dk.intensity-第14部分

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　The　rear　of　the　closet　appeared　to　have　been　retrofitted　with　welded　steel　plates　fixed　to　the　vehicle　frame　for　added　strength。　Two　ringbolts；　widely　separated　and　high…set；　were　welded　to　the　steel。　Wrists　manacled　to　the　ringbolts；　the　dead　man　hung　with　his　arms　spread　in　cruciform。　His　feet　were　together　like　the　feet　of　Christ　on　the　cross…not　nailed；　however；　but　shackled　to　another　ringbolt　in　the　closet　floor。
　He　was　young…seventeen；　eighteen；　surely　not　twenty。　Clad　in　only　a　pair　of　white　cotton　briefs；　his　lean　pale　body　was　badly　battered。　His　head　didn't　hang　forward　on　his　chest　but　was　tipped　to　one　side；　and　his　left　temple　rested　against　the　biceps　of　his　raised　left　arm。　He　had　thick　curly　black　hair。　His　eyelids　had　been　sewn　tightly　shut　with　green　thread。　With　yellow　thread；　two　buttons　above　his　upper　lip　were　secured　to　a　pair　of　matching　buttons　just　under　his　lower　lip。
　Chyna　heard　herself　talking　to　God。　An　incoherent；　beseeching　babble。　She　clenched　her　teeth　and　choked　on　the　words；　though　it　was　unlikely　that　her　voice　could　have　carried　to　the　front　of　the　motor　home　over　the　rumble　of　the　engine　and　the　droning　of　the　big　tires。
　She　pulled　shut　the　pleated…vinyl　panel。　Though　flimsy；　it　moved　as　ponderously　as　a　vault　door。　The　magnetic　latch　clicked　into　place　with　a　sound　like　snapping　bone。
　In　all　the　textbooks　she　had　ever　read；　no　case　study　of　sociopathic　violence　had　ever　contained　a　description　of　a　crime　sufficiently　vivid　to　make　her　want　to　retreat　to　a　er　and　sit　on　the　floor　and　pull　her　knees　against　her　chest　and　hug　herself。　That　was　precisely　what　she　did　now　choosing　the　corner　farthest　from　the　closet。
　She　had　to　get　control　of　herself；　quickly；　starting　with　her　manic　breathing。　She　was　gasping；　sucking　in　great　hingfuls；　yet　she　couldn't　seem　to　get　enough　air。　The　deeper　and　faster　she　inhaled；　the　dizzier　she　became。　Her　peripheral　vision　surrendered　to　an　encroaching　darkness　until　she　seemed　to　be　peering　down　a　long　black　tunnel　toward　the　dingy　motor…home　bedroom　at　the　far　end。
　She　told　herself　that　the　young　man　in　the　closet　had　been　dead　when　the　killer　had　gone　to　work　with　the　sewing　kit。　And　if　he'd　not　been　dead；　at　least　he'd　been　mercifully　unconscious。　Then　she　told　herself　not　to　think　about　it　at　all；　because　thinking　about　it　only　made　the　tunnel　longer　and　narrower；　made　the　bedroom　more　distant　and　the　lights　dimmer　than　ever。
　She　put　her　face　in　her　hands；　and　her　hands　were　cold　but　her　face　seemed　colder。　For　no　reason　that　Chyna　could　understand；　she　thought　of　her　mother's　face；　as　clear　as　a　photograph　in　her　mind's　eye。　And　then　she　did　understand。
　To　Chyna's　mother；　the　prospect　of　violence　had　been　romantic；　even　glamorous。　For　a　while　they　had　lived　in　a　mune　in　Oakland；　where　everyone　talked　of　making　a　better　world　and　where；　more　nights　than　not；　the　adults　gathered　around　the　kitchen　table；　drinking　wine　and　smoking　pot；　discussing　how　best　to　tear　down　the　hated　system；　sometimes　also　playing　pinochle　or　Trivial　Pursuit　as　they　discussed　the　strategies　that　might　bring　utopia　at　last；　sometimes　far　too　enraptured　by　revolution　to　be　interested　in　any　lesser　games。　There　were　bridges　and　tunnels　that　could　all　be　blown　up　with　absurd　ease；　disrupting　transportation；　telephone…pany　installations　could　be　targeted　to　throw　munications　into　chaos；　meat…packing　plants　must　be　burned　to　put　an　end　to　the　brutal　exploitation　or　animals。　They　planned　intricate　bank　robberies　and　bold　assaults　on　armored　cars　to　finance　their　operations。　The　route　they　would　have　taken　to　peace；　freedom；　and　justice　was　always　cratered　by　explosions；　littered　with　uncountable　bodies。　After　Oakland；　Chyna　and　her　mother　had　hit　the　road　for　a　few　weeks　and　had　wound　up　again　in　Key　West　with　their　old　friend　Jim　Woltz；　the　enthusiastic　nihilist　who　was　deep　in　the　drug　trade；　with　a　sideline　in　illegal　weapons。　Under　his　ocean…front　cottage；　he　had　carved　out　a　bunker　in　which　he　stored　a　personal　collection　of　two　hundred　firearms。　Chyna's　mother　was　a　beautiful　woman；　even　on　bad　days　when　depression　plagued　her；　when　her　green　eyes　were　gray　and　sad　with　miseries　that　she　could　not　explain。　But　at　that　kitchen　table　in　Oakland　and　in　that　cool　bunker　beneath　the　cottage　in　Key　West…in　fact；　whenever　she　was　at　the　side　of　a　man　like　Woltz…her　porcelain　skin　was　even　clearer　than　usual；　almost　translucent；　excitement　enlivened　her　exquisite　features；　she　became　magically　more　graceful；　appeared　more　lithe　and　supple；　was　quicker　to　smile。　The　prospect　of　violence；　playing　at　being　Bonnie　to　any　man's　Clyde；　filled　her　stunning　face　with　a　light　as　glorious　as　a　Florida　sunset；　and　her　jewel…green　eyes　were；　at　those　times；　as　pelling　and　mysterious　as　the　Gulf　of　Mexico　darkening　toward　twilight。
　Although　the　prospect　of　violence　might　be　romantic；　the　reality　was　blood；　bone；　deposition；　dust。　The　reality　was　Laura　on　the　bed　and　the　unknown　young　man　sewn　into　silence　behind　the　pleated　vinyl　door。
　Chyna　sat　with　her　cold　hands　covering　her　colder　face；　aware　that　she　would　never　be　as　strangely　beautiful　as　her　mother。
　Eventually　she　regained　control　of　her　breathing。　The　motor　home　rolled　on；　and　she　was　reminded　of　nights　when；　as　a　child；　she　had　dozed　on　trains；　on　buses；　in　the　backseats　of　cars；　lulled　by　the　motion　and　the　hum　of　wheels；　unsure　where　her　mother　was　taking　her；　dreaming　of　being　part　of　a　family　like　one　of　those　on　television…with　befuddled　but　loving　parents；　an　amusing　next…door　neighbor　who　might　be　frustrating　but　never　malicious；　and　a　dog　that　knew　a　few　tricks。　But　good　dreams　never　lasted；　and　she　woke　repeatedly　from　nightmares；　gazing　out　windows　at　strange　landscapes；　wishing　that　she　could　travel　forever　without　stopping。　The　road　was　a　promise　of　peace；　but　destinations　were　always　hell。
　Chyna　didn't　want　to　go　there。　She　intended　to　get　off　between　destinations　and　hoped　to　find　her　way　back　to　the　better　life　that　she　had　struggled　so　hard　to　build　these　past　ten　years。
　She　left　the　er　of　the　bedroom　to　retrieve　the　butcher　knife；　which　she　had　dropped　when　she'd　been　rocked　backward　by　the　sight　of　the　dead　man　in　the　closet。　Then　she　went　around　the　bed　to　the　nightstand　and　switched　off　the　pharmacy　lamp。
　Being　in　the　dark　with　dead　people　didn't　frighten　her。　Only　the　living　were　a　danger。
　The　motor　home　slowed　again　and　then　turned　left。　Chyna　leaned　against　the　tilt　of　the　vehicle　to　keep　her　balance。
　They　must　be　on　State　Highway　29。　A　right　turn　would　have　taken　them　down　the　Napa　Valley；　south　into　the　town　of　Napa。　She　wasn't　sure　what　munities　lay　to　the　north；　other　than　St。　Helena　and　Calistoga。
　Even　between　the　towns；　however；　there　would　be　vineyards；　farms；　houses；　and　rural　businesses。　Wherever　she　got　out　of　the　motor　home；　she　should　be　able　to　find　help　within　a　reasonable　distance。
　She　sidled　blindly　to　the　door　and　stood　with　one　hand　on　the　knob；　waiting　for　instinct　to　guide　her　once　more。　Much　of　her　life　had　been　lived　like　a　balancing　act　on　a　spearpoint　fence；　and　on　a　particularly　difficult　night　when　she　was　twelve；　she　had　decided　that　instinct　was；　in　fact；　the　quiet　voice　of　God。　Prayers　did　receive　replies；　but　you　had　to　listen　closely　and　believe　in　the　answer。　At　twelve；　she　wrote　in　her　diary：　〃God　doesn't　shout；　He　whispers；　and　in　the　whisper　is　the　way。〃
　Waiting　for　the　whisper；　she　thought　about　the　battered　body　in　the　closet；　which　appeared　to　have　been　dead　for　less　than　a　day；　and　about　Laura；　still　warm　on　the　sagging　bed。　Sarah；　Paul；　Laura's　brother　Jack；　Jack's　wife；　Nina：　six　people　murdered　in　twenty…four　hours。　The　eater　of　spiders　was　not　an　ordinary　homicidal　sociopath。　In　the　language　of　the　cops　and　the　criminologists　who　specialized　in　searching　for　and　stopping　men　like　this；　he　was　hot；　going　through　a　hot　phase；　burning　up　with　desire；　need。　But　Chyna；　who　intended　to　follow　her　master's　in　psychology　with　a　doctorate　in　criminology；　even　if　she　had　to　work　six　years　waiting　tables　to　get　there；　sensed　that　this　guy　was　not　just　hot。　He　was　a　singularity；　conforming　only　in　part　to　standard　profiles　in　aberrant