dk.intensity-第19章

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we　are　born　with　eyes　and　ears。　He　believes　that　the　soul；　if　real；　accretes　in　the　same　manner　as　a　coral　reef　grows　from　the　deposit　of　countless　millions　of　calcareous　skeletons　secreted　by　marine　polyps。　We　build　the　reef　of　the　soul；　however；　not　from　dead　polyps　but　from　steadily　accreted　sensations　through　the　course　of　a　lifetime。　In　Vess's　considered　opinion；　if　one　wishes　to　have　a　formidable　soul…or　any　soul　at　all…one　must　open　oneself　to　every　possible　sensation；　plunge　into　the　bottomless　ocean　of　sensory　stimuli　that　is　our　world；　and　experience　with　no　consideration　of　good　or　bad；　right　or　wrong；　with　no　fear　but　only　fortitude。　If　his　belief　is　correct；　then　he　himself　is　building　what　may　be　the　most　intricate；　elaborated　…　if　not　to　say　baroque…and　important　soul　that　has　ever　transcended　this　level　of　existence。
　The　Big　Lie　is　that　such　concepts　as　love；　guilt；　and　hate　are　real。　Put　Mr。　Vess　into　a　room　with　any　priest；　show　them　a　pencil；　and　they　will　agree　on　its　color；　size；　and　shape。　Blindfold　them；　hold　cinnamon　under　their　noses；　and　they　will　both　identify　it　from　the　smell。　But　bring　before　them　a　mother　cuddling　her　baby；　and　the　priest　will　see　love　where　Mr。　Vess　will　see　only　a　woman　who　enjoys　the　sensations　provided　by　the　infant…the　scrubbed　smell　of　it；　the　softness　of　its　pink　skin；　the　undeniably　pleasing　roundness　of　its　simply…formed　face；　the　musicality　of　its　giggle；　its　apparent　helplessness　and　dependence　deeply　satisfy　her。　The　greatest　curse　of　humanity's　high　intelligence　is　that；　in　most　members　of　the　species；　it　leads　to　a　yearning　to　be　more　than　they　are。　All　men　and　women；　in　Vess's　view；　are　fimdamentally　nothing　other　than　animals…smart　animals；　indeed；　but　animals　nonetheless；　reptiles；　in　fact；　evolved　from　whatever　fish　with　legs　first　crawled　out　of　the　primordial　sea。　They　are；　he　knows；　motivated　and　formed　solely　by　sensory　stimuli；　yet　unable　to　admit　to　the　primacy　of　physical　sensation　over　intellect　and　emotion。　They　are　even　frightened　of　the　reptile　consciousness　within；　its　needs　and　hungers；　and　they　attempt　to　restrict　its　sensation　seeking　by　using　lies　such　as　love；　guilt；　hate；　courage；　loyalty；　and　honor。
　This　is　the　philosophy　of　Mr。　Edgler　Vess。　He　embraces　his　reptilian　nature。　The　glory　of　him　is　to　be　found　in　his　unmatched　accretion　of　sensations。　This　is　a　finictional　philosophy；　requiring　its　adherent　to　endorse　neither　the　black…and…white　values　that　so　hamper　religious　persons　nor　the　embarrassing　contradictions　of　the　situational　ethics　that　characterize　both　the　modern　atheist　and　those　whose　religion　is　politics。
　Driving　north　on　Highway　101；　finishing　the　second　of　his　two　Hershey　bars；　Vess　considers；　not　for　the　first　time；　that　there　is　a　similarity　between　the　texture　of　melting　chocolate　and　that　of　thickening　blood。
　He　recalls　the　restful　silence　of　the　blood　pooled　around　Mrs。　Templeton　in　the　shower　stall　before　he　disturbed　it　by　turning　on　the　cold　water。
　The　memory　of　the　hollow　drumming　in　that　shower　makes　him　aware　of　the　coldness　of　all　the　rain　as　yet　unleashed　by　the　pending　storm　toward　which　he　is　driving。
　He　sees　a　quick　blush　of　lightning　along　the　face　of　the　clouds；　and　he　knows　that　it　tastes　like　ozone。
　Above　the　monotonous　rumble　of　the　motor…home　engine；　he　hears　a　peal　of　thunder；　and　that　sound　is　also　a　vivid　image　in　his　mind：　the　young　Asian's　eyes　opening　wide；　wide；　wide　with　the　first　crash　of　the　shotgun。
　Even　in　the　airless　void　between　galaxies：　the　light　and　the　darkness；　color；　texture；　motion；　shape；　and　pain。
　The　highway　rose；　and　the　forests　crowded　close。　On　a　wide　curve；　the　headlights　of　the　Honda　swept　across　the　flanking　hills；　revealing　that　some　of　the　looming　trees　were　immense　spruces　and　pines。　Soon；　perhaps；　redwoods。
　Chyna　kept　her　foot　down　hard　on　the　accelerator。　To　the　best　of　her　recollection；　this　was　the　first　time　she　had　ever　broken　a　speed　limit。　She'd　never　been　fined　for　a　traffic　violation；　but　she　would　be　grateful　now　if　a　cop　pulled　her　over。
　Her　unblemished　driving　record　resulted　ftom　her　preference　for　moderation　in　all　things；　including　the　pace　at　which　she　ordinarily　drove。　judging　by　the　catastrophes　that　she　had　seen　befall　others；　survival　was　closely　related　to　moderation；　and　her　whole　life　was　about　survival；　as　any　nun's　life　might　be　defined　by　the　word　faith　or　any　politician's　by　power　She　seldom　drank　more　than　one　glass　of　wine；　never　used　drugs；　engaged　in　no　dangerous　sports；　ate　a　diet　low　in　fat　and　salt　and　sugar；　stayed　out　of　neighborhoods　reputed　to　be　dangerous；　never　expressed　strong　opinions；　and　in　general　was　safely　inconspicuous…all　in　the　interest　of　getting　by；　hanging　on；　surviving。
　Against　the　odds；　she　had　already　survived　the　events　of　the　past　few　hours。　The　killer　didn't　even　know　that　she　existed。　She　had　made　it。　She　was　free。　It　was　over。　The　smart　thing；　the　wise　thing；　the　sane　thing…the　Chyna　thing…to　do　was　to　let　him　go；　just　let　him　get　away；　pull　off　to　the　side　of　the　road；　stop；　surrender　to　the　shakes　that　she　was　strenuously　repressing；　and　thank　God　that　she　was　untouched　and　alive。
　As　she　drove；　Chyna　argued　against　her　previous　conviction；　insisting　that　the　teenage　girl　in　the　cellar；　Ariel　of　the　angelic　face；　wasn't　real。　The　photo　might　be　of　a　girl　whom　he　had　already　killed。　The　story　of　her　incarceration　might　be　only　a　sick　fantasy；　a　psychotic's　version　of　a　Brothers　Grimm　tale；　Rapunzel　underground；　merely　a　mind　game　that　he'd　been　playing　with　the　two　clerks。　〃Liar；〃　she　called　herself。
　The　girl　in　the　photo　was　alive　somewhere；　imprisoned。　Ariel　was　no　fantasy。　Indeed；　she　was　Chyna；　they　were　one　and　the　same；　because　all　lost　girls　are　the　same　girl；　united　by　their　suffering。
　She　kept　her　foot　pressed　firmly　on　the　accelerator；　and　the　Honda　crested　a　hill；　and　the　aged　motor　home　was　on　the　long　gradual　downslope　ahead；　five　hundred　feet　away。　Her　breath　caught　in　her　throat；　and　then　she　exhaled　with　a　whispered；　〃Ob；　Yesus。〃
　She　was　approaching　him　at　too　great　a　speed。　She　eased　off　the　accelerator。
　By　the　time　she　was　two　hundred　feet　from　the　motor　home；　she　had　matched　speeds　with　it。　She　fell　back　farther；　hoping　that　he　hadn't　noticed　her　initial　haste。
　He　was　driving　between　fifty　and　fifty…five　miles　per　hour；　a　prudent　pace　on　that　highway；　especially　as　they　were　now　traveling　on　a　stretch　without　a　median　strip　and　with　somewhat　narrower　lanes　than　previously。　He　wouldn't　necessarily　expect　her　to　pass　him；　and　he　shouldn't　be　suspicious　when　she　remained　behind；　after　all；　at　this　sleepy　hour；　not　every　driver　in　California　was　in　a　blistering　hurry　or　suicidally　reckless。
　At　this　more　reasonable　speed；　she　didn't　have　to　concentrate　as　intently　as　before　on　the　road　ahead；　and　she　quickly　searched　the　immediate　interior　of　the　car　in　hopes　of　finding　a　cellular　telephone。　She　was　pessimistic　about　the　chances　that　a　night　clerk　at　a　service　station　would　have　a　portable　phone；　but　on　the　other　hand；　half　the　world　seemed　to　have　them　now；　not　just　salesmen　and　Realtors　and　lawyers。　She　checked　the　console　box。　Then　the　glove　box。　Under　the　driver's　seat。　Unfortunately；　her　pessimism　proved　well　founded。
　Southbound　traffic　passed　in　the　oning　lanes：　a　big　rig　with　a　lead…footed　driver；　a　Mercedes　close　in　its　wake…then；　following　a　long　gap；　a　Ford。　Chyna　paid　special　attention　to　the　cars；　hoping　that　one　of　them　would　be　a　police　cruiser。
　If　she　spotted　a　cop；　she　intended　to　get　his　attention　with　the　car　horn　and　by　making　a　weaving　spectacle　of　herself　in　his　rearview　mirror。　If　she　was　too　late　with　the　horn　and　if　the　cop　didn't　look　back　and　catch　a　glimpse　of　her　reckless　slalom；　she　would　turn　and　pursue　him；　reluctantly　letting　the　motor　home　out　of　her　sight。
　She　wasn't　hopeful　about　finding　a　cop　anytime　soon。　All　the　luck　seemed　to　be　with　the　killer。　He　conducted　himself　with　a　confidence　that　unnerved　Chyna。　Perhaps　that　confidence　was　the　only　guarantor　of　his　good　luck…although　even　for　one　as　rooted　in　reality　as　Chyna；　it　was　easy　to　let　superstition　overwhelm　her；　attributing　to　him　powers　dark　and　supernatural。
　No。　He　was　only　a　man。
　And　now　she　had　a　revolver。　She　was　no　longer　helpless。　The　worst　was　past。
　Lightning　traveled　the　northern　sky　again；　but　this　time　it　was　not　pale　or　diffused　through　cloud　layers。　The　bolts　were　as　bright　as；　though　the　naked　sun　were　breaking　through　from　the　other　side　of　the　night。
　In　those　stroboscopic　flashes；　the　motor　home　seemed　to　vibrate；　as　if　divine　wrath　would　shatter　it　and　its　driver。
　In　this　world；　however；　retribution　was　left　to　mortal　men　and　women。　God　was　content　to　wait　for　the　next　life　to　mete　out　punishment；　in　Chyna's　view；　this　was　His　only　cruel　aspect；　but　in　this　was　cruelty　enough。
　Explosions　of　thunder　followed　the　lightning。　Although　something　above　should　have　broken；　nothing　did；　and　the　rain　remained　bottled　higher　in　the　night。
　She　hoped　to　spot　a　sign　for　a　highway　patrol　depot；　where　she　could　seek　help；　but　none　appeared。　The　nearest　town　of　appreciable　size；　where　she　might　be　fortunate　enough　to　find　a　police　station　or　a　cruising　squad　car；　was　Eureka；　which　was　hardly　a　metropolis。　And　even　Eureka　was　at　least　an　hour　away。
　As　a　child；　flat　under　beds　and　curled　in　the　backs　of　closets；　perched　on　rooftops　and　balanced　in　the　upper　reaches　of　trees；　in　winter　barns　and　on　warm　night　beaches；　she　had　hidden　and　waited　out　the　passions　and　the　rages　of　adults；　always　with　dread　but　also　with　patience　and　with　a　Zen…like　disconnection　from　the　realities　of　time。　Now　impatience　plagued　her　as　never　before。　She　wanted　to　see　this　man　caught；　manacled；　harried　to　justice；　hurt。　Desperately　she　wanted　this　and　without　a　single　additional　minute　of　delay；　hefore　he　could　kill　again。　Her　own　survival　wasn't　currently　at　stake　but　that　of　a　teenage　girl　whom　she　had　never　met；　and　she　was　surprised…and　made　uneasy　to　discover　that　she　could　care　so　ferociously　about　a　stranger。
　Perhaps　she　had　always　possessed　that　capacity　and　simply　had　never　been　in　a　situation　that　required　recognition　of　it。　But　no。　That　was　self…deception。　Ten　years　ago；　she　would　never　have　followed　the　motor　home。　Nor　five　years　ago。　Nor　last　year。　Perhaps　not　even　yesterday。
　Something　had　profoundly　changed　her；　and　it　hadn't　been　the　brutality　that　she'd　seen　a　few　hours　earlier　at　the　Templeton　house。　Viscerally　she　was　aware　that　this　unsettling　metamorphosis　had　been　a　long　time　ing；　like　the　slow　alteration　in　a　river's　course…by　im…I　perceptible　fractions　of　a　degree；　day　after　day。　Then　suddenly　mere　survival　was　not　enough　for　her　any　longer；　the　final　palisade　of　soil　crumbled；　the　last　stone　shifted；　and　the　destination　of　the　river　changed。
　She　frightened　herself。　This　reckless　caring。　More　lightning；　more　ferocious　than　before；　revealed　redwood　trees　so　massive　that　they　reminded　her　of　cathedral　spires。　The　steepleshattering　light　was　followed　by　quakes　of　thunder　as　violent　as　any　shift　in　the　San　Andreas。　The　sky　fissured；　and　rain　fell。
　In　the　first　instant；　the　drops　were　fat　and　milky　white　in　the　headlights；　as　if　the