dk.intensity-第17部分

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nths。　He　could　taste　the　bee　that　had　crawled　across　the　blossom　on　its　eternal　buzzing　task　of　pollination；　the　soil　out　of　which　the　flower　had　grown；　and　the　wind　that　had　caressed　it　through　the　summer　of　its　growing。
　He　has　never　met　anyone　who　can　understand　the　intensity　with　which　he　experiences　the　world　or　the　greater　intensity　for　which　he　strives。　With　his　help；　perhaps　Ariel　will　understand　one　day。　Now；　of　course；　she　is　too　immature　to　achieve　the　insight。
　One　last　squeeze　of　his　neck。　The　pain。　He　sighs。　From　the　copilot's　seat；　he　picks　up　a　folded　raincoat。　No　rain　is　yet　falling；　but　he　needs　to　cover　his　blood…spattered　clothing　before　going　inside。
　He　could　have　changed　into　clean　clothes　prior　to　leaving　the　Templeton　house；　but　he　enjoys　wearing　these。　The　patina　excites　him。
　He　gets　out　of　the　driver's　seat；　stands　behind　it；　and　pulls　on　the　coat。
　He　washed　his　hands　in　the　kitchen　sink　at　the　Templeton　house；　although　he　would　have　preferred　to　leave　them　stained　too。　He　can　conceal　his　clothes　under　a　raincoat；　hiding　his　hands　is　not　as　easy。
　He　never　wears　gloves。　To　do　so　would　be　to　concede　that　he　fears　apprehension；　which　he　does　not。
　Although　his　fingerprints　are　on　file　with　federal　and　state　agencies；　the　prints　he　leaves　at　the　scene　will　never　match　those　that　bear　his　name　in　the　records。　Like　the　rest　of　the　world；　police　organizations　are　hell…bent　on　puterization；　by　now　most　fingerprintimage　reference　banks　are　in　the　form　of　digitized　data；　to　facilitate　high…speed　scanning　and　processing。　Even　more　easily　than　hard　files；　electronic　files　can　be　manipulated；　because　the　work　can　be　done　at　a　great　distance；　there　is　no　need　to　burglarize　highly　secure　facilities；　when　instead　he　can　be　a　ghost　haunting　their　machines　from　across　a　continent。　Because　of　his　intelligence；　talents；　and　connections；　he　has　been　able　to　meddle　with　the　data。
　Wearing　gloves；　even　thin　surgical　latex　gloves；　would　be　an　intolerable　barrier　to　sensation。　He　likes　to　let　his　hand　glide　lightly　over　the　fine　golden　hairs　on　a　woman's　thigh；　take　time　to　appreciate　the　texture　of　pebbled　gooseflesh　against　his　palm；　to　relish　the　fierce　heat　of　skin　and　then；　after；　the　warmth　all　fading；　fading。　When　he　kills；　he　finds　it　absolutely　essential　to　feel　the　wetness。
　The　prints　under　his　name　in　the　various　files　are；　in　fact；　those　of　a　young　marine　named　Bernard　Petain；　who　died　tragically　during　training　maneuvers　at　Camp　Pendleton　many　years　ago。　And　the　prints　that　he　leaves　at　the　scene；　often　etched　in　blood；　cannot　be　matched　to　any　on　file　with　the　military；　the　FBI；　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles；　or　anywhere　else。
　He　finishes　buttoning　the　raincoat；　turns　up　the　collar；　and　looks　at　his　hands。　Stains　under　three　fingernails。　It　might　be　grease　or　soil。　No　one　will　be　suspicious　of　it。
　He　himself　can　smell　the　blood　on　his　clothes　even　through　the　black　nylon　raincoat　and　insulated　liner；　but　others　are　not　sufficiently　sensitive　to　detect　it。
　Staring　at　the　residue　under　his　nails；　however；　he　can　hear　the　screams　again；　that　lovely　music　in　the　night；　the　Templeton　house　as　reverberant　as　a　concert　hall；　and　no　one　to　hear　except　him　and　the　deaf　vineyards。
　If　he　is　ever　caught　in　the　act；　the　authorities　will　print　him　again；　discover　his　deception　with　the　puters；　and　eventually　link　him　to　a　long　list　of　unsolved　murders。　But　he　isn't　concerned　about　that。　He'll　never　be　taken　alive；　never　be　put　on　trial。　Whatever　they　learn　about　his　activities　after　his　death　will　only　add　to　the　glory　of　his　name。
　He　is　Edgler　Foreman　Vess。　From　the　letters　of　his　name；　one　can　extract　a　long　list　of　power　words：　GOD；　FEAR；　DEMON；　SAVE；　RAGE；　ANGER；　DRAGON；　FORGE；　SEED；　SEMEN；　FREE；　and　others。　Also　words　with　a　mystical　quality：　DREAM；　VESSEL；　LORE；　FOREVER；　MARVEL。　Sometimes　the　last　thing　that　he　whispers　to　a　victim　is　a　sentence　posed　from　this　list　of　words。　One　that　he　especially　likes　and　uses　often　is　GOD　FEARS　ME。
　Anyway；　all　questions　of　fingerprints　and　other　evidence　are　moot；　because　he　will　never　be　caught。　He　is　thirty…three　years　old。　He　has　been　enjoying　himself　in　this　fashion　for　a　long　time；　and　he　has　never　had　a　close　call。
　Now　he　takes　the　pistol　out　of　the　open　console　between　the　pilot's　and　copilot's　chairs。　A　Heckler　&　Koch　P7…Earlier；　he　had　reloaded　the　thirteen…round　magazine。　Now　he　unscrews　the　sound　suppressor；　because　he　has　no　plans　to　visit　other　houses　this　night。　Besides；　the　baffles　are　probably　damaged　from　the　shots　that　he　has　fired；　diminishing　both　the　effect　of　the　silencer　and　the　accuracy　of　the　weapon。
　Occasionally　he　daydreams　about　what　it　would　be　like　if　the　impossible　happened；　if　he　were　interrupted　at　play　and　surrounded　by　a　SWAT　team。　With　his　experience　and　knowledge；　the　ensuing　showdown　would　be　thrillingly　intense。
　If　there　is　a　single　secret　behind　the　success　of　Edgler　Vess；　it　is　his　belief　that　no　twist　of　fate　is　either　good　or　bad；　that　no　experience　is　qualitatively　better　than　another。　Winning　twenty　million　dollars　in　the　lottery　is　no　more　to　be　desired　than　being　trapped　by　a　SWAT　team；　and　a　shootout　with　the　authorities　is　no　more　to　be　dreaded　than　winning　all　that　money。　The　value　of　any　experience　isn't　in　its　positive　or　negative　effect　on　his　life　but　in　the　sheer　luminous　power　of　it；　the　vividness；　the　ferocity；　the　amount　and　degree　of　pure　sensation　that　it　provides。　Intensity。
　Vess　puts　the　sound　suppressor　in　the　console　between　the　seats。　He　drops　the　pistol　into　the　right…hand　pocket　of　his　raincoat。　He　is　not　expecting　trouble。　Nevertheless；　he　goes　nowhere　unarmed。　One　can　never　be　too　careful。　Besides；　opportunities　often　arise　unexpectedly。
　In　the　driver's　seat　again；　he　takes　the　keys　from　the　ignition　and　checks　that　the　brake　is　firmly　set。　He　opens　the　door　and　gets　out　of　the　motor　home。
　All　eight　gasoline　pumps　are　self…service。　He　is　parked　at　the　outer　of　the　two　service　islands。　He　needs　to　go　to　the　cashier　in　the　associated　convenience　store　to　pay　in　advance　and　to　identify　the　pump　that　he'll　be　using　so　it　can　be　turned　on。
　The　night　breathes。　At　higher　altitudes；　a　strong　gale　drives　masses　of　clouds　out　of　the　northwest　toward　the　southeast。　Here　at　ground　level；　a　lesser　exhalation　of　cold　wind　huffs　between　the　pumps；　whistles　alongside　the　motor　home；　and　flaps　the　raincoat　against　Vess's　legs。　The　convenience　store…buff　brick　below；　white　aluminum　siding　above；　big　windows　full　of　merchandise…stands　in　front　of　rising　hills　that　are　covered　with　huge　evergreens；　the　wind　soughs　through　their　branches　with　a　hollow；　ancient；　lonely　voice。
　Out　on　Highway　101；　there　is　little　traffic　at　this　hour。　When　a　truck　passes；　it　cleaves　the　wind　with　a　cry　that　seems　strangely　Jurassic。
　A　Pontiac　with　Washington　State　license　plates　is　parked　at　the　inner　service　island；　under　the　yellow　sodium…vapor　lamps。　Other　than　the　motor　home；　it　is　the　only　vehicle　in　sight。　A　bumper　sticker　on　the　back　announces　that　ELECTRICIANS　KNOW　HOW　TO　PLUG　IT　IN。
　On　the　roof　of　the　building；　positioned　for　maximum　visibility　from　10　1；　is　a　red　neon　sign　that　announces　OPEN　24　HOURS。　Red　is　the　quality　of　the　sound　each　passing　truck　makes　out　there　on　the　highway。　In　the　glow；　his　hands　look　as　if　he　never　washed　them。
　As　Vess　approaches　the　entrance；　the　glass　door　swings　open；　and　a　man　es　out　carrying　a　family…size　bag　of　potato　chips　and　a　sixpack　of　Coke　in　cans。　He　is　a　chubby　guy　with　long　sideburns　and　a　walrus　mustache。
　Gesturing　at　the　sky；　he　says；　〃Storm's　ing；〃　as　he　hurries　past　Vess。　〃Good；〃　Vess　says。　He　likes　storms。　He　enjoys　driving　in　them。　The　more　torrential　the　raifi；　the　better。　With　lightning　flashing　and　trees　cracking　in　the　wind　and　pavement　as　slick　as　ice。
　The　guy　with　the　walrus　mustache　goes　to　the　Pontiac。　Vess　enters　the　convenience　store；　wondering　what　an　electrician　from　Washington　is　doing　on　the　road　in　northern　California　at　this　ungodly　hour　of　the　night。
　He's　fascinated　by　the　way　in　which　lives　connect　briefly；　with　a　potential　for　drama　that　is　sometimes　fulfilled　and　sometimes　not。　A　man　stops　for　gasolin