dk.intensity-第38部分

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d　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　him；　he　might　kill　Ariel　and　mit　suicide。
　In　fact；　that　was　almost　certainly　how　it　would　play　out　as　soon　as　any　cops　showed　up。　He　would　know　that　his　freedom　was　at　an　end；　that　his　games　were　over；　that　he　would　have　no　more　fin；　and　all　he　would　see　available　to　him　was　one　last；　apocalyptic　celebration　of　madness。
　Chyna　couldn't　bear　to　lose　this　imperiled　girl　so　soon　after　losing　Laura；　failing　Laura。　Intolerable。　She　couldn't　keep　failing　people　as；　all　her　life；　others　had　iailed　her。　Meaning　wasn't　to　be　found　in　psychology　classes　and　textbooks　but　in　caring；　in　hard　sacrifice；　in　faith；　in　action。　She　didn't　want　to　take　these　risks。　She　wanted　to　live…but　for　someone　other　than　herself　At　least　now　she　had　a　gun。　And　the　advantage　of　surprise。　Earlier；　at　the　Templeton　house　and　in　the　motor　home　and　then　at　the　service　station；　she'd　also　had　the　advantage　of　surprise；　but　she　hadn't　been　in　possession　of　the　revolver。
　She　realized　that　she　was　arguing　herself　into　taking　the　most　dangerous　course　of　action　open　to　her；　making　excuses　for　going　into　the　house。　Going　into　the　house　was　obviously　crazy；　Jesus；　a　totally　crazy　move；　Jesus；　but　she　was　striving　hard　to　rationalize　it；　because　she　had　already　made　up　her　mind　that　this　was　what　she　was　going　to　do。
　ing　out　of　the　motor　home；　the　woman　has　a　gun　in　her　right　hand。　It　looks　as　if　it　might　be　a　…　3　8　…　perhaps　a　Chief's　Special。
　This　is　a　popular　weapon　with　some　cops。　But　this　woman　doesn't　move　like　a　cop；　doesn't　handle　the　weapon　as　a　cop　would…although　clearly　she　is　somewhat　fortable　with　a　gun。
　No；　she's　definitely　not　an　officer　of　the　law。　Something　else。　Something　weird。
　Mr。　Vess　has　never　been　so　intrigued　by　anyone　as　he　is　by　this　spunky　little　lady；　this　mysterious　adventurer。　She's　a　real　treat。
　The　moment　she　sprints　from　the　motor　home　to　the　house　and　out　of　sight；　Vess　moves　from　the　window　on　the　south　wall　of　his　bedroom　to　the　window　on　the　east　wall。　It　is　also　covered　by　a　blue　drape；　which　he　parts。
　No　sign　of　her。　He　waits；　holding　his　breath；　but　she　doesn't　head　east　along　the　lane。　After　half　a　minute　or　so；　he　knows　that　she　isn't　going　to　run。
　If　she　had　taken　off；　she　would　have　sorely　disappointed　him。　He　doesn't　think　of　her　as　a　person　who　would　run。　She　is　bold。　He　wants　her　to　be　bold。
　Had　she　run；　he　would　have　sent　the　dogs　after　her；　not　with　instructions　to　kill　but　merely　to　detain。　Then　he　would　have　retrieved　her　to　question　her　at　his　leisure。
　But　sbe　is　ing　to　bim。　For　whatever　unimaginable　reason；　she　will　follow　him　into　the　house。　With　her　revolver。
　He　will　need　to　be　cautious。　But　oh；　what　fun　he　is　having。　Her　gun　only　makes　the　game　more　intense。
　The　front　porch　is　immediately　below　this　window；　but　he　isn't　able　to　see　it　because　of　the　overhanging　roof。　The　mystery　woman　is　somewhere　on　the　porch。　He　canfeel　her　close；　perhaps　directly　under　him。
　He　retrieves　his　pistol　from　the　nightstand　and　glides　quietly　across　the　wall…to…wall　carpet　into　the　open　doorway。　He　steps　into　the　hall　and　quickly　to　the　head　of　the　enclosed　stairs；　where　he　stops。　He　can　see　only　the　landing　below；　not　the　living　room；　but　he　listens。
　If　she　opens　the　front　door；　he　will　know；　because　one　of　the　hinges　makes　a　dry　ratcheting　sound。　It's　not　a　loud　noise；　but　it　is　distinctive。　Because　he's　listening　specifically　for　that　corroded　hinge；　not　even　the　drumming　of　the　rain　on　the　roof；　the　pounding　of　the　shower　into　e　bathtub；　and　〃In　the　Mood〃　on　the　radio　can　entirely　mask　the　sound。
　Crazy。　But　she　was　going　to　do　it。　For　Ariel。　For　Laura。　But　also　for　herself。　Maybe　most　of　all　for　herself。
　After　all　these　years　under　beds；　in　closets；　in　attic　shadows…no　more　hiding。　After　all　these　years　of　getting　by；　keeping　her　head　down；　drawing　no　attention　to　herself…suddenly　she　had　to　do　something　or　explode。　She'd　been　living　in　a　prison　since　the　day　she'd　been　bom；　even　after　leaving　her　mother；　a　prison　of　fear　and　shame　and　lowered　expectations；　and　she'd　been　so　accustomed　to　her　circumscribed　life　that　she　had　not　recognized　the　bars。　Now　righteous　rage　released　her；　and　she　was　crazy　with　freedom。
　The　chilly　wind　kicked　up；　and　shatters　of　rain　blasted　under　the　porch　roof。
　Seashell　wind　chimes　clattered；　an　irritation　of　flat　notes。　Chyna　eased　past　the　window；　trying　to　avoid　several　snails　on　the　porch　floor。　The　drapes　remained　tightly　shut。
　The　front　door　was　closed　but　unlocked。　She　slowly　pushed　it　inward。　One　hinge　rasped。
　The　big…band　tune　finished　with　a　flourish；　and　at　once　two　voices　arose　from　deeper　in　the　house。　Chyna　froze　on　the　threshold；　but　then　she　realized　that　she　was　listening　to　an　advertisement。　The　music　had　been　ing　from　a　radio。
　It　was　possible　that　the　killer　shared　the　house　with　someone　other　than　Ariel；　and　other　than　the　procession　of　victims　or　dead　bodies　brought　back　from　his　road　trips。　Chyna　couldn't　conceive　of　his　having　a　family；　a　wife　and　children；　a　psychotic　Brady　Bunch　waiting　for　him；　but　there　were　rare　cases　on　record　of　homicidal　sociopaths　working　together；　like　the　two　men　who　proved　to　be　the　Hillside　Strangler　in　Los　Angeles　a　couple　of　decades　ago。
　Voices　on　a　radio；　however；　were　no　threat。　With　the　revolver　held　in　front　of　her；　she　went　inside。　The　ining　wind　whistled　into　the　house；　rattling　a　wobbly　lampshade　and　threatening　to　betray　her；　so　she　closed　the　door。
　The　radio　voices　came　down　an　enclosed　stairwell　to　her　left。　She　kept　one　eye　on　the　doorless　opening　at　the　foot　of　those　steps；　in　case　more　than　voices　descended。
　The　front　room　on　the　ground　floor　ran　the　entire　width　of　the　small　house；　and　although　it　was　illuminated　only　by　the　gray　light　from　the　windows；　it　was　nothing　like　what　she　had　expected　to　find。　There　were　hunter…green　leather　armchairs　with　footstools；　a　tartan…plaid　sofa　on　large　ball　feet；　rustic　oak　end　tables；　and　a　section　of　bookshelves　that　held　perhaps　three　hundred　volumes。　On　the　hearth　of　the　big　river…rock　'fireplace　were　gleaming　brass　andirons；　and　on　the　mantel　was　an　old　clock　with　two　bronze　stags　rearing　up　on　their　hind　legs。　The　decor　was　thoroughly　but　not　aggressively　masculineno　glassily　staring　deer　or　bear　heads　on　the　walls；　no　hunting　prints；　no　rifles　on　display；　just　cozy　and　fortable。　Where　she　had　been　expecting　pervasive　clutter　as　evidence　of　his　seriously　disordered　mind；　there　was　neatness。　Instead　of　filth；　cleanliness；　even　in　the　shadows；　Chyna　could　see　that　the　room　was　well　dusted　and　swept。　Rather　than　being　burdened　with　the　stench　of　death；　the　house　was　redolent　of　lemon…oil　furniture　polish　and　a　subtle　pine…scented　air　freshener；　as　well　as　the　faint　and　pleasant　smell　of　char　from　the　fireplace。
　Selling　H　&　R　Block　tax　services　and　then　doughnuts；　the　radio　voices　bounced　with　enthusiasm　down　the　stairs。　The　killer　had　it　cranked　up　too　loud；　the　volume　level　seemed　wrong　to　Chyna；　as　if　he　was　trying　to　mask　other　sounds。
　There　was　another　sound；　similar　to　but　different　from　the　rain；　and　after　a　moment