dk.intensity-第18章

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　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　in　her　life；　but　she　was　ready　to　kill　now；　and　she　knew　that　she　could　do　it　without　hesitation；　with　no　thought　of　mercy；　with　a　vengeance；　because　be　had　empowered　her　to　do　it。　This　was　what　he　had　reduced　her　to…this　blind；　animal　fury…and　the　worst　thing　was　that　it　felt　good；　this　rage；　so　good　in　parison　to　the　fear　and　helplessness　she　had　endured；　a　sweet　singing　of　rushing　blood　in　the　veins　and　an　exhilarating　sense　of　savage　strength。　She　should　have　been　appalled　at　the　lust　for　blood　that　seized　her；　but　she　liked　it；　and　she　knew　that　she　would　like　it　even　more　when　she　caught　up　with　the　motor　home　and　shot　him　through　the　driver's…side　window；　pulled　open　the　door　and　shot　him　again　where　he　sat　bleeding；　dragged　him　out　and　let　him　sprawl　on　the　pavement　and　emptied　the　revolver　into　him　until　he　could　never　again　go　hunting。
　She　rounded　the　second　corner　and　reached　the　front　of　the　building。
　The　motor　home　was　pulling　away　from　the　pumps。　She　raced　after　it；　faster　than　she　had　ever　run　in　her　life；　cleaving　a　resistant　wind　that　stung　new　tears　from　her　eyes；　shoes　pounding　noisily　on　the　blacktop。
　Now　it　was　Dear　Lord；　let　me　catch　him　instead　of　Dear　Lord；　let　me　get　awayfrom　him；　and　now　it　was　Dear　Lord；　let　me　kill　him　instead　of　Dear　Lord；　don't　let　him　kill　me。
　The　motor　home　picked　up　speed。　It　was　already　out　of　the　service　area；　entering　the　eighth…of…a…mile　lane　that　would　take　it　back　onto　the　highway。
　She　would　never　be　able　to　catch　it。
　He　was　getting　away。　She　halted　and　planted　her　feet　wide　apart。　The　revolver　was　in　her　right　hand。　She　raised　it；　gripped　it　with　both　hands；　arms　extended；　elbows　locked。　Shooter's　stance。　Every　good　girl　should　know　it；　e　the　revolution。
　Her　heart　didn't　merely　beat；　it　crashed；　and　every　explosive　pump　shook　her　arms；　so　she　couldn't　hold　the　revolver　on　target。　The　motor　home　was　too　distant　anyway。　She'd　miss　it　by　yards。　And　even　if　she　got　lucky　and　put　one　round　in　the　back　wall；　it　would　be　nowhere　near　the　driver。　He　was　out　of　her　reach；　beyond　harm；　cruising　away。
　It　was　over。　She　could　go　for　help；　find　the　nearest　working　phone；　call　the　local　police；　and　try　to　cut　his　lead　time　as　short　as　possiblebut　for　now　and　here；　it　was　over。
　Except　that　it　wasn't　over；　and　she　knew　it　wasn't；　no　matter　how　much　she　wanted　to　be　finished　with　it；　because　she　said　aloud；　〃Ariel。〃
　Sixteen。　Prettiest　thing　this　side　ofparadise。　Pure　angel。　Porcelain　skin。　Breathtaking。　Locked　in　the　basement　for　a　year　Never　touched　her　that　way。　Waiting　for　her　to　ripen；　get　just　a　little　sweeter　In　Chyna's　mind's　eye；　the　Polaroid　photograph　of　Ariel　was　as　clear　and　detailed　as　it　had　been　when　she'd　held　it　in　her　hand。　That　bland　expression；　maintained　with　obvious　effort。　Those　eyes；　brimming　with　anguish。
　Earlier；　listening　to　the　conversation　between　the　killer　and　the　two　clerks；　Chyna　had　known　that　he　was　not　merely　playing　games　with　them；　that　he　was　telling　the　truth。　The　creep　was　letting　them　in　on　his　secrets；　admitting　his　perverse　crimes；　getting　a　kick　out　of　revealing　his　guilt　because　he　knew　that　they　were　going　to　die　and　that　they　would　never　have　a　chance　to　repeat　his　admissions　to　anyone。　Even　if　she'd　never　seen　the　photograph；　she　would　have　known。
　Ariel。　Those　eyes。　The　anguish。　While　she　had　been　concentrating　on　her　own　survival；　Chyna　had　blocked　all　thoughts　of　the　captive　girl　from　her　mind。　And　when　she　had　found　the　revolver；　she　had　at　once　convinced　herself　that　all　she　wanted　was　to　kill　this　son　of　a　bitch；　blow　his　brains　out；　because　the　truth　was　something　that　she　hadn't　quite　been　able　to　face。
　The　truth　had　been　that　she　didn't　dare　kill　him；　because　when　he　was　dead；　they　might　never　find　Ariel…or　find　her　days　too　late；　after　she　had　died　of　starvation　or　thirst　in　her　basement　cell。　He　might　have　the　girl　locked　under　his　house；　which　they　would　probably　be　able　to　locate　from　whatever　identification　he　was　carrying；　but　he　might　have　stashed　her　elsewhere；　in　a　place　remote；　to　which　he　and　only　he　could　lead　them。　Chyna　had　pursued　the　killer　to　disable　him；　so　the　cops　would　be　able　to　wrench　from　him　the　location　at　which　Ariel　was　being　held。　If　she　could　have　caught　up　with　the　motor　home；　she　would　have　tried　to　yank　open　the　driver's　door；　shoot　the　vicious　bastard　in　the　leg　as　she　ran　alongside；　wound　him　badly　enough　that　he　would　have　to　stop　the　vehicle。　But　she'd　had　to　hide　that　truth　from　herself　because　trying　to　wound　him　was　a　lot　riskier　than　going　for　a　head　shot　through　the　window；　and　she　might　not　have　had　the　courage　to　run　so　fast　and　try　so　hard　if　she　had　admitted　to　herself　what；　in　fact；　had　needed　to　be　done。
　With　its　burden　of　corpses；　with　its　driver　whose　name　might　well　be　Legion；　the　big　motor　home　dwindled　down　the　service　road　toward　Highway　101；　quite　literally　Hell　on　wheels。
　Somewhere　he　had　a　house；　and　under　the　house　was　a　basement；　and　in　the　basement　was　a　sixteen…year…old　girl　named　Ariel；　held　prisoner　for　a　year；　untouched　but　soon　to　be　violated；　alive　but　not　for　long。　〃She's　real；〃　Chyna　whispered　to　the　wind。
　The　taillights　receded　into　the　night。　She　frantically　surveyed　the　lonely　stretch　of　countryside。　She　was　unable　to　see　help　in　any　direction。　No　house　lights　in　the　immediate　vicinity。　Just　trees　and　darkness。　Something　glowed　faintly　to　the　north；　beyond　a　hill　or　two；　but　she　didn't　know　the　source；　and　anyway　she　couldn't　get　that　far　quickly　on　foot。
　On　the　highway；　a　truck　appeared　from　the　south　behind　a　blaze　of　headlights；　but　it　didn't　pull　off　to　tank　up　at　the　shuttered　service　station。　It　shrieked　past；　the　driver　oblivious　of　Chyna。
　The　lumbering　motor　home　was　almost　to　the　far　end　of　the　connecting　road。
　Sobbing　with　frustration；　with　anger；　with　fear　for　the　girl　whom　she　had　never　met；　and　with　despair　for　her　own　culpability　if　that　girl　died；　Chyna　turned　away　from　the　motor　home。　Hurried　past　the　gasoline　pumps。　Around　the　building；　back　the　way　she　had　e。
　Throughout　her　own　childhood；　no　one　had　ever　held　out　a　hand　to　her。　No　one　had　ever　cared　that　she　was　trapped；　frightened；　and　helpless。
　Now；　when　she　thought　of　the　Polaroid　snapshot；　the　image　was　like　one　of　those　holograms　that　changed　depending　on　the　angle　at　which　it　was　viewed。　Sometimes　it　was　Ariel's　face；　but　sometimes　it　was　Chyna's　own。
　As　she　ran；　she　prayed　that　she　wouldn't　have　to　go　inside　again。　And　search　the　bodies。
　Distant　lightning　flickered；　and　faraway　thunder　clattered　like　boot　heels　on　hollow　basement　stairs。　On　the　steep　hills　behind　the　building；　black　trees　thrashed　in　the　escalating　wind。
　The　first　car　was　a　white　Chevrolet。　Ten　years　old。　Unlocked。　When　she　scrambled　in　behind　the　steering　wheel；　the　wom…out　seat　springs　creaked；　and　a　candy…bar　wrapper　or　something　crackled　underfoot。　The　interior　stank　of　stale　cigarette　smoke。
　The　keys　were　not　in　the　ignition。　She　checked　behind　the　sun　visor。　Under　the　driver's　seat。　Nothing。
　The　second　car　was　a　Honda；　newer　than　the　Chevy。　It　smelled　of　a　lemon…scented　air　freshener；　and　the　keys　were　in　a　coin　tray　on　the　console。
　She　placed　the　revolver　on　the　passenger　seat；　within　easy　reach；　reluctant　to　let　it　out　of　her　hand。　As　an　adult；　she　had　always　relied　on　prudence　and　caution　to　stay　out　of　harm's　way。　She　hadn't　held　a　gun　since　she'd　walked　out　on　her　mother　at　the　age　of　sixteen。　Now　she　could　not　imagine　living　without　a　weapon　at　her　side；　and　she　doubted　that　she　ever　would　do　so　again…which　was　a　development　that　dismayed　her。
　The　engine　turned　over　at　once。　The　tires　shrieked；　and　she　peeled　rubber　getting　started。　Smoke　bloomed　from　the　spinning　wheels；　but　then　she　shot　out　from　behind　the　building　and　rocketed　past　the　service　islands。
　The　connecting　road　to　the　freeway　was　deserted。　The　motor　home　was　out　of　sight。
　At　this　point；　ioi　was　a　four…lane　divided　highway；　so　the　motor　home　couldn't　have　gotten　across　the　median　to　turn　south。　The　killer　had　to　have　gone　north；　and　he　couldn't　have　traveled　far　in　the　little　lead　time　that　he　had。
　Chyna　went　after　him。
　At　four　o'clock　in　the　morning；　oning　traffic　is　sparse；　but　each　set　of　headlights　purls　through　the　fine　hairs　in　Edgler　Vess's　ears。　This　is　a　pleasant　sound；　separate　from　the　passing　roar　of　engines　and　the　Doppler…shift　whine　of　other　vehicles'　tires　on　the　pavement。
　As　he　drives；　he　eats　one　of　the　Hershey　bars。　The　silkiness　of　melting　chocolate　on　his　tongue　reminds　him　of　the　music　of　Angelo　Badalamenti；　and　the　music　of　Badalamenti　brings　to　mind　the　waxy　surface　of　a　scarlet　anthurium；　and　the　anthurium　sparks　an　intensely　sensual　recollection　of　the　cool　taste　and　crispness　of　cornichons；　which　for　several　seconds　pletely　overwhelms　the　actual　taste　of　the　chocolate。
　Listening　to　the　murmur　of　oning　headlights；　engaged　in　this　free　association　of　sensory　input　and　memory；　Vess　is　a　happy　man。　He　experiences　life　far　more　intensely　than　do　other　people；　he　is　a　singularity。　Because　his　mind　is　not　cluttered　with　foolishness　and　false　emotions；　he　is　able　to　perceive　what　others　cannot。　He　understands　the　nature　of　the　world；　the　purpose　of　existence；　and　the　truth　behind　the　Big　Lie；　because　of　these　insights；　he　is　free；　and　because　he　is　free；　he　is　always　happy。
　The　nature　of　the　world　is　sensation。　We　drift　in　an　ocean　of　sensory　stimuli：　motion；　color；　texture；　shape；　heat；　cold；　natural　symphonies　of　sound；　an　infinite　number　of　scents；　tastes　beyond　the　human　ability　to　catalogue。　Nothing　but　sensation　endures。　Living　things　all　die。　Great　cities　do　not　last。　Metal　corrodes　and　stone　crumbles。　Over　eons；　continents　are　reshaped；　whole　mountain　ranges　vanish；　and　seas　run　dry。　The　planet　itself　will　be　vaporized　when　the　sun　self…destructs。　But　even　in　the　void　of　deep　space；　between　solar　systems；　in　that　profound　vacuum　that　will　not　transmit　soiind；　there　is　nevertheless　light　and　darkness；　cold；　motion；　shape；　and　the　awful　panorama　of　eternity。
　The　sole　purpose　of　existence　is　to　open　oneself　to　sensation　and　to　satisfy　all　appetites　as　they　arise。　Edgler　Vess　knows　that　there　is　no　such　thing　as　a　good　or　bad　sensation…only　raw　sensation　itself…and　that　every　sensory　experience　is　worthwhile。　Negative　and　positive　values　are　merely　human　interpretations　of　value…neutral　stimuli　and；　therefore；　are　only　as　enduring…which　is　to　say；　as　meaningless…as　human　beings　themselves。　He　enjoys　the　most　bitter　taste　as　much　as　he　relishes　the　sweetness　of　a　ripe　peach；　in　fact；　he　occasionally　chews　a　few　aspirin　not　to　relieve　a　headache　but　to　savor　the　inparable　flavor　of　the　medication。　When　he　accidentally　cuts　himself；　he　is　never　afraid；　because　he　finds　pain　fascinating　and　weles　it　as　merely　another　form　of　pleasure；　even　the　taste　of　his　own　blood　intrigues　him。
　Mr。　Vess　is　not　sure　if　there　is　such　a　thing　as　the　immortal　soul；　but　he　is　unshakably　certain　that　if　souls　exist；　we　are　not　born　with　them　in　the　same　way　that　we