dk.intensity-第6部分

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　Occasionally；　as　a　little　girl…and　then　not　so　little…Chyna　had　taken　refuge　under　beds。　Sometimes　they　looked　for　her　there；　sometimes；　though　it　was　the　most　obvious　of　all　hidey…holes；　they　never　thought　to　look。　Of　those　who　found　her；　a　few　had　checked　under　the　bed　first…but　most　had　left　it　for　last。
　Another　red　droplet　fell　to　the　carpet；　as　though　the　beast　might　be　shedding　slow　tears　of　blood。
　He　moved　toward　the　closet　door。　Chyna　had　to　turn　her　head　slightly；　straining　her　neck；　to　keep　track　of　him。
　The　closet　was　deep；　a　walk…in　with　a　chain…pull　light　in　the　center。　She　heard　the　distinctive　snap　of　the　tugged　switch；　then　the　clinking　of　the　metal　beads　in　the　chain　as　they　rattled　against　the　light　bulb。
　The　Templetons　stored　their　own　luggage　at　the　back　of　that　closet。　Stacked　with　the　other　suitcases；　Chyna's　single　bag　and　train　case　were　not　obviously　those　of　a　guest　in　residence。
　She　had　brought　several　changes　of　clothes：　two　dresses；　two　skirts；　another　pair　of　jeans；　a　pair　of　chinos；　a　leather　jacket。　Because　Chyna　was　the　same　size　as　Laura；　the　intruder　might　conclude　that　the　few　garments　on　tne　roa　were　just　spillovers　trom　ttie　packecl　closet　in　Laura's　room　rather　than　evidence　of　a　houseguest。　If　he　had　been　in　Laura's　bedroom；　however；　and　had　seen　the　condition　of　her　closet…then　what　had　happened　to　Laura？
　She　must　not　think　about　that。　Not　now。　Not　yet。　For　the　moment；　she　needed　to　focus　all　her　thoughts；　all　her　wits；　on　staying　alive。
　Eighteen　years　ago；　on　the　night　of　her　eighth　birthday；　in　a　seaside　cottage　on　Key　West；　Chyna　had　squirmed　under　her　bed　to　hide　from　Jim　Woltz；　her　mother's　friend。　A　storm　had　been　raging　from　the　Gulf　of　Mexico；　and　the　sky…blistering　lightning　had　made　her　fearful　of　escaping　to　the　sanctuary　of　the　beach　where　she'd　retreated　on　other　nights。　After　mitting　herself　to　the　cramped　space　under　that　iron　bed；　which　had　been　lower　slung　than　this　one；　she　had　discovered　that　she　was　sharing　it　with　a　palmetto　beetle。　Palmettos　were　not　as　exotic　or　as　pretty　as　their　name。　In　fact；　they　were　nothing　more　than　enormous　tropical　cockroaches。　This　one　had　been　as　large　as　her　little…girl　hand。　Ordinarily　the　hateful　bug　would　have　scurried　away　from　her。　But　it　had　seemed　less　alarmed　by　her　than　by　the　thundering　Woltz；　who　had　crashed　around　her　small　room　in　a　drunken　fury；　rebounding　tirelessly　from　the　furniture　and　the　walls；　like　an　enraged　animal　throwing　itself　against　the　bars　of　its　cage。　Chyna　had　been　barefoot；　dressed　in　blue　shorts　and　a　white　tube　top；　and　the　palmetto　beetle　had　raced　in　a　frenzy　over　all　that　exposed　skin；　between　her　toes；　up　and　down　her　legs　and　up　again；　across　her　back；　along　her　neck；　into　her　hair；　over　her　shoulder；　the　length　of　her　slender　arm。　She　hadn't　dared　to　squeal　in　revulsion；　afraid　of　drawing　Woltzs　attention。　He　had　been　wild　that　night；　like　a　monster　from　a　dream；　and　she　had　been　convinced　that；　like　all　monsters；　he　possessed　supernaturally　keen　sight　and　hearing；　the　better　to　hunt　children。　She　hadn't　even　found　the　courage　to　strike　out　at　the　beetle　or　knock　it　away；　for　fear　that　Woltz　would　hear　the　smallest　sound　even　over　the　shriek　of　the　storm　and　the　incessant　crashing　of　thunder。　She　had　endured　the　palmetto's　attentions　in　order　to　avoid　those　of　Woltz；　clenching　her　teeth　to　bite　off　a　scream；　praying　desperately　for　God　to　save　her；　then　praying　harder　for　God　to　take　her；　praying　for　an　end　to　the　torment　even　if　by　a　bolt　of　lightning；　an　end　to　the　torment；　an　end；　dear　God；　an　end。
　Now；　although　she　wasn't　sharing　the　space　under　this　galbe…leg　bed　with　any　cockroach；　Chyna　could　feel　one　crawling　over　her　toes　as　if　she　were　that　barefoot　girl　again；　scurrying　up　her　legs　as　if　she　were　wearing　not　jeans　but　cotton　shorts。　She　had　never　again　worn　her　hair　long　since　the　night　ot　her　eighth　birthday；　when　the　bug　had　burrowed　through　her　tresses；　but　now　she　felt　the　ghost　of　that　palmetto　in　her　closely　cropped　hair。
　The　man　in　the　closet；　perhaps　capable　of　atrocities　infinitely　worse　than　the　wickedest　dreams　of　Woltz；　tugged　on　the　chain…pull。　The　light　went　out　with　a　click　followed　by　a　tinkle　of　metal　beads。
　The　booted　feet　reappeared　and　approached　the　bed。　A　fresh　tear　of　blood　glistened　on　the　curve　of　black　leather。
　He　was　going　to　drop　to　one　knee　beside　the　bed。　Dear　God；　he'll　find　me　cowering　like　a　child；　choking　on　my　own　stifled　scream；　in　a　cold　sweat；　all　dignity　lost　in　the　desperate　struggle　to　stay　alive；　untouched　and　alive；　untouched　and　alive。
　She　had　the　crazy　feeling　that　when　he　peered　under　the　side　rail；　face…to…face　with　her；　he　would　be　not　a　man　but　an　enormous　palmetto　with　multifaceted　black　eyes。
　She　had　been　reduced　to　the　helplessness　of　childhood；　to　the　primal　fear　that　she　had　hoped　never　to　know　again。　He　had　stolen　from　her　the　self…respect　that　she　had　earned　from　years　of　endurancethat　she　had　earned；　God　damn　him…and　the　injustice　of　it　filled　her　eyes　with　bitter　tears。
　But　then　his　blurred　boots　turned　away　from　her　and　kept　moving。　He　walked　past　the　bed　to　the　open　door。
　Whatever　he'd　thought　about　the　clothes　hanging　in　the　closet；　apparently　he　had　not　inferred　from　them　that　the　guest　room　was　occupied。
　She　blinked　furiously；　clearing　her　tear…blurred　vision。　He　stopped　and　turned；　evidently　studying　the　bedroom　one　last　time。
　Lest　he　hear　her　child…shallow　exhalations；　Chyna　held　her　breath。　She　was　glad　that　she　wore　no　perfume。　She　was　certain　that　he　would　have　smelled　her。
　He　switched　off　the　light；　stepped　into　the　hall；　and　pulled　the　door　shut　as　he　went。
　His　footsteps　moved　off　the　way　he　had　e；　for　her　room　was　the　last　on　the　second　floor。　His　tread　swiftly　faded；　cloaked　by　the　fierce　pounding　of　her　heart。
　Her　first　inclination　was　to　remain　in　that　narrow　haven　between　the　carpet　and　the　box　springs；　wait　until　daybreak　or　even　longer；　wait　until　there　came　a　long　silence　that　ceased　to　seem　like　the　stillness　of　a　crouched　predator。
　Any　of　them…all　of　them…might　be　alive；　grievously　wounded　but　drawing　breath。　The　intruder　might　even　be　keeping　them　alive　to　torture　them　at　his　leisure。　Any　newspaper　regularly　reported　stories　of　cruelty　no　worse　than　the　possible　scenarios　that　now　unreeled　vividly　in　her　mind。　And　if　any　of　the　Templetons　still　lived；　Chyna　might　be　their　only　hope　of　survival。
　She　had　crawled　out　of　all　the　many　hideaways　of　her　childhood　with　less　fear　than　she　felt　when　she　hesitantly　slid　out　from　under　this　bed。　Of　course　she　had　more　to　lose　now　than　before　she　had　walked　out　on　her　mother；　ten　years　ago：　a　decent　life　built　on　a　decade　of　ceaseless　struggle　and　hard…won　self…respect。　It　seemed　madness　to　take　this　risk　when　safety　was　assured　simply　by　her　staying　put。　But　personal　safety　at　the　expense　of　others　was　cowardice；　and　cowardice　was　a　right　only　of　small　children　who　lacked　the　strength　and　experience　to　defend　themselves。
　She　couldn't　simply　retreat　into　the　defensive　detachment　of　her　childhood。　Doing　so　would　mean　the　end　of　all　self…respect。　Slowmotion　suicide。　It's　not　possible　to　retreat　into　a　bottomless　pit…one　can　only　plunge。
　In　the　open　once　more；　she　rose　into　a　crouch　beside　the　bed。　For　a　while　that　was　as　far　as　she　got。　She　was　frozen　by　the　expectation　that　the　door　would　crash　open　and　that　the　intruder　would　burst　in　again。
　The　house　was　as　echo…free　as　any　airless　moon。　Chyna　rose　to　her　feet　and　silently　crossed　the　dark　guest　room。
　Unable　to　see　the　trio　of　blood　drops；　she　tried　to　step　around　the　place　where　they　had　fallen　earlier。
　She　pressed　her　left　ear　to　the　crack　between　the　door　and　the　jamb；　listening　for　movement　or　breathing　in　the　hall。　She　heard　nothing；　yet　she　remained　suspicious。
　He　could　be　on　the　other　side　of　the　door。　Smiling。　Deeply　amused　to　think　that　she　was　listening。　Biding　his　time。　Patient　because　he　knew　that　eventually　she　would　open　the　door　and　step　into　his　arms。
　Screw　it。　She　put　her　hand　on　the　knob；　turned　it　cautiously；　and　winced　as　the　spring　latch　scraped　softly　out　of　its　notch。　At　least　the　hinges　were　lubricated　and　silent。