dk.intensity-第44部分

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　Now　she　closed　her　eyes。　Opened　them　at　once。　She　didn't　want　to　see　him；　looming　and　handsome　with　his　nice　smile；　dry　bloodstains　on　his　clothes　and　nothing　disturbing　in　his　eyes。　But　she　didn't　dare　look　away。
　Chyna　Shepberd；　untoucbed　and　alive。
　〃I　put　four　bullets　in；〃　he　said；　〃but　then　they　started　popping　back　out。　A　little　postmortem　gas　release。　It　was　ridiculous；　quite　funny；　really；　but　I　was　pressed　for　time；　as　you　might　understand；　and　finally　it　was　just　too　much　trouble　to　do　the　fifth。〃
　Maybe　this　was　best。　Maybe　one　more　round　of　Russian　roulette；　and　then　peace　at　long　last；　no　more　trying　to　understand　why　there　was　so　much　cruelty　in　the　world　when　kindness　was　the　easier　choice。
　He　said；　〃This　is　a　five…shot　weapon。〃　
　The　empty　socket　of　the　muzzle　stared　blindly　at　her；　and　she　wondered　if　she　would　see　the　flash　and　hear　the　roar　or　whether　the　blackness　in　the　barrel　would　bee　her　own　blackness；　without　any　awareness　of　the　exchange。
　Then　the　killer　turned　the　revolver　away　from　her　and　pulled　the　trigger。　The　blast　rattled　windows；　and　the　slug　tore　through　a　cabinet　door　along　the　nearest　wall；　spraying　splinters　of　pine　and　shattering　dishes　inside。
　Bits　of　wood　were　still　flying　when　Chyna　grabbed　a　drawer　and　yanked　it　out　of　the　cabinet。　It　was　so　heavy　that　it　almost　pulled　out　of　her　hand；　but　she　was　suddenly　strong　with　desperation；　and　she　slung　it　upward　at　the　killer's　head；　the　contents　spilling　from　it　as　it　arced　high　toward　his　brow。
　Spoons；　forks；　butter　knives　dueling　in　the　air；　flashing　with　cold　fluorescent　reflections；　ringing　down　on　him　and　across　the　tile　floor；　startled　him　backward　into　the　dinette　table。
　Even　as　the　killer　stumbled　away　in　surprise；　Chyna　was　moving　toward　the　sink。　An　instant　after　she　heard　the　empty　drawer　crash　against　something；　she　put　her　hand　on　the　grip　of　the　pistol。　She　saw　a　red　dot　on　the　steel　frame；　which　was　probably　exposed　when　the　safety　was　off；　as　on　other　pistols　with　which　she　was　familiar；　and　she　didn't　have　to　worry　about　empty　chambers；　as　with　the　revolver；　because　if　there　was　even　one　bullet　in　the　magazine；　just　one；　it　would　be　in　the　breech；　please；　and　at　this　close　range　one　round　might　be　all　that　she　needed。
　But　her　trigger　finger　was　already　stiffening　and　swelling；　and　when　she　tried　to　hook　it　through　the　guard；　the　flare　of　pain　rocked　her。　She　bobbled　on　a　black　tide　of　nausea；　swayed；　fumbling　at　the　trigger　guard　with　her　middle　finger。
　Skating　across　the　littered　floor　with　an　ice…brittle　clatter…clink　of　scattering　tableware；　the　killer　reached　Chyna　before　she　could　bring　the　gun　up　and　turn。　He　slammed　his　arm　down　on　hers　and　trapped　her　hand　against　the　countertop。
　Reflexively　her　finger　pulled　the　trigger。　A　bullet　smashed　the　backsplash。　Chips　of　yellow　ceramic　tile　sprayed　in　her　face；　and　she　might　have　been　blinded　if　she　hadn't　squeezed　her　eyes　shut　in　time。
　He　slammed　the　heel　of　his　hand　against　the　side　of　her　head；　sending　a　spray　of　darkness　across　the　backs　of　her　eyes；　like　shards　of　exploding　black　glass；　and　then　he　clubbed　his　fist　against　the　nape　of　her　neck。
　With　no　memory　of　having　fallen；　Chyna　was　lying　on　the　kitchen　floor；　with　a　bug's…eye　view　across　the　vinyl　tile；　gazing　through　a　cata…clysmic　tumble　of　eating　utensils。　Interesting。　Spoons　were　the　size　of　shovels。　Forks　as　big　as　pitchforks。　Knives　were　lances。
　The　killer's　boots。　Black　boots。　Moving　around。　For　a　moment　she　became　confused；　thinking　that　she　was　back　in　the　Templeton　house　in　the　Napa　Valley；　hiding　under　the　bed　in　the　guest　room。　But　there　hadn't　been　flatware　scattered　across　that　bedroom　floor；　and　when　she　focused　on　the　stainless…steel　utensils　again；　her　thoughts　cleared。　〃Now　I'm　going　to　have　to　wash　all　these；〃　the　killer　said；　〃before　I　put　them　away。〃
　He　was　circling　through　the　kitchen；　picking　up　the　flatware　and　being　methodical　about　it；　keeping　spoons　with　spoons；　knives　with　knives。
　Chyna　was　surprised　that　she　could　move　her　arm；　which　was　as　heavy　as　a　great　tree　limb；　a　petrified　tree　once　wood　but　now　stone。　Nevertheless；　she　managed　to　point　at　the　killer　and　even　curl　her　throbbing　trigger　finger；　swallowing　her　pain　and　the　bitter　taste　that　came　with　it。
　The　gun　didn't　fire。　She　squeezed　the　trigger　again；　and　still　there　was　no　boom；　and　then　she　realized　that　her　hand　was　empty。　She　wasn't　holding　the　pistol。
　Strange。　One　of　the　knives　was　near　her　hand。　It　was　a　table　knife　with　a　finely　serrated　edge；　suitable　for　spreading　butter　or　for　slicing　wellcooked　chicken　or　for　cutting　green　beans　into　bite…size　pieces；　but　not　ideal　for　stabbing　someone　to　death。　A　knife　was　a　knife；　however；　better　than　no　weapon　at　all；　and　she　quietly　closed　her　hand　around　it。
　Now　all　she　had　to　do　was　find　the　strength　to　get　off　the　floor。　Curiously；　she　couldn't　even　lift　her　head。　She　had　never　before　felt　so　tired。
　She　had　been　hit　hard　on　the　back　of　the　neck。　She　wondered　about　spinal　injury。
　She　refused　to　weep。　She　had　the　knife。　The　killer　came　to　her；　stooped；　and　extracted　the　knife　from　her　hand。　She　was　amazed　at　how　easily　it　slipped　from　her　fingers；　even　though　she　clutched　it　ferociously；　as　if　it　hadn't　been　a　knife　at　all　but　a　sliver　of　melting　ice。　
　〃Bad　girl；〃　he　said；　and　rapped　the　flat　of　the　blade　against　the　top　of　her　skull。
　He　continued　with　the　cleanup。　While　trying　not　to　think　about　spinal　injuries；　Chyna　managed　to　get　her　hand　around　a　fork。
　He　returned　and　took　that　away　from　her　too。　〃No；〃　he　said；　as　though　he　were　training　a　recalcitrant　puppy。　〃No。〃
　〃Bastard；〃　she　said；　dismayed　to　hear　a　slur　in　her　voice。
　〃Sticks　and　stones。〃
　〃Fucking　bastard。〃
　〃Oh；　very　pretty；〃　he　said　scornfully。
　〃Shithead。〃
　〃I　should　wash　your　mouth　out　with　soap。〃
　〃Asshole。〃
　〃Your　mother　never　taught　you　words　like　that。〃
　〃You　don't　know　my　mother；〃　she　said　thickly。
　He　hit　her　again；　a　hard　chop　to　the　side　of　the　neck　this　time。　Then　Chyna　lay　in　darkness；　listening　worriedly　to　her　mother's　distant　gay　laughter　and　strange　men's　voices。　Shattering　glass。　Cursing。　Thunder　and　wind。　Palm　trees　thrashing　in　the　night　over　Key　West。　The　quality　of　the　laughter　changed。　Mocking　now。　Crashes　that　weren't　thunder。　And　the　skittery　palmetto　beetle　over　her　bare　legs　and　across　her　back。　Other　times。　Other　places。　In　the　vapory　realm　of　dreams；　the　iron　fist　of　memory。
　Shortly　after　nine　o'clock　in　the　morning；　after　dealing　with　the　woman　and　washing　the　flatware；　Mr。　Vess　sets　loose　the　dogs。
　At　the　back　door；　at　the　front　door；　and　in　his　bedroom；　there　are　call　buttons　that；　when　pushed；　sound　a　soft　buzzer　in　the　kennel　behind　the　barn。　When　the　Dobermans　have　been　sent　there　with　the　word　crib；　as　they　were　sent　earlier；　the　buzzer　is　a　mand　that　at　once　returns　them　to　active　patrol。
　He　uses　the　call　button　by　the　kitchen　door　and　then　steps　to　the　large　window　by　the　dinette　to　watch　the　backyard。
　The　sky　is　low　and　gray；　still　shrouding　the　Siskiyou　Mountains；　but　rain　is　no　longer　falling。　The　drooping　boughs　of　the　evergreens　drip　steadily。　The　bark　on　the　deciduous　trees　is　a　sodden　black；　their　limbs…some　with　the　first　fragile　green　buds　of　spring；　others　still　barren…are　so　coaly　that　they　appear　to　have　been　stripped　by　fire。
　Some　people　might　think　that　the　scene　is　passive　now；　with　the　thunder　spent　and　the　lightning　extinguished；　but　Mr。　Vess　knows　that　a　storm　is　as　powerful　in　its　aftermath　as　in　its　raging。　He　is　in　harmony　with　this　new　kind　of　power；　the　quiescent　power　of　growth　that　water　bestows　on　the　land。
　From　the　back　of　the　barn　e　the　Dobermans。　They　pad　side　by　side　for　a　distance；　but　then　split　up　and　proceed　each　in　his　own　direction。
　They　are　not　on　attack　status　at　this　time。　They　will　chase　down　and　detain　any　intruder；　but　they　will　not　kill　him。　To　prime　them　for　blood；　Mr。　Vess　must　speak　the　name　Nietzscbe。
　One　of　the　dogs…Liederkranz…es　onto　the　back　porch；　where　he　stares　at　the　window；　adoring　his　master。　His　tail　wags　once；　and　then　once　again；　but　he　is　on　duty；　and　this　brief　and　measured　display　of　affection　is　all　that　h