dk.intensity-第5部分

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be　only　a　memory；　a　fragment　of　a　shrill　argument　from　another　strange　house　in　the　past；　echoing　across　time。　Often；　as　a　child；　eager　to　hide　from　her　mother　and　her　mother's　friends　when　they　were　drunk　or　high；　she　climbed　onto　porch　roofs　or　into　backyard　trees；　slipped　through　windows　onto　fire　escapes；　away　to　secret　places　far　from　the　fray；　where　she　could　study　the　stars　and　where　voices　raised　in　argument　or　sexual　excitement　or　shrill　drug…induced　giddiness　came　to　her　as　though　from　out　of　a　radio；　from　faraway　places　and　people　who　had　no　connection　whatsoever　with　her　life。
　The　second　cry；　though　also　brief　and　only　slightly　louder　than　the　first；　was　indisputably　of　the　moment；　not　a　memory；　and　Chyna　sat　forward　on　her　chair。　Tense。　Head　cocked。　Listening。
　She　wanted　to　believe　that　the　voice　had　e　from　outside；　so　she　continued　to　stare　into　the　night；　surveying　the　vineyards　and　the　hills　beyond。　Breeze…driven　waves　swelled　through　the　dry　grass　on　the　moon…washed　slopes：　a　water　mirage　like　the　ghost　tides　of　an　ancient　sea。
　From　elsewhere　in　the　large　house　came　a　soft　thump；　as　though　a　heavy　object　had　fallen　to　a　carpeted　floor。
　Chyna　immediately　rose　from　the　chair　and　stood　utterly　still；　expectant。
　Trouble　often　followed　voices　raised　in　one　kind　of　passion　or　another。　Sometimes；　however；　the　worst　offenses　were　preceded　by　calculated　silences　and　stealth。
　She　had　difficulty　reconciling　the　idea　of　domestic　violence　with　Paul　and　Sarah　Templeton；　who　had　seemed　kind　and　loving　toward　each　other　as　toward　their　daughter。　Nevertheless；　appearances　and　realities　were　seldom　the　same；　and　the　human　talent　for　deception　was　far　greater　than　that　of　the　chameleon；　the　mockingbird；　or　the　praying　mantis；　which　masked　its　ferocious　cannibalism　with　a　serene　and　devout　posture。
　Following　the　stifled　cries　and　the　soft　thump；　silence　sifted　down　like　a　snowfall。　The　hush　was　eerily　deep；　as　unnatural　as　that　in　which　the　deaf　lived。　This　was　the　stillness　before　the　pounce；　the　quietude　of　the　coiled　snake。
　In　another　part　of　the　house；　someone　was　standing　as　motionless　as　she　herself　was　standing；　as　alert　as　she　was；　intently　listening。　Someone　dangerous。　She　could　sense　the　predatory　presence；　a　subtle　new　pressure　in　the　air；　not　dissimilar　to　that　preceding　a　violent　thunderstorm。
　On　one　level；　six　years　of　psychology　classes　caused　her　to　question　her　immediate　fearful　interpretation　of　those　night　sounds；　which　conceivably　could　be　insignificant；　after　all。　Any　well…trained　psychoanalyst　would　have　a　wealth　of　labels　to　pin　on　someone　who　leaped　first　to　a　negative　conclusion；　who　lived　in　expectation　of　sudden　violence。
　But　she　had　to　trust　her　instinct。　It　had　been　honed　by　many　years　of　hard　experience。
　Intuitively　certain　that　safety　lay　in　movement；　she　stepped　quietly　away　from　the　chair　at　the　window；　toward　the　hall　door。　In　spite　of　the　moonglow；　her　eyes　had　adjusted　to　darkness　during　the　two　hours　that　she　had　sat　in　the　lightless　room；　and　now　she　eased　through　the　gloom　with　no　fear　of　blundering　into　furniture。
　She　was　only　halfway　to　the　door　when　she　heard　approaching　footsteps　in　the　second…floor　hall。　The　heavy；　urgent　tread　was　alien　to　this　house。
　Unhampered　by　the　interminable　second…guessing　that　acpanied　an　education　in　psychology；　reverting　to　the　intuition　and　defenses　of　childhood；　Chyna　quickly　retreated　to　the　bed。　She　dropped　to　her　knees。
　Farther　along　the　hall；　the　footsteps　stopped。　A　door　opened。　She　was　aware　of　the　absurdity　of　attributing　rage　to　the　mere　opening　of　a　door。　The　rattle　of　the　knob　being　turned；　the　rasp　of　the　unsecured　latch；　the　spike…sharp　squeak　of　an　unoiled　hinge…they　were　only　sounds；　neither　meek　nor　furious；　guilty　nor　innocent；　and　could　have　been　made　as　easily　by　a　priest　as　by　a　burglar。　Yet　she　knew　that　rage　was　at　work　in　the　night。
　Flat　on　her　stomach；　she　wriggled　under　the　bed；　feet　toward　the　headboard。　It　was　a　graceful　piece　of　furniture　with　sturdy　galbe　legs；　and　fortunately　it　didn't　sit　as　close　to　the　floor　as　did　most　beds。　One　inch　less　of　clearance　would　have　prevented　her　from　hiding　under　it。
　Footsteps　sounded　in　the　hall　again。　Another　door　opened。　The　guest…room　door。　Directly　opposite　the　foot　of　the　bed。
　Someone　switched　on　the　lights。　Chyna　lay　with　her　head　turned　to　one　side；　her　right　ear　pressed　to　the　carpet。　Staring　out　from　under　the　footboard；　she　could　see　a　man's　black　boots　and　the　legs　of　his　blue　jeans　below　midcalf。
　He　stood　just　inside　the　threshold；　evidently　surveying　the　room。　He　would　see　a　bed　still　neatly　made　at　one　o'clock　in　the　morning；　where　four　decorative　needlepoint　pillows　arranged　against　the　headboard。
　She　had　left　nothing　on　the　nightstands。　No　clothes　tossed　on　chairs。　The　paperback　novel　that　she　had　brought　with　her　for　bedtime　reading　was　in　a　bureau　drawer。
　She　preferred　spaces　that　were　clean　and　uncluttered　to　the　point　of　monastic　sterility。　Her　preference　might　now　save　her　life。
　Again　a　faint　doubt；　the　acquired　propensity　for　self…analysis　that　plagued　all　psychology　students；　flickered　through　her。　If　the　man　in　the　doorway　was　someone　with　a　right　to　be　in　the　house…Paul　Templeton　or　Laura's　brother；　Jack；　who　lived　with　his　wife　in　the　vineyard　manager's　bungalow　elsewhere　on　the　property…and　if　some　crisis　was　unfolding　that　explained　why　he　would　burst　into　her　room　without　knocking；　she　was　going　to　appear　to　be　a　prime　fool；　if　not　a　hysteric；　when　she　crawled　out　from　under　the　bed。
　Then；　directly　in　front　of　the　black　boots；　a　fat　red　dropletanother；　and　a　third…fell　to　the　wheat…gold　carpet。　Plop…plop…plop。　Blood。　The　first　two　soaked　into　the　thick　nylon　pile。　The　third　held　its　surface　tension；　shimmering　like　a　ruby。
　Chyna　knew　the　blood　wasn't　that　of　the　intruder。　She　tried　not　to　think　about　the　sharp　instrument　from　which　it　might　have　fallen。
　He　moved　off　to　her　right；　deeper　into　the　room；　and　she　rolled　her　eyes　to　follow　him。
　The　bed　had　carved　side　rails　into　which　the　spread　was　tightly　tucked。　No　overhanging　fabric　obstructed　her　view　of　his　boots。
　Obversely；　without　a　spread　draped　to　the　floor；　the　space　under　the　bed　was　more　visible　to　him。　From　certain　angles；　he　might　even　be　able　to　look　down　and　see　a　swatch　of　her　blue　jeans；　the　toe　of　one　of　her　Rockports；　the　cranberry…red　sleeve　of　her　cotton　sweater　where　it　stretched　over　her　bent　elbow。
　She　was　thankful　that　the　bed　was　queen…size；　offering　more　cover　than　a　single　or　double。
　If　he　was　breathing　hard；　either　with　excitement　or　with　the　rage　that　she　had　sensed　in　his　approach；　Chyna　couldn't　hear　him。　With　one　ear　pressed　tightly　to　the　plush　carpet；　she　was　half　deaf。　Wood　slats　and　box　springs　weighed　on　her　back；　and　her　chest　barely　had　room　to　expand　to　acmodate　her　own　shallow；　cautious；　openmouth　inhalations。　The　hammering　of　her　pressed　heart　against　her　breastbone　echoed　tympanically　within　her；　and　it　seemed　to　fill　the　claustrophobic　confines　of　her　hiding　place　to　such　an　extent　that　the　intruder　was　certain　to　hear。
　He　went　to　the　bathroom；　pushed　open　the　door；　and　flicked　on　the　lights。
　She　had　put　away　all　her　toiletries　in　the　medicine　cabinet。　Even　her　toothbrush。　Nothing　lay　out　that　might　alert　him　to　her　presence。
　But　was　the　sink　dry？　On　retiring　to　her　room　at　eleven　o'clock；　she　had　used　the　toilet　and　then　had　washed　her　hands。　That　was　two　hours　ago。　Any　residual　water　in　the　bowl　surely　would　have　drained　away　or　evaporated。
　Lemon…scented　liquid　soap　in　a　pump　dispenser　was　provided　at　the　sink。　Fortunately；　there　was　no　damp　bar　of　soap　to　betray　her。
　She　worried　about　the　hand　towel。　She　doubted　that　it　could　still　be　damp　two　hours　after　the　little　use　she　had　made　of　it。　Nonetheless；　in　spite　of　a　propensity　for　neatness　and　order；　she　might　have　left　it　hanging　ever　so　slightly　askew　or　with　one　telltale　wrinkle。
　He　seemed　to　stand　on　the　bathroom　threshold　for　an　eternity。　Then　he　switched　off　the　fluorescent　light　and　returned　to　the　bed…room。
　Occasionally；　as　a　little　girl…and　then　not　so　little…Chyna　had　taken　refuge　under　beds。　Sometimes　they　looked