of　triumph　but　also　a　solemn　awareness　of　eternity　suspended　like　a　cold　droplet　at　the　point　of　a　melting　icicle。　With　the　screaming　done　and　the　blood　pooled　in　stillness；　Edgler　Vess　is　better　able　to　appreciate　the　effects　of　his　bold　actions　and　to　relish　the　quiet　intensity　of　death。
　Finally　he　leaves　the　store。　Using　the　tagged　key　that　he　took　from　the　pegboard；　he　locks　the　door。
　At　the　corner　of　the　building　is　one　public　telephone。　With　its　armored　cord；　the　handset　isn't　easily　tom　loose；　so　he　hammers　it　against　the　phone　box　five；　ten；　twenty　times；　until　the　plastic　cracks；　revealing　the　microphone。　He　tears　the　mike　out　of　the　broken　mouthpiece；　drops　it　on　the　pavement；　and　methodically　crushes　it　under　his　boot　heel。　Then　he　hangs　the　useless　handset　on　the　switch　hook　again。
　His　work　here　is　done。　Although　satisfying；　this　interlude　was　unexpected；　it　has　put　him　behind　schedule。
　He　has　much　driving　to　do。　He　is　not　tired。　He　had　slept　all　the　previous　afternoon　and　well　into　the　evening；　before　visiting　the　Templetons。　Nevertheless；　he　is　loath　to　waste　more　time。　He　longs　to　be　home。
　Far　to　the　north；　sheets　of　lightning　flutter　softly　between　dense　layers　of　clouds；　pulses　rather　than　bolts。　Vess　is　pleased　by　the　prospect　of　a　big　storm。　Here　at　ground　level；　where　life　is　lived；　tumult　and　turmoil　are　fundamental　elements　of　the　human　climate；　and　for　reasons　that　he　cannot　understand；　he　is　unfailingly　reassured　by　the　sight　of　violence　in　higher　realms　as　well。　Though　he　fears　nothing；　he　is　sometimes　inexplicably　disturbed　by　the　sight　of　serene　skies…whether　blue　or　overcast…and　often　on　a　clear　night　when　the　sky　is　deep　with　stars；　he　prefers　not　to　gaze　into　that　immensity。
　Now　no　stars　are　visible。　Above　lie　only　sullen　masses　of　clouds　harried　by　a　cold　wind；　briefly　veined　with　lightning；　pregnant　with　a　deluge。
　Vess　hurries　across　the　blacktop　toward　the　motor　home；　eager　to　resume　his　journey　northward；　to　meet　the　promised　storm；　to　find　that　best　place　in　the　night　where　the　lightning　will　e　in　great　shattering　bolts；　where　a　harder　wind　will　crack　trees；　where　rain　will　fall　in　destructive　floods。
　Crouching　at　the　end　of　the　shelf　row；　Chyna　had　listened　to　the　door　open　and　close；　not　daring　to　believe　that　the　killer　had　left　at　last　and　that　her　ordeal　might　be　over。　Breath　held；　she'd　waited　for　the　sound　of　the　door　opening　again　and　for　his　footsteps　as　he　reentered。
　When　she　had　heard；　instead；　the　key　scraping…clicking　in　the　lock　and　the　deadbolt　snapping　into　place；　she　had　gone　forward　along　the　middle　of　the　three　aisles；　staying　low；　cat…quiet　because　she　expected；　superstitiously；　that　he　might　hear　the　slightest　sound　even　from　outside。
　A　violent　hammering；　reverberating　through　the　building　walls；　had　brought　her　to　a　sudden　halt　at　the　head　of　the　aisle。　He　was　pounding　furiously　on　something；　but　she　couldn't　imagine　what　it　might　be。
　When　the　hammering　stopped；　Chyna　hesitated；　then　rose　from　her　crouch　and　leaned　around　the　end　of　the　shelves。　She　looked　to　the　right；　past　the　first　aisle；　toward　the　glass　door　and　the　windows　at　the　front　of　the　store。
　With　the　outside　lights　off；　the　service　islands　lay　in　murk　as　deep　as　that　on　any　river　bottom。
　She　could　not　at　first　see　the　killer；　who　was　at　one　with　the　night　in　his　black　raincoat。　But　then　he　moved；　wading　through　the　darkness　toward　the　motor　home。
　Even　if　he　glanced　back；　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　see　her　in　the　dimly　lighted　store。　Her　heart　thundered　anyway　as　she　stepped　into　the　open　area　between　the　heads　of　the　three　aisles　and　the　cashiers'　counter。
　The　photograph　of　Ariel　was　no　longer　on　the　floor。　She　wished　that　she　could　believe　it　had　never　existed。
　At　the　moment；　the　two　employees　who　had　kept　the　secret　of　her　presence　were　more　important　than　Ariel　or　the　killer。　The　roar　of　the　shotgun　and　the　sudden　cessation　of　the　soul…shriveling　screams　had　convinced　her　that　they　were　dead。　But　she　must　be　sure。　If　one　of　them　clung　miraculously　to　life；　and　if　she　could　get　help　for　himpolice　and　paramedics…she　would　partially　redeem　herself。
　She　had　been　unable　to　do　anything　to　stop　the　blood…loving　bastard；　she　had　only　cowered　out　of　his　sight；　praying　frantically　for　invisibility。　Now　nausea　rolled　like　a　slop　of　chilled　oysters　in　her　stomach…and　at　the　same　time　she　was　lifted　by　a　sickening　exhilaration　that　she　had　lived　when　so　many　others　had　died。　Understandable　though　it　was；　the　exhilaration　shamed　her；　and　for　herself　as　well　as　for　the　two　clerks；　she　hoped　that　she　could　still　save　them。
　She　pushed　through　the　gate　in　the　counter；　and　the　piercing　creak　of　a　hinge　scraped　the　hollows　of　her　bones。
　A　gooseneck　lamp　provided　some　light。　The　two　men　were　on　the　floor。　
　〃Ah；〃　she　said。　And　then：　〃God。〃　
　They　were　beyond　her　help；　and　immediately　she　turned　awayy　from　them；　her　vision　blurring。
　On　the　counter；　directly　under　the　lamp；　lay　a　revolver。　She　stared　at　it　in　disbelief；　blinking　back　tears。
　Evidently　it　had　belonged　to　one　of　the　clerks。　She'd　overheard　the　conversation　between　the　killer　and　the　two　men；　and　she　vaguely　recalled　a　harsh　admonition　that　might　have　been　a　warning　to　drop　a　gun。　This　gun。
　She　grabbed　it；　held　it　in　both　hands…a　weight　that　buoyed　her。　If　the　killer　returned；　she　was　ready；　no　longer　helpless；　for　she　knew　how　to　use　guns。　Some　of　her　mother's　craziest　friends　had　been　expert　with　weaponry；　hate…filled　people　with　a　queer　brightness　in　the　eyes　that　was　a　sign　of　drug　use　in　some　cases　but　that　was　visible　in　others　only　when　they　spoke　passionately　about　their　deep　mitment　to　truth　and　justice。　On　an　isolated　farm　in　Montana；　when　Chyna　was　only　twelve；　a　woman　named　Doreen　and　a　man　named　Kirk　had　instructed　her　in　the　use　of　a　pistol；　although　her　slender　arms　had　jumped　wildly　with　the　recoil。　Patiently　teaching　her　control；　they　had　said　that　someday　she　would　be　a　true　soldier　and　a　credit　to　the　movement。
　Chyna　had　wanted　to　learn　about　firearms　not　to　use　them　in　one　noble　cause　or　another　but　to　protect　herself　from　those　people　in　her　mother's　strange　circles　who　succumbed　to　drug…enhanced　rages…or　who　stared　at　her　with　a　sick　desire。　She　had　been　too　young　to　want　their　attention；　too　self…respecting　to　encourage　them…but　thanks　to　her　mother；　she　had　not　been　too　innocent　to　understand　what　some　of　them　wanted　to　do　with　her。
　Now；　with　the　dead　clerk's　revolver　in　hand；　she　turned　and　saw　the　shattered　telephone。　〃Shit。〃
　She　hurried　back　through　the　gate；　into　the　public　part　of　the　store；　directly　to　the　front　door。
　The　motor　home　was　still　parked　on　this　side　of　the　farther　of　the　two　service　islands。　The　headlights　were　off。
　The　killer　was　not　in　sight　at　first…but　then　he　walked　into　view　around　the　back　of　the　motor　home；　his　unbuttoned　coat　flaring　like　a　cape　in　the　wind。
　Although　the　man　was　about　sixty　feet　away；　surely　he　couldn't　see　her　at　the　door。　He　wasn't　even　looking　in　her　direction；　but　Chyna　took　a　step　backward。
　Apparently　he　had　been　racking　the　hose　at　the　gasoline　pump　and　capping　the　fuel　tank。　He　walked　alongside　the　vehicle　toward　the　driver's　door。
　She　had　planned　to　telephone　the　police　and　tell　them　that　the　killer　was　headed　north　on　Highway　i　o　i。　Now；　by　the　time　she　got　to　a　phone；　called　the　cops；　and　made　them　understand　the　situation；　he　might　have　as　much　as　an　hour's　lead。　Within　an　hour；　he　would　have　several　choices　of　other　routes　that　branched　off　ioi。　He　might　continue　north　toward　Oregon；　turn　east　toward　Nevada…or　even　angle　West　to　the　coast；　thereafter　turning　south　again　along　the　Pacific　and　into　San　Francisco；　vanishing　in　the　urban　maze。　The　more　miles　he　traveled　before　an　all…points　bulletin　went　out　for　him；　the　harder　he　would　be　to　find。　He　would　soon　be　in　another　police　agency's　jurisdiction；　first　a　different　county　and　perhaps　eventually　a　different　state；　plicating　the　search　for　him。
　And　now　that　she　thought　about　it；　Chyna　realized　that　she　had　precious　little　information　that　would　be　helpful　to　the　cops。　The　motor　home　might　be　blue　or　green；　she　wasn't　sure　which…or　even　if　it　was　either…because　she'd　seen　it　only　in　the　darkness　and　then　in　the　color…distorting　yellow　glow　of　the　service　station's　sodium…vapour　lights。　She　didn't　know　the　make　of　it　either；　and　she　hadn't　seen　the　license　plate。
　He　was　getting　away。　Unhurried；　clearly　confident　that　he　was　in　no　imminent　danger　of　discovery；　he　climbed　into　the　motor　home　and　pulled　shut　the　driver's　door。
　He　is　going　to　get　away。　Yesus。　No；　intolerable；　unthinkable。　He　can't　be　allowed　to　get　away；　neverpayfor　what　he　did　to　Laura；　to　all　of　them　worse；　have　a　chance　to　do　it　again。　No；　God；　please；　let　me　drop　the　hateful　rotten　fucking　bastard　with　a　shot　in　the　head。
　She　stepped　close　to　the　door　again。　It　could　be　unlocked　only　with　a　key。　She　didn't　have　a　key。
　She　heard　the　motor…home　engine　turn　over。
　If　she　shot　out　the　glass；　he　would　hear。　Even　over　the　roar　of　the　engine　and　from　a　distance；　he　would　hear。
　Once　through　the　door；　she　would　be　too　far　away　to　shoot　him。　Fifty　or　sixty　feet；　at　night；　with　a　handgun；　the　gasoline　pumps　intervening。　No　way。　She　had　to　get　close；　right　up　against　the　motor　home；　put　the　muzzle　to　the　window。
　But　if　he　heard　her　shoot　her　way　through　the　locked　door　and　saw　her　ing　out　of　the　store；　she　wouldn't　have　a　chance　to　get　close　to　him；　not　in　a　million　years；　and　then　he　would　be　stalking　her　again；　across　the　service…station　property；　wherever　she　went；　and　his　shotgun　was　better　armament　than　her　revolver。
　Out　at　the　motor　home；　he　switched　on　the　headlights。　〃No。〃　She　ran　to　the　gate　in　the　counter；　shoved　through　it；　stepped　around　the　dead　men；　and　went　to　the　door　in　the　back　wall。
　There　had　to　be　a　rear　entrance。　Both　practical　function　and　fire　codes　would　require　it。
　The　door　opened　onto　blackness。　As　far　as　she　could　tell；　there　were　no　windows　ahead　of　her。　Maybe　it　was　only　a　supply　closet　or　a　bathroom。　She　stepped　across　the　threshold；　closed　the　door　behind　her　to　prevent　light　from　leaking　into　the　store；　felt　along　the　wall　to　her　left；　found　a　switch；　and　risked　turning　on　the　lights。
　She　was　in　a　cramped　office。　On　the　Jesk　was　another　shattered　telephone。
　Directly　across　the　room　from　the　door　that　she　had　just　used　was　another　door。　No　obvious　lock。　That　would　be　a　bathroom。
　To　her　left；　in　the　back　wall　of　the　building；　a　metal　door　featured　a　pair　of　over…and…under　deadbolts　with　thumb…tums。　She　disengaged　the　locks　and　opened　the　door；　and　a　flood　tide　of　cold　wind　washed　into　the　office。
　Behind　the　store　spread　a　twenty…foot…wide　paved　area；　and　then　a　steep　hillside　rose　with　serried　trees　that　were　black　in　the　night　and　restless　in　the　wind。　A　security　light　in　a　wire　cage　revealed　two　parked　cars；　which　probably　belonged　to　the　clerks。
　I　Cursing　the　killer；　Chyna　turned　to　the　right　and　sprinted　along　the　shorter　length　of　the　building；　around　the　er；　past　public　rest　rooms。　She　had　never　caused　anyone　physical　harm；　not　once　i