dk.intensity-第27章

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two…inch　gap；　he　has　a　clear　view　of　the　entire　vehicle。
　Unless　she　slipped　out　of　the　motor　home　immediately　behind　him；　which　is　highly　doubtfiil；　the　woman　is　still　inside。　He　can　see　down　through　the　windshield　at　an　angle　into　the　pilot's　and　copilot's　seats；　and　she　has　not　advanced　to　either。
　He　takes　the　pistol　from　his　pocket　and　puts　it　on　the　dresser。　He　shrugs　out　of　the　raincoat　and　tosses　it　atop　the　chenille　spread　on　the　neady　made　bed。
　When　he　checks　at　the　window　again；　there　is　as　yet　no　sign　of　the　mystery　woman　at　the　motor　home　below。
　He　hurries　into　the　hallway　to　the　bathroom。　White　tile；　white　paint；　white　tub；　white　sink；　white　toilet；　polished　brass　fixtures　with　white　ceramic　knobs。　Everything　gleams。　Not　a　single　smudge　mars　the　mirror。
　Mr。　Vess　likes　a　bright；　clean　bathroom。　For　a　while；　lifetimes　ago；　he　lived　with　his　grandmother　in　Chicago；　and　she　was　incapable　of　keeping　a　bathroom　clean　enough　to　meet　his　standards。　Finally；　exasperated　beyond　endurance；　he　had　killed　the　old　bitch。　He'd　been　eleven　when　he　put　the　knife　in　her。
　Now　he　reaches　behind　the　shower　curtain　and　cranks　the　COLD　faucet　all　the　way　open。　He　isn't　actually　going　to　take　a　shower；　so　there's　no　point　in　wasting　hot　water。
　He　quickly　adjusts　the　shower　head　until　the　spray　is　as　heavy　as　it　gets。　The　water　pounds　down　into　the　fiberglass　tub；　filling　the　bathroom　with　thunder。　He　knows　from　experience　that　the　sound　carries　throughout　the　small　house；　even　with　rain　on　the　roof；　this　is　much　louder　than　the　sound　of　the　shower　in　Sarah　Templeton's　bedroom；　and　it　will　be　heard　downstairs。
　On　a　wall　shelf　above　the　toilet　is　a　clock　radio。　He　switches　it　on　and　adjusts　the　volume。
　The　radio　is　set　to　a　Portland　station　featuring　twenty…four…houra…day　news。　Ordinarily；　when　bathing　and　attending　to　his　toilet；　Mr。　Vess　likes　to　listen　to　the　news；　not　because　he　has　any　interest　in　the　latest　political　or　cultural　developments　but　because　these　days　the　news　is　largely　about　people　maiming　and　killing　one　another…war；　terrorism；　rape；　assault；　murder。　And　when　people　can't　kill　one　another　in　sufficient　numbers　to　keep　the　reporters　busy；　nature　always　saves　the　day　with　a　tornado；　a　hurricane；　a　big　earthquake；　or　an　outbreak　of　flesh…eating　bacteria。
　Sometimes；　listening　to　the　news　and　letting　the　various　reports　spark　fond　memories　of　his　own　homicidal　exploits；　he　realizes　that　he　himself　is　also　a　force　of　nature：　a　hurricane；　a　lightning　storm；　a　planet…smashing　asteroid　hurtling　through　the　void；　the　distillate　of　all　human　ferocity　in　a　single　body。　Elemental　power。　The　thought　pleases　him。
　Now；　however；　news　will　not　set　the　stage　properly。　Hastily　he　turns　the　tuning　knob　until　he　finds　a　station　playing　music。　〃Take　the　A　Train〃　by　Duke　Ellington。
　Perfect。　The　big…band　sound　brings　to　his　mind's　eye　an　image　of　light　flaring　off　cut　crystal　and　luminous　bubbles　rising　in　a　champagne　glass；　and　it　reminds　him　of　the　smell　of　fresh…cut　limes；　lemons。　He　canfeel　the　notes　in　the　air；　some　shimmering…bursting　like　bubbles　and　others　bouncing　off　him　like　hundreds　of　little　rubber　balls　and　some　like　windblown　leaves　crisp　with　autumn：　a　very　tactile　music；　exuberant　and　exhilarating。
　The　woman　will　be　subtly　lulled　by　the　swing　beat。　It　will　be　difficult　for　her　to　believe；　really　believe；　that　anything　bad　can　happen　to　her　with　such　music　as　background。
　Perfect。　He　hurries　back　to　his　bedroom；　to　the　window；　having　been　away　from　it　no　more　than　a　minute。
　Rain　snaps　against　the　glass；　streams。
　On　the　driveway　below；　the　motor　home　stands　as　before。　The　woman　still　must　be　inside。　She　probably　won't　just　burst　out　of　the　vehicle　and　run　pell…mell；　she's　likely　to　exit　warily；　hesitant　on　both　sides　of　the　door。　Although　there　might　have　been　time　for　her　to　get　out　of　the　motor　home　while　Mr。　Vess　was　in　the　bathroom；　she　would　almost　certainly　be　huddling　against　it；　getting　her　bearings；　assessing　the　situation。　From　this　high　vantage　point；　he　can　see　around　most　of　the　vehicle；　with　the　exception　of　blind　spots　toward　the　rear　on　the　port　side　and　at　the　very　back；　and　the　woman　is　not　in　sight。　
　〃Ready　when　you　are；　Miss　Desmond；〃　he　says；　referring　to　the　Gloria　Swanson　character　in　Sunset　Boulevard。
　That　movie　had　had　a　great　effect　on　him　when　he'd　first　seen　it　on　television。　He'd　been　thirteen；　a　year　out　of　counseling　for　the　murder　of　his　grandmother。　On　one　level；　he　had　known　that　Norma　Desmond　was　supposed　to　be　the　tragic　villain　of　the　piece；　that　the　writer　and　director　intended　for　her　to　fulfill　that　role…but　he　had　admired　her；　loved　her。　Her　selfishness　was　thrilling；　her　self…absorption　heroic。　She　was　the　truest　character　he　had　ever　seen　in　a　movie。　This　was　what　people　were　actually　like；　under　the　pretense　and　hypocrisy；　under　all　the　crap　about　love；　passion；　altruism；　they　were　all　like　Norma　Desmond　but　couldn't　admit　it　to　themselves。　Norma　didn't　give　a　shit　about　the　rest　of　the　world；　and　she　bent　everyone　to　her　iron　will　even　when　she　was　no　longer　young　or　beautiful　or　famous；　and　when　she　couldn't　bend　William　Holden's　character　as　far　as　she　wanted；　she　just　boldly　picked　up　a　gun　and　shot　him；　which　was　so　powerful；　so　audacious；　that　young　Edgler　had　been　too　excited　to　sleep　that　night。　He　had　lain　awake　wondering　what　it　would　be　like　to　encounter　a　woman　as　superior　and　genuine　as　Norma　Desmond…and　then　to　break　her；　kill　her；　take　all　the　strength　of　her　selfishness　and　make　it　his　own。
　Maybe　this　mystery　woman　is　a　little　bit　like　Norma　Desmond。　She's　bold；　sure　enough。　He　can't　figure　what　the　hell　she's　doing；　what　she's　after；　and　when　he　understands　her　motivation；　maybe　she　won't　be　anything　like　Norma　Desmond。　But　at　least　she　is　already　something　new　and　interesting　in　his　experience。
　The　rain。　The　wind。　The　motor　home。　〃Take　the　A　Train〃　has　given　way　to　〃String　of　Pearls。〃　Murmuring　softly　against　the　blue　drapes；　Mr。　Vess　says；　〃Ready　when　you　are。〃
　After　the　killer　had　gotten　out　of　the　motor　home　and　slammed　the　door；　Chyna　had　waited　in　the　dark　bedroom　for　a　long　while　in　the　one…note　lullaby　of　rain。
　She　had　told　herself　that　she　was　being　prudent。　Listen。　Wait。　Be　sure。　Absolutely　sure。
　But　then　she'd　been　forced　to　admit　that　she　had　lost　her　nerve。　Although　she　had　mostly　dried　out　during　the　ride　north　from　Hum…boldt　County；　she　was　still　cold；　and　the　source　of　her　chills　was　the　ice　of　doubt　in　her　guts。
　The　eater　of　spiders　was　gone；　and　to　Chyna；　even　remaining　in　blackness　with　two　dead　bodies　was　far　preferable　to　going　outside　where　she　might　encounter　him　again。　She　knew　that　he　would　be　back；　that　this　bedroom　was　not；　in　fact；　a　safe　place；　but　for　a　while；　what　she　knew　was　overruled　by　what　she　felt。
　When　at　last　she　broke　her　paralysis；　she　moved　with　reckless　abandon；　as　though　any　hesitation　would　result　in　another　and　worse　paralysis；　which　she　would　be　unable　to　overe。　She　yanked　open　the　bedroom　door；　plunged　into　the　hall；　with　the　revolver　held　in　front　of　her　because　maybe　the　murderous　bastard　hadn't　gotten　out　after　all；　and　she　went　all　the　way　forward　past　the　bathroom　and　through　the　dining　area　and　into　the　lounge；　where　she　stopped　a　few　feet　back　from　the　driver's　seat。
　The　only　light　was　a　bleak　gray　haze　that　came　through　the　skylight　in　the　hall　behind　her　and　through　the　windshield　ahead；　but　she　could　see　that　the　killer　wasn't　here。　She　was　alone。
　Outside；　directly　ahead　of　the　motor　home；　lay　a　sodden　yard；　a　few　dripping　trees；　and　a　rough　driveway　leading　to　a　weathered　barn。
　Chyna　moved　to　a　starboard　window；　cautiously　peeled　back　one　er　of　the　greasy　drape；　and　saw　a　log　house　about　twenty　feet　away。　Mottled　with　time　and　many　coats　of　creosote；　streaming　with　rain；　the　walls　glistened　like　dark　snakeskin。
　Although　she　had　no　way　of　being　certain；　she　assumed　that　it　was　the　killer's　house。　He　had　told　the　men　in　the　service　station　that　he　was　going　home　after　his　〃hunting〃　trip；　and　everything　he　had　told　them　had　sounded　to　her　like　the　truth；　including…and　especially　the　taunts　about　young　Ariel。
　The　killer　must　be　inside。　Chyna　went　forward　again　and　leaned　over　the　driver's　seat　to　look　at　the　ignition。　The　keys　weren't　there。　They　weren't　in　the　console　box　either。
　She　slipped　into　the　copilot's　seat；　feeling　frightfully　exposed　in　spite　of　the　blurring　rain　that　washed　down　the　windows。　She　could　find　nothing　in　the　console　box；　in　the　shallow　glove　box；　in　either　door　pouch；　or　under　either　front　seat　that　revealed　the　name　of　the　owner　or　anything　else　about　him。
　rie　woulu　oe　returning　soon。　V　or　some　demented　reason；　he　had　gone　to　a　lot　of　trouble　and　taken　risks　to　bring　the　cadavers；　and　most　likely　he　would　not　leave　them　in　the　motor　home　for　long。
　The　obscuring　rain　made　it　difficult　for　her　to　be　sure；　but　she　thought　that　the　drapes　were　drawn　at　the　first…floor　windows　on　this　side　of　the　house。　Consequently；　the　killer　would　not　casually　glance　out　and　spot　her　when　she　stepped　from　the　motor　home。　She　couldn't　see　the　pair　of　second…floor　windows　half　as　well　as　those　lower　down；　but　they　also　might　be　draped。
　She　cracked　open　the　door；　and　a　cold　knife　of　wind　thrust　at　her　through　the　gap。　She　got　out　and　closed　the　door　behind　her　as　quietly　as　possible。
　The　sky　was　low　and　turbulent。　Forested　hills　rose　rank　after　rank　behind　the　house；　vanishing　into　the　pearly　mist。　Chyna　sensed　mountains　looming　above　the　hills　in　the　overcast；　they　would　still　be　capped　with　snow　this　early　in　th　spring。
　She　hurried　to　the　flagstone　steps　and　went　up　onto　the　porch；　ou　of　the　rain；　but　it　was　ing　down　so　hard　that　already　she　was　soaked　again。　She　stood　with　her　back　to　the　rough　wall。
　Windows　flanked　the　front　door；　and　the　drapes　were　drawn　behind　the　nearer　of　the　two。
　Music　inside。　Swing　music。　She　stared　out　at　the　meadows；　along　the　lane　that　led　from　the　house　to　the　top　of　a　low　hill　and　thence　out　of　sight。　Perhaps；　beyond　the　hill；　other　houses　stood　along　that　unpaved　track；　where　she　would　find　people　who　could　help　her。
　But　who　had　ever　helped　her　before；　all　these　long　years？　She　remembered　the　two　brief　stops　that　had　awakened　her；　and　she　suspected　that　the　motor　home　had　passed　through　a　gate。　Nevertheless；　even　if　this　was　a　private　driveway；　it　would　lead　sooner　or　later　to　a　public　road；　where　she　would　find　assistance　from　residents　or　passing　motorists。
　The　top　of　the　hill　was　approximately　a　quarter　of　a　mile　from　the　house。　This　was　a　lot　of　open　ground　to　cover　before　she　would　be　out　of　sight。　If　he　saw　her；　he　would　probably　be　able　to　chase　her　down　before　she　got　away。
　And　she　still　didn't　know　that　this　was　his　house。　Even　if　it　was　his　house；　she　couldn't　be　sure　that　this　was　where　he　kept　Ariel。　If　Chyna　brought　back　the　authorities　and　Ariel　wasn't　here；　then　the　killer　might　never　tell　them　where　to　find　the　girl。
　She　had　to　be　sure　that　Ariel　was　in　the　basement。　But　if　the　girl　was　here；　then　when　Chyna　came　back　with　the　cops；　the　killer　might　barricade　himself　in　the　house。　It　would　take　a　SWAT　team　to　pry　him　out　of　the　place…and　before　they　got　to　hi