dk.intensity-第21部分

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w　of　a　wolf。
　Maybe　the　rumble　of　the　pressors　for　the　coolers　and　freezers　would　provide　enough　covering　sound　to　save　her。　She　wanted　to　lean　out　to　one　side　and　then　the　other　to　check　the　flanking　aisles；　but　she　could　not　summon　the　courage　to　look。　She　was　crazily　certain　that；　leaning　out；　she'd　e　face…to…face　with　the　eater　of　spiders。
　She　had　thought　that　nothing　could　be　more　devastating　than　finding　the　bodies　of　Paul　and　Sarah…and　later　Laura…but　this　had　been　worse。　This　time　she　had　been　in　the　same　room　when　murder　happened；　close　enough　not　merely　to　hear　the　screams　but　to　feel　them　like　punches　in　the　chest。
　She　supposed　the　killer　was　robbing　the　place；　but　he　didn't　need　to　kill　the　clerks　just　to　get　the　money。　Necessity；　of　course；　was　not　a　deciding　factor　with　him。　He　had　killed　them　simply　because　he　enjoyed　doing　so。　He　was　on　a　roll。　He　was　hot。
　She　seemed　trapped　in　an　endless　night。　A　breakdown　in　the　cosmic　machinery；　gears　jammed。　Stars　locked　in　place。　No　sunrise　ever　rising。　And　ing　down　through　the　frozen　sky；　a　terrible　coldness。
　A　light　flashed；　and　Chyna　brought　her　hands　up　defensively　in　front　of　her　face。　Then　she　realized　that　the　flash　had　e　from　the　other　end　of　the　store。　And　again。
　
　Edgler　Vess　is　not　a　hunter；　as　he　had　told　the　redheaded　cashier；　but　a　connoisseur　who　collects　exquisite　images；　recording　most　of　them　with　the　camera　of　his　mind's　eye　but　once　in　a　while　with　the　Polaroid　camera。　Memories　of　great　beauty　enliven　his　thoughts　every　day　and　form　the　basis　of　his　gratifying　dreams。
　Each　camera　flash　seems　to　linger　in　the　huge　eyes　of　the　Asian　clerk；　glimmering　as　if　it　were　his　spirit　trapped　behind　his　corneas　and　seeking　egress　from　the　cooling　mortal　coil。
　Once；　in　Nevada；　Vess　had　killed　an　inparable　twenty…year…old　brunette；　whose　face　had　made　Claudia　Schiffer　and　Kate　Moss　look　like　hags。　Before　meticulously　destroying　her；　he　had　taken　six　photographs。　With　threats；　he　had　even　managed　to　make　her　smile　in　three　of　the　shots；　she　had　a　radiant　smile。　Once　every　thirty　days　during　the　three　months　following　that　memorable　episode；　he　had　cut　up　and　eaten　one　of　the　photos　in　which　she'd　been　smiling；　and　with　the　consumption　of　each；　he　had　been　fiercely　aroused　by　the　destruction　of　her　beauty。　He　had　felt　her　smile　in　his　belly；　a　warming　radiance；　and　knew　that　he　himself　was　more　beautiful　because　he　contained　it。
　He　can't　remember　the　brunette's　name。　Names　are　never　of　any　importance　to　him。
　Knowing　the　name　of　the　young　Asian　gentleman；　however；　will　be　helpful　when　he　describes　this　episode　to　Ariel。　He　puts　aside　the　Polaroid；　rolls　the　dead　man　over；　and　takes　his　wallet　from　his　hip　pocket。
　Holding　the　driver's　license　in　the　light　from　the　gooseneck　lamp；　he　sees　that　the　name　is　Thomas　Fujimoto。
　Vess　decides　to　call　him　Fuji。　Like　the　mountain。　He　returns　the　license　to　the　wallet　and　tucks　the　wallet　in　the　pocket。　He　takes　none　of　the　dead　man's　money。　He　won't　touch　the　cash　in　the　register　either…except　to　extract　the　forty　dollars　in　change　that　is　due　him。　He　isn't　a　thief。
　With　three　photographs　taken；　he　needs　only　to　keep　his　promise　to　Fuji　and　prove　that　he　is　a　man　of　his　word。　It　is　an　awkward　bit　of　business；　but　he　finds　it　amusing。
　Now　he　must　deal　with　the　security　system；　which　has　recorded　everything　that　he's　done。　A　video　camera　is　mounted　over　the　front　door　and　focused　on　the　cashiers'　counter。
　Edgler　Foreman　Vess　has　no　desire　to　see　himself　on　television　news。　Living　with　intensity　is　virtually　impossible　when　one　is　in　prison。
　Chyna　was　in　control　of　her　breathing　again；　but　her　heart　knocked　so　hard　that　her　vision　pulsed；　and　the　carotid　arteries　thumped　in　her　throat　as　though　jolts　of　electricity　were　slamming　through　them。
　Again　convinced　that　safety　lay　in　movement；　she　leaned　into　the　light　and　looked　around　the　corner　into　the　aisle　in　front　of　the　coolers。　The　killer　was　not　in　sight；　although　she　could　hear　him　moving　at　the　other　end　of　the　store：　crisp　furtive　rustlings　like　a　rat　in　a　drift　of　autumn　leaves。
　On　her　hands　and　knees；　stomach　clenched　in　terror；　she　crawled　into　the　spill　of　cooler　light　far　enough　to　look　along　the　narrow　aisle；　seeking　something　on　the　shelves　to　the　right　that　might　serve　as　a　weapon。　Without　the　butcher　knife；　she　felt　helpless。
　No　knives　were　conveniently　for　sale。　Nearest　to　her　were　hanging　displays　of　novelty　key　chains；　fingernail　clippers；　pocket　bs；　styptic　pencils；　packets　of　moistened　towelettes；　eyeglass…cleaning　papers；　decks　of　playing　cards；　and　disposable　cigarette　lighters。
　She　reached　up　and　took　one　of　the　lighters　off　the　rack。　She　wasn't　sure　how　she　could　use　it　to　defend　herself；　but　in　the　absence　of　a　satisfyingly　sharp　length　of　steel；　fire　was　the　only　weapon　available　to　her。
　The　overhead　fluorescent　panels　blinked　on。　The　brightness　froze　her。
　She　looked　toward　the　far　end　of　the　store。　The　killer　wasn't　in　sight；　but　across　one　wall　his　slouched　shadow　swelled　huge　and　then　shrank　and　then　glided　away　like　that　of　a　moth　swooping　past　a　floodlamp。
　Vess　switches　the　lights　on　only　to　look　at　the　video　camera　mounted　above　the　front　door。
　Of　course　the　incriminating　tape　is　not　contained　in　the　camera。　If　access　were　that　easy；　even　some　of　the　dimwit　thugs　who　make　a　living　sticking　up　service　stations　and　convenience　stores　would　be　smart　enough　to　climb　on　a　stool　and　eject　the　cassette　to　take　it　with　them　or　otherwise　destroy　the　evidence。　The　camera　is　sending　the　image　to　a　video　recorder　elsewhere　in　the　building。
　The　system　is　an　add…on；　so　the　transmission　cable　isn't　buried　in　the　wall。　This　is　fortunate　for　Vess；　because　if　the　cable　were　hidden；　the　search　would　be　more　time…consuming。　The　line　isn't　even　tucked　up　above　the　suspended　acoustic…tile　ceiling。　Bracketed　to　the　Sheetrock；　it　leads　openly　to　the　back　partition　behind　the　cashiers'　counter　and　through　a　half…inch…diameter　hole　in　that　wall　to　another　room。
　There's　a　door　to　that　room　as　well。　He　finds　an　office　with　one　desk；　gray　metal　filing　cabinets；　a　small　safe　with　a　bination　lock；　and　wood…pattern　Formica　storage　cabinets。
　Fortunately；　the　recorder　isn't　in　the　safe。　The　transmission　cable　es　through　the　wall　from　the　store；　continues　through　two　more　brackets　for　a　distance　of　about　seven　feet；　then　drops　down　through　the　top　of　one　of　the　storage　cabinets。　No　attempt　at　concealment　whatsoever。
　He　opens　the　upper　doors　to　the　cabinet；　doesn't　find　what　he　seeks；　and　checks　below。　Three　machines　are　stacked　atop　one　another。
　Tape　whispers　through　the　bottom　machine；　and　the　indicator　light　shines　above　the　word　RECORD。　He　presses　the　STOP　button；　then　EJECT；　and　he　drops　the　cassette　into　his　raincoat　pocket。
　He　might　play　it　for　Ariel。　The　quality　will　not　be　first…rate；　because　this　is　an　old　system；　outdated　technology。　But　the　precious　girl　will　be　impressed　by　his　bold　performance　even　in　too　brightly　lit　scenes　on　black…and…white　tape　that　has　been　rerecorded　too　often。
　A　telephone　stands　on　the　desk。　He　uncouples　it　from　the　cord　that　leads　to　the　wall　jack　and　uses　the　butt　of　the　shotgun　to　smash　the　keypad。
　A　new　shift　of　clerks　will　e　on　duty；　probably　at　eight　or　nine　o'clock；　in　four　or　five　hours。　By　then　Vess　will　be　long　gone。　But　there's　no　point　in　making　it　easy　for　them　to　call　the　police。　Something　might　go　wrong　with　his　plans；　delaying　him　here　or　on　the　highway；　and　then　he　will　be　glad　that　he　bought　himself　an　extra　half　hour　by　destroying　the　telephones。
　Beside　the　door　is　a　pegboard　on　which　hang　eight　keys；　each　with　its　own　tag。　With　the　exception　of　the　current　regrettable　interruption　in　service；　this　establishment　is　open　twenty…four　hours　a　day　yet　there's　a　key　to　lock　the　front　door。　He　slips　it　off　its　peg。
　In　the　work　area　behind　the　cashiers'　counter　once　more；　aft　r　closing　the　office　door　behind　him；　Vess　snaps　down　a　switch；　and　Ye　overhead　fluorescents　wink　out。
　He　stands　in　the　dim　light　that　remains；　breathing　through　his　mouth；　licking　his　lips；　rolling　his　tongue　over　his　gums；　tasting　the　lingering　acrid　scent　of　gunfire。　T