dk.intensity-第26章

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the　Mossberg　shotgun　from　the　cabinet　in　the　kitchenette；　in　case　the　woman　searches　the　place　after　he　leaves。　He　switches　off　the　lights。
　When　he　descends　from　the　motor　home；　heedless　of　the　cold　rain；　the　three　big　dogs　e　to　him；　and　then　the　fourth　from　behind　the　vehicle。　All　are　quivering　with　excitement　at　his　return　but　still　holding　themselves　in　check；　not　wanting　to　be　thought　derelict　in　their　duty。
　Just　before　departing　on　this　expedition；　Mr。　Vess　had　placed　the　Dobermans　on　attack　status　by　speaking　the　name　Nietzsche。　They　will　remain　primed　to　kill　anyone　who　walks　onto　the　property　until　he　speaks　the　name　Seuss；　whereupon　they　will　be　as　affable　as　any　other　group　of　sociable　mutts…except；　of　course；　if　anyone　unwisely　threatens　their　master。
　After　propping　his　shotgun　against　the　side　of　the　motor　home；　he　holds　his　hands　out　to　the　dogs。　They　eagerly　crowd　around　to　sniff　his　fingers。　Sniffing；　panting；　licking；　licking；　yes；　yes；　they　have　missed　him　so　very　much。
　He　squats　on　his　haunches；　ing　down　to　their　level；　and　now　their　delight　is　uncontainable。　Their　ears　twitch；　and　shivers　of　pure　pleasure　pass　visibly　along　their　lean　flanks；　and　they　whine　softly　with　sheer　happiness；　jealously　pressing　all　at　once　at　him；　to　be　touched；　patted；　scratched。
　They　live　in　an　enormous　kennel　against　the　back　of　the　barn；　which　they　can　enter　and　leave　at　will。　It　is　electrically　heated　during　cold　weather　to　ensure　their　fort　and　their　continued　good　health。
　〃How　you　doing；　Liederkranz？　Tilsiter；　boy；　you　look　like　one　mean　sonofabitch。　Hey；　Limburger；　are　you　a　good　boy；　are　you　my　good　boy？〃
　Each；　at　the　mention　of　his　name；　is　filled　with　such　joy　that　he　would　roll　on　his　back　and　bare　his　belly　and　paw　the　air　and　grin　at　death…if　he　weren't　still　on　duty。　Part　of　the　fun　for　Vess　is　watching　the　struggle　between　training　and　nature　in　each　animal；　a　sweet　agony　that　makes　two　of　them　pee　in　nervous　frustration。
　Mr。　Vess　has　rigged　electrically　operated　dispensers　inside　the　kennel；　which　in　his　absence　automatically　pay　out　measured　portions　of　food　for　each　Doberman。　The　system　clock　has　a　backup　battery　to　continue　timing　meals　even　during　a　power　failure　of　short　duration。　In　the　event　of　a　long…term　loss　of　power；　the　dogs　can　always　resort　to　hunting　for　their　sustenance；　the　surrounding　meadows　are　full　of　field　mice　and　rabbits　and　squirrels；　and　the　Dobermans　are　fierce　predators。　Their　munal　water　trough　is　fed　by　a　drip　line；　but　if　it　should　ever　cease　to　function；　they　can　find　their　way　to　a　nearby　spring　that　runs　through　the　property。
　Most　of　Mr。　Vess's　expeditions　are　three…day　weekends；　rarely　as　long　as　five　days；　and　the　dogs　have　a　ten…day　food　supply　without　counting　rabbits；　mice；　and　squirrels。　They　constitute　an　efficient　and　reliable　security　system：　never　a　short　in　any　circuit；　never　a　failed　motion　detector；　never　a　corroded　magnetic　contact…and　never　a　false　alarm。
　Oh；　and　how　these　dogs　love　him；　how　unreservedly　and　loyally；　as　no　memory　chips　and　wires　and　cameras　and　infrared　heat　sensors　ever　could。　They　smell　the　bloodstains　on　his　jeans　and　denim　jacket；　and　they　push　their　sleek　heads　under　his　open　raincoat；　ears　laid　back；　sniffing　eagerly　now；　detecting　not　merely　the　blood　but　the　lingering　stench　of　terror　that　his　victims　exuded　when　in　his　hands；　their　pain；　their　helplessness；　the　sex　that　he　had　with　the　one　named　Laura。　This　m6lange　of　pungent　odors　not　only　excites　the　dogs　but　increases　their　respect　for　Vess。　They　have　been　taught　to　kill　not　merely　in　self…　defense；　not　just　for　food；　with　a　degree　of　iron　self…control；　they　have　been　taught　to　01　for　the　sheer　savage　pleasure　of　it；　to　please　their　master。　They　are　acutely　aware　that　their　master　can　match　their　savagery。　And　unlike　them；　he　has　never　needed　to　be　taught。　Their　high　regard　for　Edgler　Vess　soars　higher；　and　they　mewl　softly　and　quiver　and　roll　their　soulful　eyes　at　him　in　worshipful　awe。
　Mr。　Vess　gets　to　his　feet。　He　picks　up　the　shotgun　and　slams　the　door　of　the　motor　home。
　The　dogs　spring　to　his　side；　jostling　one　another　to　be　close　to　him；　alertly　surveying　the　rain…shrouded　day　for　any　threat　to　their　master。
　Quietly；　so　the　woman　inside　cannot　possibly　hear　the　word；　he　says；　〃Seuss。〃
　The　dogs　freeze；　looking　up　at　him；　heads　cocked。　〃Seuss；〃　he　repeats。　The　four　Dobermans　are　no　longer　on　attack　status　and　will　not　automatically　tear　to　pieces　anyone　who　enters　the　property。　They　shake　themselves；　as　if　casting　off　tension；　then　pad　around　in　a　vaguely　bewildered　fashion；　sniffing　at　the　grass　and　at　the　front　tires　of　the　motor　home。
　They　are　like　Mafia　hit　men　who；　following　their　own　executions；　have　now　regained　a　baffled　self…awareness　after　being　reincarnated；　only　to　discover　that　they　are　accountants　in　this　new　life。
　If　any　visitor　were　to　attempt　to　harm　their　master；　of　course；　they　would　leap　to　his　defense；　whether　or　not　he　had　time　to　shout　the　word　Nietzsche。　The　result　wouldn't　be　pretty。
　They　are　trained　first　to　tear　out　the　throat。　Then　they　will　bite　the　face　to　effect　maximum　terror　and　pain…go　for　the　eyes；　the　nose；　the　lips。　Then　the　crotch。　Then　the　belly。　They　won't　kill　and　turn　at　once　away；　they　will　be　busy　for　a　while　with　their　quarry；　after　they　have　brought　it　down；　until　no　doubt　exists　that　they　have　done　their　job。
　Even　a　man　with　a　shotgun　could　not　take　out　all　of　them　before　at　least　one　managed　to　sink　its　teeth　into　his　throat。　Gunfire　will　not　drive　them　away　or　even　make　them　flinch。　Nothing　can　frighten　them。　Most　likely；　the　hypothetical　man　with　the　shotgun　would　be　able　to　wipe　out　only　two　before　the　remaining　pair　overwhelmed　him。　
　〃Crib；〃　says　Mr。　Vess。
　This　single　word　instructs　the　dogs　to　go　to　their　kennel；　and　they　take　off　as　one；　sprinting　toward　the　barn。　Still；　they　do　not　bark；　for　he　has　schooled　them　in　silence。
　Ordinarily　he　would　allow　them　to　stay　with　him　and　enjoy　his　pany　and　spend　the　day　in　his　house　with　him　and　even　pile　up　like　a　black　and　tan　quilt　with　him　as　he　sleeps　away　the　afternoon。　He　would　cuddle　them　and　coo　to　them；　for　they　have　been；　after　all；　such　good　dogs。　They　deserve　their　reward。
　iL；Lj。fz　woman　in　me　rect　sweater；　however；　prevents　Mr。　Vess　from　dealing　with　the　dogs　as　he　usually　would。　If　they　are　a　visible　presence；　they　will　inhibit　her；　and　she　may　cower　inside　the　motor　home；　afraid　to　exit。
　The　woman　must　be　given　enough　freedom　to　act。　Or　at　least　the　illusion　of　freedom。
　He　is　curious　to　see　what　she　will　do。　She　must　have　a　purpose；　some　motivation　for　the　strange　things　that　she　has　done　thus　far。　Everyone　has　a　purpose。
　Mr。　Vess's　purpose　is　to　satisfy　all　appetites　as　they　arise；　to　seek　ever　more　outrageous　experience；　to　immerse　himself　deeply　in　sensation。
　Whatever　the　woman　believes　her　purpose　to　be；　Vess　knows　that　in　the　end；　her　true　purpose　will　be　to　serve　his。　She　is　a　glorious　variety　of　powerful　and　exquisite　sensations　in　human　skin；　packaged　solely　for　his　enjoyment…rather　like　a　Hershey　bar　in　its　brown　and　silver　wrapper　or　a　Slim　Jim　sausage　snug　in　its　plastic　tube。
　The　last　of　the　racing　Dobermans　vanishes　behind　the　bam；　to　the　kennel。
　Mr。　Vess　walks　through　the　soggy　grass　to　the　old　log　house　and　climbs　a　set　of　fieldstone　steps　to　the　front　porch。　Although　he　carries　the　pistol…grip　i2…gauge　Mossberg；　he　makes　an　effort　to　appear　otherwise　nonchalant；　in　case　the　woman　has　e　forward　from　the　bedroom　at　the　rear　of　the　motor　home　to　watch　him　through　a　window。
　The　bentwood　rocker　has　been　stored　away　until　spring。　Trailing　silvery　slime　across　the　wet　floorboards　of　the　porch；　several　early…spring　snails　test　the　air　with　their　semitransparent；　gelatinous　feelers；　hauling　their　spiral　shells　on　strange　quests。　Mr。　Vess　is　careful　to　step　around　them。
　A　mobile　hangs　at　one　er　of　the　porch；　from　the　fascia　board　at　the　edge　of　the　shake…shingle　roof。　It　is　made　of　twenty…eight　white　seashells；　all　quite　small；　some　with　lovely　pink　interiors；　most　are　spiral　in　form；　and　all　are　relatively　exotic。
　The　mobile　does　not　make　a　good　wind　chime；　because　most　of　the　notes　that　it　strikes　are　flat。　It　greets　him　with　a　flurry　of　atonal　clinking；　but　he　smiles　because　it　has　。。。　well；　not　sentimental　but　at　least　nostalgic　value　to　him。
　This　fine　piece　of　folk　craft　once　belonged　to　a　young　woman　who　lived　in　a　suburb　of　Seattle；　Washington。　She　had　been　an　attorney；　about　thirty…two；　sufficiently　successful　to　live　alone　in　her　own　house　in　an　upscale　neighborhood。　For　a　person　tough　enough　to　thrive　in　the　bative　legal　profession；　this　woman　had　kept　a　surprisingly　frilly　in　fact；　downright　girlish…bedroom：　a　four…poster　bed　with　a　pink　canopy　trimmed　with　lace　and　fringe；　rose…pattemed　bedspread；　and　starched　dust　ruffles；　a　big　collection　of　teddy　bears；　paintings　of　English　cottages　hung　with　morning…glory　vines　and　surrounded　by　lush　primrose　gardens；　and　several　seashell　mobiles。
　He　had　done　exciting　things　to　her　in　that　bedroom。　Then　he　had　taken　her　away　in　the　motor　home　to　places　remote　enough　to　allow　him　to　perform　other　acts　even　more　exciting。　She　had　asked　wby？and　he　had　answered；　Because　this　is　wbat　I　do。　That　was　all　the　truth　and　all　the　reason　of　him。
　Mr。　Vess　can't　recall　her　name；　though　he　fondly　remembers　many　things　about　her。　Parts　of　her　were　as　pink　and　smooth　and　lovely　as　the　insides　of　some　of　these　dangling　seashells。　He　has　an　especially　vivid　mental　image　of　her　small　hands；　almost　as　slender　and　delicate　as　those　of　a　child。
　He　had　been　fascinated　by　her　hands。　Enchanted。　He　had　never　sensed　anyone's　vulnerability　so　intensely　as　he'd　sensed　hers　when　he　held　her　small；　trembling；　but　strong　hands　in　his。　Oh；　he　had　been　like　a　swooning　schoolboy　with　her　hands。
　When　he　had　hung　the　mobile　on　the　porch；　as　a　memento　of　the　attorney；　he　had　added　one　item。　It　dangles；　now；　on　a　piece　of　green　string：　her　slender　index　finger；　reduced　to　bare　bones　but　still　undeniably　elegant；　the　three　phalanges　from　tip　to　the　base　knuckle；　clinking　against　the　little　conch　shells　and　miniature　bivalve　fans　and　trumpet　shells　and　tiny　spirals　similar　to　the　whorled　homes　of　snails。
　Clink…clink。　Clink…clink。　He　unlocks　the　front　door　and　enters　the　house。　He　closes　but　does　not　lock　the　door　behind　him；　allowing　the　woman　to　have　access　if　she　chooses　to　take　it。
　Who　knows　what　she　will　choose　to　do？
　Already　her　behavior　is　as　astonishing　as　it　is　mysterious。　She　excites　him。　Vess　turns　from　the　shadowy　front　room　to　the　narrow　enclosed　stairs　immediately　to　his　left。　He　quickly　climbs　the　steps　two　at　a　time；　one　hand　on　the　oak　banister；　to　the　second　floor。　A　short　hallway　serves　two　bedrooms　and　a　bath。　His　room　is　to　the　left。
　In　his　private　chamber；　he　drops　the　Mossberg　on　the　bed　and　crosses　to　the　south…facing　window；　which　is　covered　by　a　blue　drape　with　blackout　lining。　He　doesn't　need　to　draw　the　drape　aside　to　see　the　motor　home　on　the　driveway　below。　The　two　pleated　panels　of　fabric　don't　quite　meet；　and　when　he　puts　his　eye　to　the　two…inch　gap；　he　has　a　clear　view　of　the　entire　vehicle。
　Unless　she　slipped　out　of　the　motor　home