dk.intensity-第52部分

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　He　pushed　through　the　door　into　the　living　room　and　was　gone。　Chyna　was　determined　not　to　endure　the　humiliation　of　sitting　in　her　own　waste。　She　had　a　faint　urge　to　pee；　but　it　wasn't　insistent　yet。　Later　she　would　be　in　trouble。
　How　odd…that　she　could　still　care　about　avoiding　humiliation　or　think　about　the　future。
　Halfway　across　the　living　room；　Mr。　Vess　stops　to　listen　to　the　woman　in　the　kitchen。　He　hears　no　clink　of　chains。　He　waits。　And　still　no　sound。　The　silence　troubles　him。
　He's　not　sure　what　to　make　of　her。　He　knows　so　much　about　her　now…yet　she　still　contains　mysteries。
　Shackled　and　in　his　plete　control；　surely　she　cannot　be　his　blown　tire。　She　smells　of　despair　and　defeat。　In　the　beaten　tone　of　her　voice；　he　sees　the　gray　of　ashes　and　feels　the　texture　of　a　coffin　blanket。
　She　is　as　good　as　dead；　and　she　is　resigned　to　it。　Yet　。。。
　From　the　kitchen　es　the　clink　of　chains。　Not　loud；　not　a　vigorous　assault　on　her　bonds。　Just　a　quiet　rattle　as　she　shifts　position　perhaps　to　clasp　her　thighs　tightly　together　to　repress　the　urge　to　urinate。
　Mr。　Vess　smiles。　He　goes　upstairs　to　his　room。　From　the　top　shelf　at　the　back　of　his　walk…in　closet；　he　takes　down　a　telephone。　In　the　bedroom；　he　plugs　it　into　a　wall　jack　and　makes　two　calls；　letting　people　know　that　he　has　returned　from　his　three…day　vacation　and　will　be　back　in　harness　by　this　evening。
　Although　he　is　confident　that　the　Dobermans；　in　his　absence；　will　never　allow　anyone　to　get　into　the　house；　Vess　keeps　only　two　phones　and　secretes　them　in　closets　when　he　is　not　at　home。　In　the　extremely　unlikely　event　that　an　intruder　should　manage　to　sprint　through　the　attacking　dogs　and　get　into　the　house　alive；　he　will　not　be　able　to　call　for　help。
　The　danger　of　cellular　phones　has　been　on　Mr。　Vess's　mind　in　recent　days。　It's　difficult　to　imagine　a　would…be　burglar　carrying　a　portable　phone　or　using　it　to　call　the　police　for　help　from　a　house　in　which　he's　bee　trapped　by　guard　dogs；　but　stranger　things　have　happened。　If　Chyna　Shepherd　had　found　a　cellular　phone　in　the　clerk's　Honda　the　previous　night；　she　would　not　be　the　one　now　languishing　in　shackles。
　The　technological　revolution　here　at　the　end　of　the　millennium　offers　numerous　conveniences　and　great　opportunities；　but　it　also　has　dangerous　aspects。　Thanks　to　his　expertise　with　puters；　he　has　cleverly　altered　his　fingerprint　files　with　various　agencies　and　can　go　without　gloves　at　places　like　the　Templeton　house；　enjoying　the　full　sensuality　of　the　experience　without　fear。　But　one　cellular　phone　in　the　wrong　hands　at　the　wrong　time　could　lead　suddenly　to　the　most　intense　experience　of　his　life…and　the　final　one。　He　sometimes　longs　for　the　simpler　age　of　Jack　the　Ripper；　or　the　splendid　Ed　Gein；　who　inspired　Psycho；　or　Richard　Speck；　he　dreams　wistfully　of　the　less　plicated　world　of　earlier　decades　and　of　killing　fields　that　were　less　trampled；　then；　by　such　as　he。
　By　feverishly　pursuing　high　ratings；　by　hyping　every　story　steeped　in　blood；　by　making　celebrities　out　of　killers；　and　by　fawning　over　celebrity　killers；　the　electronic　news　media　happily　may　have　inspired　more　of　his　clear…thinking　kind。　But　they　have　also　alarmed　the　sheep　too　much。　Too　many　in　the　herd　are　walleyed　with　alertness　and　quick　to　run　at　the　first　perception　of　danger。
　Still；　he　manages　to　have　his　fim。　After　making　his　calls；　Mr。　Vess　goes　out　to　the　motor　home。　The　license　plates；　the　blunt…end　screws　and　the　nuts　to　attach　them　to　the　vehicle；　and　a　screwdriver　are　in　a　drawer　in　the　kitchenette。
　By　various　means；　usually　two　or　three　weeks　prior　to　one　of　his　expeditions；　Mr。　Vess　carefully　selects　his　primary　targets；　like　the　Templeton　family。　And　though　he　sometimes　brings　back　a　living　prize　for　the　cellar　room；　he　nearly　always　travels　well　beyond　the　borders　of　Oregon　to　minimize　the　chances　that　his　two　lives…good　citizen　and　homicidal　adventurer…will　cross　at　the　most　inconvenient　moment。　（Though　he　didn't　employ　this　method　to　get　Laura　Templeton；　he　has　found　that　clandestine　browsing；　via　puter；　through　the　huge　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles'　records　in　neighboring　California　is　an　excellent　method　of　locating　attractive　women。　Their　driver's　license　photographs…head　shots　only　are　now　on　file　with　the　DAW。　Provided　with　each　picture　are　the　woman's　age；　height；　and　weightstatistics　that　assist　Vess　in　identifying　unacceptable　candidates；　so　he　can　avoid　grandmothers　who　photograph　well　and　plump　women　with　thin　faces。　And　though　some　people　list　post　office　boxes　only；　most　use　their　street　addresses；　thereafter；　Mr。　Vess　needs　only　a　series　of　good　maps。）　Upon　nearing　the　end　of　his　drive；　when　he　gets　within　fifty　miles　of　the　target　residence；　he　removes　the　license　plates　from　the　motor　home。　Later；　because　he　makes　a　point　of　being　far　away　from　the　scene　of　his　games　by　the　time　anyone　finds　the　aftermath；　he　could　be　tracked　down　only　if　someone　in　the　victim's　neighborhood　happened　to　see　the　motor　home　and；　though　it　looked　perfectly　innocent；　happened　to　glance　at　the　plates　and…that　damn　blown　tire　again…happened　to　have　a　photographic　memory。　Therefore；　he　leaves　the　tags　off　his　vehicle　until　he　is　safely　back　in　Oregon。
　If　he　were　stopped　by　a　police　officer　for　speeding　or　for　some　other　traffic　violation；　he　would　express　surprise　when　asked　about　his　missing　license　plates　and　would　say　that；　for　God　knows　what　reason；　they　must　have　been　stolen。　He　is　a　good　actor；　he　could　sell　his　bafflement。　If　the　chance　arose　to　do　so　without　putting　himself　in　serious　jeopardy；　he　would　kill　the　cop。　And　if　no　such　opportunity　presented　itself；　he　would　most　likely　be　able　to　count　on　a　swift　resolution　of　the　problem　by　calling　upon　professional　courtesy。
　Now　he　squats　on　his　haunches　and　attaches　one　of　the　tags　to　the　frame　in　the　front　license…plate　niche。
　One　by　one　the　dogs　e　to　him；　sniffing　at　his　hands　and　his　clothes；　perhaps　disappointed　to　find　only　the　scents　of　aftershave　and　dishwashing　soap。　They　are　starved　for　attention；　but　they　are　on　duty。　None　of　them　lingers　long；　each　returning　to　its　patrol　after　one　pat　on　the　head；　a　scratch　behind　the　ears；　and　a　word　of　affection。
　〃Good　dog；〃　Mr。　Vess　says　to　each。　〃Good　dog。〃
　When　he　finishes　with　the　front　plate；　he　stands；　stretches；　and　yawns　while　surveying　his　domain。
　At　ground　level；　anyway；　the　wind　has　died。　The　air　is　still　and　moist。　It　smells　of　wet　grass；　earth；　moldering　dead　leaves；　and　pine　forests。
　With　the　rain　finished；　the　mist　is　lifting　off　the　foothills　and　off　the　lower　flanks　of　the　mountains　behind　the　house。　He　can't　see　the　peaks　of　the　western　range　yet　or　even　the　blanket　of　snow　lingering　on　the　higher　slopes。　But　directly　overhead　and　to　the　east；　where　the　mist　doesn't　intervene；　the　clouds　are　more　gray　than　thunderhead　black；　a　soft　moleskin　gray；　and　they　are　moving　rapidly　southeast　in　front　of　a　high…altitude　wind。　By　midnight；　as　he　promised　Ariel；　there　might　be　stars　and　even　a　moon　to　light　the　tall　grass　in　the　meadow　and　to　shine　in　the　milky　eyes　of　the　dead　Laura。
　Mr。　Vess　goes　to　the　back　of　the　motor　home　to　attach　the　second　license　plate…and　discovers　odd　tracks　on　the　driveway。　As　he　stands　staring　at　them；　a　frown　pools　and　deepens　on　his　face。
　The　driveway　is　shale；　but　during　a　heavy　rain；　mud　washes　out　from　the　surrounding　yard。　Here　and　there　it　forms　a　thin　skin　atop　the　stone；　not　soupy　but　dark　and　dense。
　In　this　skin　of　mud　are　hoof　impressions；　perhaps　those　of　a　deer。　A　sizable　deer。　It　has　crossed　the　driveway　more　than　once。
　He　sees　a　place　where　it　stood　for　a　while；　pawing　the　ground。　No　tire　tracks　mar　the　mud；　because　they　were　erased　by　the　rain　that　had　been　falling　when　he'd　e　home。　Evidently　the　deer　spoor　date　from　after　the　storm。
　He　crouches　beside　the　tracks　and　puts　his　fingers　to　the　cold　mud。　He　can　feel　the　hardness　and　smoothness　of　the　hooves　that　stamped　the　marks。
　A　variety　of　deer　thrive　in　the　nearby　foothills　and　mountains。　They　rarely　venture　onto　Mr。　Vess's　property；　however；　because　they　are　frightened　of　the　Dobermans。
　This　is　the　most　peculiar　thing　about　the　deer　tracks：　that　among　them　are　no　paw