dk.intensity-第43章

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s　difficult　to　estimate　distance　in　the　dark；　she　believed　that　she　had　dragged　the　table　about　three　feet；　far　enough　to　be　clear　of　Vess's　chair。
　Trying　to　favor　her　sprained　finger；　she　placed　her　cuffed　hands　under　the　table　and　lifted。　It　weighed　considerably　more　than　she　did…a　two…inch　pine　top；　the　thick　staves　in　the　supporting　barrel；　the　black　iron　hoops　around　the　staves；　perhaps　that　bag　of　sandand　she　couldn't　get　much　leverage　while　she　was　forced　to　remain　seated。　The　bottom　of　the　barrel　tipped　up　an　inch；　then　two　inches。　The　water　glass　toppled；　spilling　its　contents；　rolled　away　from　her；　dropped　off　the　table；　and　shattered　on　the　floor。　All　the　noise　made　it　seem　as　if　her　plan　was　working…she　hissed；　〃Yes！　〃…but　then　because　she　had　underestimated　the　weight　and　the　effort　required　to　move　it；　she　had　to　relent；　and　the　barrel　slammed　down。
　Chyna　flexed　her　muscles；　took　a　deep　breath；　and　immediately　returned　to　the　task。　This　time　she　planted　her　feet　as　far　apart　as　her　shackles　would　allow。　On　the　underside　of　the　table；　she　flattened　her　upturned　palms　against　the　pine；　thumbs　hooked　toward　herself　over　the　smooth　bull…nose　edge。　She　tensed　her　legs　as　well　as　her　arms；　and　when　she　shoved　up　on　the　table；　she　pushed　with　her　legs　too；　getting　to　her　feet　an　inch　at　a　time；　one　hard…won　inch　for　each　inch　that　the　table　tipped　up　and　backward。　She　did　not　have　enough　slack　in　the　various　tethering　chains　to　be　able　to　get　all　the　way　or　halfway　erect；　so　she　rose　haltingly　in　a　stiff　and　awkward　crouch；　cramped　under　the　weight　of　the　table。　She　put　enormous　strain　on　her　knees　and　thighs；　wheezing；　shuddering　with　the　effort；　but　she　persevered　because　each　precious　inch　that　she　was　able　to　gain　improved　her　leverage；　she　was　using　her　entire　body　to　lift；　lift；　lift。
　The　sandwich　plate　and　the　bag　of　potato　chips　slid　off　the　table。　China　cracked　and　chips　scattered　across　the　floor　with　a　sound　unnervingly　like　scurrying　rodents。
　The　pain　in　her　neck　was　excruciating；　and　someone　seemed　to　be　twisting　a　corkscrew　into　her　right　clavicle。　But　pain　couldn't　stop　her。　It　motivated。　The　greater　her　pain；　the　more　she　identified　with　Laura　and　the　whole　Templeton　family；　with　the　young　man　hanging　in　the　motor…home　closet；　with　the　service…station　clerks；　and　with　all　the　people　who　might　be　buried　down　in　the　meadow；　and　the　more　she　identified　with　them；　the　more　she　wanted　Edgler　Vess　to　suffer　a　world　of　hurt。　She　was　in　an　Old　Testament　mood；　unwilling　to　turn　the　other　cheek　just　now。　She　wanted　Vess　screaming　on　a　rack；　stretched　until　his　joints　popped　apart　and　his　tendons　tore。　She　didn't　want　to　see　him　confined　to　a　state　hospital　for　the　criminally　insane；　there　to　be　analyzed　and　counseled　and　instructed　as　to　how　best　to　increase　his　self…esteem；　treated　with　a　panoply　of　antipsychotic　drugs；　given　a　private　room　and　television；　booked　in　card　tournaments　with　his　fellow　patients；　and　treated　to　a　turkey　dinner　on　Christmas。　Instead　of　having　him　consigned　to　the　mercies　of　psychiatrists　and　social　workers；　Chyna　wanted　to　condemn　him　to　the　skilled　hands　of　an　imaginative　torturer；　and　then　see　how　long　the　sonofabitch　bastard　freak　remained　faithful　to　his　philosophy　about　all　experiences　being　value　neutral；　all　sensations　equally　worthwhile。　This　ardent　desire；　refined　from　her　pain；　was　not　noble　in　the　least；　but　it　was　pure；　a　high…octane　fael　that　burned　with　an　intense　light；　and　it　kept　her　motor　running。
　This　side　of　the　barrel　pedestal　was　off　the　floor　perhaps　three　inches…she　could　only　guess…approximately　as　high　as　she　had　gotten　it　before；　but　she　still　had　plenty　of　steam　left。　Bent　in　a　backward　Z；　as　hunched　as　a　God…cursed　troll；　she　muscled　the　table　up；　knees　aching；　thighs　quive7ing　with　the　strain；　her　butt　clenched　tighter　than　a　politician's　fist　around　a　cash　bribe。　She　encouraged　herself　aloud　by　talking　to　the　table　as　if　it　possessed　awareness：　〃e　on；　e　on；　e　on；　move；　shit；　shit；　move；　you　sonofabitcb；　higher；　e　on；　damn　you；　damn　it；　e　on。　〃
　A　ludicrous　mental　image　of　herself　flashed　through　her　mind：　She　must　resemble　a　character　in　one　of　those　movie　scenes　where　the　deceived　cowboy　cottons　to　the　truth　and　overturns　the　poker　table　on　the　dishonest　itinerant　cardshark；　except　that　she　was　playing　the　drama　in　slow　motion；　as　in　a　Western　underwater。
　Initially　the　chair　remained　exactly　where　it　had　been　when　her　butt　parted　pany　with　it；　but　as　her　arms　lifted　higher　and　stretched　farther　in　front　of　her；　the　heavy　chair　was　hoisted　off　the　floor　by　the　tightening　chain　that　circled　behind　her　from　wrist　to　wrist　and　wound　through　the　vertical　spindles　behind　the　tie…on　pad。　Now　she　was　lifting　the　table　in　front　and　the　chair　at　her　back。　The　hard　edge　of　the　seat　jammed　against　her　thighs；　and　the　curved　pine　headpiece　of　the　railed　back　pressed　cruelly　below　her　shoulder　blades；　as　the　chair　began　to　act　like　a　V…clamp　to　prevent　her　from　rising　much　further。
　Nevertheless；　Chyna　squeezed　against　the　table　as　she　lifted　it；　separating　herself　from　the　confining　chair　enough　to　be　able　to　rise　out　of　her　crouch　just　one　more　inch；　then　one　more。　At　the　extreme　limits　of　strength　and　endurance；　she　grunted　loudly；　rhythmically：　〃Uh；　uh；　uh；　uh！〃　Sweat　glazed　her　face；　stung　her　eyes；　but　there　was　no　light　in　the　kitchen　anyway；　no　reason　she　had　to　see　what　she　was　doing　in　order　to　get　it　done。　Her　burning　eyes　didn't　bother　her；　this　was　small…time　pain；　but　she　felt　as　though　she　was　about　to　burst　a　blood　vessel　from　the　straining…or　throw　a　clot　off　an　artery　wall　and　recapture　it　deep　in　her　brain。
　Fear　was　with　her　again；　for　the　first　time　in　hours；　because　even　as　she　strained　against　the　table；　she　couldn't　help　thinking　about　what　Edgler　Vess　would　do　with　her　if　he　returned　home　to　find　her　on　the　floor；　dazed　and　incoherent　from　a　stroke。　With　her　mind　reduced　to　hasty　pudding；　she　would　no　longer　be　the　sophisticated　toy　she　had　been；　she'd　be　insufficiently　responsive　to　provide　him　with　the　requisite　thrills　when　he　tortured　her。　Then　perhaps　Vess　would　revert　to　the　crude　turtle　games　of　his　youth。　Maybe　he　would　drag　her　into　the　backyard　to　set　her　on　fire　for　the　pleasure　of　watching　her　crawl　jerkily　in　circles　on　crippled；　blazing　limbs。
　The　table　crashed　onto　its　side　hard　enough　to　jar　the　dishes　in　the　kitchen　cabinets　and　rattle　a　loose　pane　in　a　window。
　Though　she　had　been　striving　fiercely　for　precisely　this　result；　she　was　so　surprised　by　her　abrupt　success　that　she　didn't　cry　out　in　triumph。　She　leaned　against　the　curve　of　the　tilted　table　and　gasped　for　breath。
　Half　a　minute　later；　when　she　tried　to　pull　away；　she　discovered　that　the　chain　was　still　wrapped　tightly　around　the　barrel　pedestal　and　that　she　remained　encumbered。
　She　attempted　to　tug　it　loose。　No　luck。　Dropping　to　her　hands　and　knees；　carrying　the　chair　on　her　back；　she　reached　under　the　canted　table；　as　though　she　were　at　the　seashore　and　seeking　shade　beneath　a　giant　beach　umbrella。　In　the　darkness　she　felt　around　the　bottom　of　the　barrel　that　served　as　the　pedestal；　and　she　discovered　that　this　part　of　the　job　was　not　yet　finished。
　The　table　was　tipped　on　its　side…like　a　mushroom　with　a　large　cap；　stem　meeting　the　floor　at　an　angle。　Given　the　position　from　which　she'd　had　to　work；　she　had　not　been　able　to　tip　it　pletely　over；　with　the　pedestal　straight　up　in　the　air。　The　bottom　of　the　barrel；　recessed　inside　a　chime　hoop；　was　fully　exposed；　however；　the　tethering　chain　was　trapped　in　the　angle　between　the　floor　and　the　side　of　the　barrel。
　Lifting　the　chair　with　her；　Chyna　struggled　to　her　feet　but　rose　only　to　a　crouch。　She　reached　down　with　both　hands；　hooked　her　fingers　around　the　chime　hoop；　paused　to　gather　her　strength；　and　pulled　upward。
　Although　she　tried　to　hold　her　injured　trigger　finger　out　of　the　way；　her　sweaty　hands　slipped　on　the　painted　iron　hoop。　She　stubbed　the　fingertips　of　her　right　hand　hard　against　the　rough　bottom　of　the　barrel；　and　such　a　brilliant　pain　flashed　through　her　swollen　index　finger　that　she　cried　out　in　dazzled　agony。
　For　a　while　she　hunched　over；　protectively　holding　her　injured　hand　against　her　breast；　waiting　for　the　pain　to　subside。　Eventually　it　faded　somewhat。
　After　blotting　her　hands　on　her　jeans；　she　hooked　her　fingers　around　the　chime　hoop　once　more；　hesitated；　heaved；　and　the　barrel　pedestal　came　off　the　floor　half　an　inch；　an　inch。　With　her　left　foot；　she　pawed　at　the　loop　of　chain　until　she　thought　it　was　free；　and　then　she　let　the　pedestal　drop　to　the　floor　again。
　She　scooted　backward　in　her　chair；　and　this　time　nothing　impeded　her。　The　loop　of　chain　rattled　across　the　floor；　no　longer　anchoring　her　to　the　table。
　Her　chair　bumped　into　the　wall　that　separated　the　kitchen　from　the　laundry　room。　She　hitched　sideways；　out　from　behind　the　table；　toward　the　window；　which　was　but　a　faint　gray　rectangle　between　the　blackness　of　the　unlighted　kitchen　and　the　slightly　less　dark　night。
　Although　Chyna　was　far　from　being　free；　farther　still　from　being　safe；　she　was　exhilarated；　because　at　least　she　had　done　something。　A　headache　like　an　endless　ining　tide　throbbed　in　waves　across　her　brow　and　along　her　right　temple；　and　the　pain　in　her　neck　was　savage。　Her　swollen　index　finger　was　a　world　of　misery　in　itself。　In　spite　of　her　thick　socks；　her　ankles　felt　as　though　they　had　been　bruised　and　abraded　by　the　shackles；　and　her　left　wrist　stung　where　she　had　skinned　it　while　trying　to　yank　the　spindles　out　of　the　back　of　the　chair。　Her　joints　ached　and　her　muscles　burned　from　the　demands　she　had　put　on　them；　and　she　had　a　stitch　in　her　left　side　that　was　pulling　like　a　needle　threaded　with　hot　wire…yet　she　was　grinning　and　exhilarated。
　When　she　was　beside　the　window；　she　let　the　legs　of　her　chair　touch　the　floor。　She　sat　down。
　As　her　heartbeat　slowed　from　its　frenzied　hammering；　Chyna　leaned　back　against　the　cushion；　still　breathing　hard；　and　surprised　herself　by　laughing。　Musical；　unexpectedly　girlish　laughter　burst　from　her；　an　astonishing　giggle　part　delight；　part　nervous　relief。
　She　blotted　her　sweat…stung　eyes　on　one　sleeve　of　her　cotton　sweater；　and　then　on　the　other　sleeve。　With　her　cuffed　hands；　she　awkwardly　smoothed　her　short　hair　back　from　her　brow；　across　which　it　had　fallen　in　damp　licks。
　As　a　softer；　more　subdued　trill　of　laughter　bubbled　from　her；　Chyna　detected　movement　out　of　the　er　of　her　right　eye。　She　turned　to　the　window；　happily　thinking；　The　elk。
　A　Doberman　was　staring　at　her。　Few　stars　and；　as　yet；　no　moon　shone　between　the　torn　clouds；　and　the　dog　was　oil　black。　Yet　it　was　clearly　visible；　because　its　pointed　face　was　only　inches　from　hers；　with　nothing　between　them　except　the　glass。　Its　inky　eyes　were　cold　and　merciless；　sharklike　in　their　steadiness　and　glassy　concentration。　Inquisitively；　it　pressed　its　wet　nose　against　the　pane。
　A　thin　whine　escaped　the　Doberman；　audible　even　through　the　glass：　neither　a　whimper　of　fear　nor　a　plea　for　attention；　but　a　needful　keening　that　perfectly　expressed　the　killing　passion　in　its　eyes。
　Chyna　was　no　longer　laughing。　The　dog　dropped　from　the　window；　out　of　sight。　She　heard　its　paws　thumping　hollowl