dk.intensity-第47部分

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　again；　obviously　on　guard　duty。
　During　the　previous　night；　Chyna　had　used　rage　to　overe　her　terror　before　it　had　incapacitated　her；　but　now　she　discovered　that　humiliation　was　even　more　effective　at　quelling　fear。　Having　been　unable　to　protect　herself；　having　wound　up　in　bondage…that　was　not　the　source　of　her　humiliation；　what　mortified　worse　was　her　failure　to　fulfill　her　promise　to　the　girl　in　the　cellar。
　I　am　your　guardian。　I'll　keep　you　safe。　She　kept　returning；　in　memory；　to　the　upholstered　vestibule　and　the　view　port　on　the　inner　door。　The　girl　among　the　dolls　had　given　no　indication　that　she　had　heard　the　promise。　But　Chyna　was　sick　with　the　certainty　that　she　had　raised　false　hopes；　that　the　girl　would　feel　betrayed　and　more　abandoned　than　ever；　and　that　she　would　withdraw　even　further　into　her　private　Elsewhere。
　I　am　your　guardian。　In　retrospect；　Chyna　found　her　arrogance　not　merely　astonishing　but　perverse；　delusional。　In　twenty…six　years　of　living；　she'd　never　saved　anyone；　in　any　sense　whatsoever。　She　was　no　heroine；　no　mysterynovel…series　character　with　just　a　colorful　dash　of　angst　and　a　soupqon　of　endearing　character　flaws　and；　otherwise；　the　petence　of　Sherlock　Holmes　and　James　Bond　bined。　Keeping　herself　alive；　mentally　stable；　and　emotionally　intact　had　been　enough　of　a　struggle　for　her。　She　was　still　a　lost　girl　herself；　fumbling　blindly　through　the　years　for　some　insight　or　resolution　that　probably　wasn't　even　out　there　to　be　found；　yet　she'd　stood　at　that　view　port　and　promised　deliverance。
　I　am　your　guardian。　She　opened　her　folded　hands。　She　flattened　her　hands　on　the　table　and　slid　them　across　the　wood　as　if　smoothing　away　wrinkles　in　a　tablecloth；　and　as　she　moved；　her　chains　rattled。
　She　wasn't　a　fighter；　after　all；　no　one's　paladin；　she　worked　as　a　waitress。　She　was　good　at　it；　piling　up　tips；　because　sixteen　years　in　her　mother's　bent　world　had　taught　her　that　one　way　to　ensure　survival　was　to　be　ingratiating。　With　her　customers；　she　was　indefatigably　charming；　relentlessly　agreeable；　and　always　eager　to　please。　The　relationship　between　a　diner　and　a　waitress　was；　to　her　way　of　thinking；　the　ideal　relationship；　because　it　was　brief；　formal；　generally　conducted　with　a　high　degree　of　politeness；　and　required　no　baring　of　the　heart。
　I　am　your　guardian。　In　her　obsessive　determination　to　protect　herself　at　all　costs；　she　was　always　friendly　with　the　other　waitresses　where　she　worked；　but　she　never　made　friends　with　any　of　them。　Friendships　involved　cornmitment；　risks。　She　had　learned　not　to　make　herself　vulnerable　to　the　hurt　and　betrayal　that　ensued　from　mitments。
　Over　the　years；　she'd　had　affairs　with　only　two　men。　She　had　liked　both　and　had　loved　the　second；　but　the　first　relationship　had　lasted　eleven　months　and　the　second　only　thirteen。　Lovers；　if　they　were　worthwhile；　required　more　than　simple　mitment；　they　needed　revelation；　sharing；　the　bond　of　emotional　intimacy。　She　found　it　difficult　to　reveal　much　about　her　childhood　or　her　mother；　in　part　because　her　utter　helplessness　during　those　years　embarrassed　her。　More　to　the　point；　she　had　e　to　the　hard　realization　that　her　mother　had　never　really　loved　her；　perhaps　had　never　been　capable　of　loving　her　or　anyone。　And　how　could　she　expect　to　be　cherished　by　any　man　who　knew　that　she'd　been　unloved　even　by　her　mother？
　She　was　aware　that　this　attitude　was　irrational；　but　awareness　didn't　free　her。　She　understood　that　she　was　not　responsible　for　what　her　mother　had　done　to　her；　but　regardless　of　what　so　many　therapists　claimed　in　their　books　and　on　their　radio　talk　shows；　understanding　alone　didn't　lead　to　healing。　Even　after　a　decade　beyond　her　mother's　control；　Chyna　was　at　times　convinced　that　all　the　dark　events　of　all　those　troubled　years　could　have　been　avoided　if　only　she；　Chyna；　had　been　a　better　girl；　more　worthy。
　I　am　your　guardian。
　She　folded　her　hands　on　the　table　again。　She　leaned　forward　until　her　forehead　was　pressed　to　the　backs　of　her　thumbs；　and　she　closed　her　eyes。
　The　only　close　friend　she'd　ever　had　was　Laura　Templeton。　Their　relationship　was　something　that　she　had　wanted　badly　but　had　never　sought；　desperately　needed　but　did　little　to　nurture；　it　was　purely　a　testament　to　Laura's　vivaciousness；　perseverance；　and　selflessness　in　the　face　of　Chyna's　caution　and　reserve；　a　result　of　Laura's　dear　heart　and　her　singular　capacity　to　love。　And　now　Laura　was　dead。
　I　am　your　guardian。　In　Laura's　room；　under　the　dead　gaze　of　Freud；　Chyna　had　knelt　beside　the　bed　and　whispered　to　her　shackled　friend；　I'll　get　you　out　of　here。　God；　how　it　hurt　to　think　of　it。　I'll　get　you　out　of　here。　Her　stomach　knotted　excruciatingly　with　self…disgust。　I'llfind　a　weapon；　she　had　promised。　Laura；　selfless　to　the　end；　had　urged　her　to　run；　to　get　out。　Don't　diefor　me；　Laura　had　said。　But　Chyna　had　answered；　I'll　he　hack。
　Now　here　came　grief　again；　swooping　like　a　great　dark　bird　into　her　heart；　and　she　almost　let　its　wings　enfold　her；　too　eager　for　the　strange　solace　of　those　battering　pinions…until　she　realized　that　she　was　using　grief　to　knock　humiliation　from　its　perch。　Grieving；　she　would　have　no　room　for　self…loathing。
　I　am　your　guardian。　Although　the　clerk　had　never　fired　the　revolver；　she　should　have　checked　it。　She　should　have　known。　Somehow。　Some　way。　Though　she　could　not　possibly　have　known　what　Vess　had　done　with　the　bullets；　she　should　have　known。
　Laura　had　always　told　her　that　she　was　too　hard　on　herself；　that　she　would　never　heal　if　she　kept　inflicting　new　bruises　on　the　old　in　endless　self…flagellation。
　But　Laura　was　dead。　I　am　your　guardian。　Chyna's　humiliation　festered　into　shame。　And　if　humiliation　was　a　good　tool　for　repressing　terror；　shame　was　even　better。　Steeping　in　shame；　she　knew　no　fear　at　all；　even　though　she　was　in　shackles　in　the　house　of　a　sadistic　murderer；　with　no　one　in　the　world　looking　for　her。　Justice　seemed　served　by　her　being　there。　Then　she　heard　footsteps　approaching。
　She　raised　her　head　and　opened　her　eyes。
　The　killer　entered　from　the　laundry　room；　evidently　returning　from　the　girl　in　the　cellar。
　Without　speaking　to　Chyna；　without　glancing　at　her；　as　if　she　didn't　exist；　he　went　to　the　refrigerator；　removed　a　carton　of　eggs；　and　put　it　on　the　counter　beside　the　sink。　He　deftly　broke　eight　eggs　into　a　bowl　and　threw　the　shells　in　the　trash。　He　set　the　bowl　in　the　refrigerator　and　proceeded　to　peel　and　chop　a　Bermuda　onion。
　Chyna　hadn't　eaten　in　more　than　twelve　hours；　nonetheless；　she　was　dismayed　to　discover　that　she　was　suddenly　ravenous。　The　onion　was　the　sweetest　scent　that　she　had　ever　known；　and　her　mouth　began　to　water。　After　so　much　blood；　after　losing　the　only　close　friend　she'd　ever　had；　it　seemed　heartless　to　have　an　appetite　so　soon。
　The　killer　put　the　chopped　onion　into　a　Tupperware　container；　snapped　the　lid　tight；　and　placed　it　in　the　refrigerator　beside　the　bowl　of　eggs。　Next　he　grated　half　a　wedge　of　cheddar　cheese　into　another　Tupperware　container。
　He　was　brisk　and　efficient　in　the　kitchen；　and　he　seemed　to　be　enjoying　himself。　He　kept　his　work　area　neat。　He　also　washed　his　hands　thoroughly　between　each　task　and　dried　them　on　a　hand　towel；　not　on　the　dish　towel。
　Finally　the　killer　came　to　the　dinette　table。　He　sat　across　from　Chyna；　relaxed　and　self…confident　and　college…boy　casual　in　his　Dockers；　braided　belt；　and　soft　chambray　shirt。
　Shame；　which　had　seemed　on　the　verge　of　consuming　her；　instead　had　burned　itself　out　for　the　time　being。　A　strange　bination　of　smoldering　anger　and　bitter　despondency　had　replaced　it。　〃Now；〃　he　said；　〃I'm　sure　you're　hungry；　and　as　soon　as　we　have　a　little　chat；　I'll　make　cheese　omelets　with　stacks　of　toast。　But　to　earn　your　breakfast；　you　have　to　tell　me　who　you　are；　where　you　were　hiding　at　that　service　station；　and　why　you're　here。〃
　She　glared　at　him。　With　a　smile；　he　said；　〃Don't　think　you　can　hold　out　on　me。〃　She　would　be　damned　rather　than　tell　him　anything。　〃Here's　how　it　is；〃　he　said。　〃I'll　kill　you　anyway。　I'm　not　sure　how　yet。　Probably　in　front　of　Ariel。　She's　seen　bodies　before；　but　she's　never　been　there　at　the　moment　itself；　to　hear　that　last　scream；　in　the　sudden　wetness　of　it　all。〃
　Chyna　t