dk.intensity-第53部分

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　This　is　the　most　peculiar　thing　about　the　deer　tracks：　that　among　them　are　no　paw　prints　from　the　dogs。
　The　Dobermans　have　been　trained　to　focus　on　human　intruders　and；　as　much　as　possible；　to　ignore　wildlife。　Otherwise；　they　might　be　distracted　at　a　moment　crucial　to　their　master's　safety。　They　will　never　attack　rabbits　or　squirrels　or　possums…or　deer…unless　severe　hunger　eventually　drives　them　to　it。　They　won't　even　give　playful　chase。
　Nevertheless；　the　dogs　will　take　notice　of　other　animals　that　cross　their　path。　They　indulge　their　curiosity　within　the　limits　of　their　training。
　They　would　have　approached　this　deer　and　circled　ever　closer　as　it　stood　here；　either　paralyzing　it　with　fright　or　spooking　it　off。　And　after　it　had　gone；　they　would　have　padded　back　and　forth　across　the　driveway；　sniffing　its　spoor。
　But　not　one　paw　print　is　visible　among　the　hoof　impressions。
　Rubbing　his　muddy　fingertips　together；　Mr。　Vess　rises　to　his　full　height　and　slowly　turns　in　a　circle；　studying　the　surrounding　land。　The　meadows　to　the　north　and　the　distant　piney　woods　beyond。　The　driveway　leading　east　to　the　bald　knoll。　The　yard　to　the　south；　more　meadows　beyond；　and　woods　again。　Finally　the　backyard；　past　the　barn；　to　the　foothills。　The　deer…if　it　was　a　deer…is　gone。
　Edgler　Vess　stands　motionless。　Listening。　Watchful。　Breathing　deeply；　seeking　scents。　Then　for　a　while　he　inhales　through　his　open　mouth；　catching　what　he　can　upon　his　tongue。　He　feels　the　moist　air　like　the　clammy　skin　of　a　cadaver　against　his　face。　All　his　senses　are　open　wide；　irised　to　the　max；　and　the　freshly　washed　world　drains　into　them。
　Finally　he　can　detect　no　harm　in　the　morning。　As　Vess　is　putting　the　license　plate　on　the　back　of　the　motor　home；　Tilsiter　pads　to　him。　The　dog　nuzzles　his　master's　neck。
　Vess　encourages　the　Doberman　to　stay。　When　he　is　finished　with　the　plate；　he　points　Tilsiter　to　the　nearby　deer　spoor。
　The　dog　seems　not　to　see　the　tracks。　Or；　seeing　them；　he　does　not　have　any　interest。　Vess　leads　him　to　the　spoor；　right　in　among　the　prints。　Once　more　he　points　to　them。
　Because　Tilsiter　appears　to　be　confused；　Vess　places　his　hand　on　the　back　of　the　dog's　head　and　presses　his　muzzle　into　one　of　the　tracks。
　The　Doberman　catches　a　scent　at　last；　sniffs　eagerly；　whimpers　with　excitement　then　decides　that　he　doesn't　like　what　he　smells。　He　squirms　out　from　under　his　master's　hand　and　backs　off；　looking　sheepish。
　〃What？〃　says　Vess。
　The　dog　licks　his　chops。　He　looks　away　from　Vess；　surveys　the　meadows；　the　lane；　the　yard。　He　glances　at　Vess　again；　but　then　he　trots　off　to　the　south；　returning　to　patrol。
　The　trees　still　dripping。　The　mists　rising。　The　spent　clouds　scudding　fast　toward　the　southeast。
　Mr。　Vess　decides　to　kill　Chyna　Shepherd　immediately。　He　will　haul　her　into　the　yard；　make　her　lie　facedown　on　the　grass；　and　put　a　couple　of　bullets　in　the　back　of　her　skull。　He　has　to　go　to　work　this　evening；　and　before　that　he　has　to　get　some　sleep；　so　he　won't　have　time　to　enjoy　a　slow　kill。
　Later；　when　he　gets　home；　he　can　bury　her　in　the　meadow　with　the　four　dogs　watching；　insects　singing　and　feeding　on　one　another　in　the　tall　grass；　and　Ariel　forced　to　kiss　each　of　the　corpses　before　it　goes　forever　into　the　ground…all　this　in　moonlight　if　there　is　any。
　Quickly　now；　finish　her　and　sleep。　As　he　hurries　toward　the　house；　he　realizes　that　the　screwdriver　is　still　in　his　hand；　which　might　be　more　interesting　than　using　the　pistol；　yet　just　as　quick。
　Up　the　flagstone　steps；　onto　the　front　porch；　where　the　finger　of　the　Seattle　attorney　hangs　silent　among　the　seashells　in　the　cool　windless　air。
　He　doesn't　bother　to　wipe　his　feet；　a　rare　breach　of　pulsive　procedure。
　The　ratcheting　hinge　is　matched　by　the　sound　of　his　own　ragged　breathing　as　he　opens　the　door　and　steps　into　the　house。　When　he　closes　the　door；　he　is　startled　to　hear　his　thudding　heartbeats　chasing　one　another。
　He　is　never　afraid；　never。　With　this　woman；　however；　he　has　been　unsettled　more　than　once。
　A　few　steps　into　the　room；　he　halts；　getting　a　grip　on　himself　Now　that　he　is　inside　again；　he　doesn't　understand　why　killing　her　seemed　to　be　such　an　urgent　priority。
　Intuition。　But　never　has　his　intuition　delivered　such　a　clamorous　message　that　has　left　him　this　conflicted。　The　woman　is　special；　and　he　so　badly　wants　to　use　her　in　special　ways。　Merely　pumping　two　shots　into　the　back　of　her　head　or　sticking　the　screwdriver　into　her　a　few　times　would　be　such　a　waste　of　her　potential。
　He　is　never　afraid。　Never。　Even　being　unsettled　like　this　is　a　challenge　to　his　dearest　image　of　himself。　The　poet　Sylvia　Plath；　whose　work　leaves　Mr。　Vess　uncharacteristically　ambivalent；　once　said　that　the　world　was　ruled　by　panic；　〃panic　with　a　dog…face；　devil…face；　hag…face；　whore…face；　panic　in　capital　letters　with　no　face　at　all…the　same　Johnny　Panic；　awake　or　asleep。〃　But　Johnny　Panic　does　not　rule　Edgler　Vess　and　never　will；　because　Mr。　Vess　has　no　illusions　about　the　nature　of　existence；　no　doubts　about　his　purpose；　and　no　moments　of　his　life　that　ever　require　reinterpretation　when　he　has　the　time　for　quiet　reflection。
　Sensation。
　Intensity。　He　cannot　live　with　intensity　if　he　is　afraid；　because　Johnny　Panic　inhibits　spontaneity　and　experimentation。　Therefore；　he　will　not　allow　this　woman　of　mysteries　to　spook　him。
　As　both　his　breathing　and　his　heartbeat　subside　to　normal　rates；　he　turns　the　rubberized　handle　of　the　screwdriver　around　and　around　in　his　hand；　staring　at　the　short　blunt　blade　at　the　end　of　the　long　steel　shank。
　The　moment　Vess　entered　the　kitchen；　before　he　spoke；　Chyna　sensed　he　had　changed　from　the　man　that　she　had　known　thus　far。　He　was　in　a　different　mood　from　any　that　had　previously　possessed　him；　although　the　precise　difference　was　so　subtle　that　she　was　not　able　to　define　it。
　He　approached　the　table　as　if　to　sit　down；　then　stopped　short　of　his　chair。　Frowning　and　silent；　he　stared　at　her。
　In　his　right　hand　was　a　screwdriver。　Ceaselessly　he　rolled　the　handle　through　his　fingers；　as　if　tightening　an　imaginary　screw。
　On　the　floor　behind　him　were　crumbling　chunks　of　mud。　He　had　e　inside　with　dirty　shoes。
　She　knew　that　she　must　not　speak　first。　They　were　at　a　strange　juncture　where　words　might　not　mean　what　they　had　meant　before；　where　the　most　innocent　statement　might　be　an　incitement　to　violence。
　A　short　while　ago；　she　had　half　preferred　to　be　killed　quickly；　and　she　had　tried　to　trigger　one　of　his　homicidal　impulses。　She　had　also　considered　ways　that；　although　shackled；　she　might　be　able　to　mit　suicide。　Now　she　held　her　tongue　to　avoid　inadvertently　enraging　him。
　Evidently；　even　in　her　desolation；　she　continued　to　harbor　a　small　but　stubborn　hope　that　was　camouflaged　in　the　grayness　where　she　could　not　see　it。　A　stupid　denial。　A　pathetic　longing　for　one　more　chance。　Hope；　which　had　always　seemed　ennobling　to　her；　now　seemed　as　dehumanizing　as　feverish　greed；　as　squalid　as　lust；　just　an　animal　hunger　for　more　life　at　any　cost。
　She　was　in　a　deep；　bleak　place。
　Finally　Vess　said；　〃Last　night。〃
　She　waited。
　〃In　the　redwoods。〃
　〃Yes？〃
　〃Did　you　see　anything？〃　he　asked。
　〃See　what？〃
　〃Anything　odd？〃
　〃No。〃
　〃You　must　have。〃
　She　shook　her　head。
　〃The　elk；〃　he　said。
　〃Oh。　Yes；　the　elk。〃
　〃A　herd　of　them。〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃You　didn't　think　they　were　peculiar？〃
　〃Coastal　elk。　They　thrive　in　that　area。〃
　〃These　seemed　almost　tame。〃
　〃Maybe　because　tourists　drive　through　there　all　the　time。〃
　Slowly　turning　and　turning　the　screwdriver；　he　considered　her　explanation。　〃Maybe。〃
　Chyna　saw　that　the　fingers　of　his　right　hand　were　covered　with　a　film　of　dry　mud。
　He　said；　〃I　can　smell　the　musk　of　them　now；　the　texture　of　their　eyes；　hear　the　greenness　of　the　ferns　swaying　around　them；　and　it's　a　cold　dark　oil　in　my　blood。〃
　No　reply　was　possible；　and　she　didn't　try　to　make　one。　Vess　lowered　his　gaze　from　Chyna's　eyes　to　the　turning　point　of　the　screwdriver…and　then　to　his　shoes。　He　looked　over　his　shoulder　and　saw　the　mud　on　the　floor。　〃This　won't　do；〃　he　said。
　He　put　the　screwdriver　on　a　nearby　counter。
　He　took　off　his　shoes　and　carried　them　into　the　laundry　room；　where　he