dk.intensity-第18部分

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　be　able　to　take　advantage　of　his　surprise；　thrust　the　lighter　in　his　face；　and　give　him　a　nasty　little　burn…or　even　set　his　hair　on　fire…before　he　re…coiled。　More　likely；　his　reflexes　would　be　uncannily　quick；　he'd　knock　the　lighter　out　of　her　hand　before　she　could　do　any　damage。
　Even　if　she　burned　him；　she　would　gain　only　precious　seconds　to　turn　and　flee。　Hurting；　he　would　e　after　her；　and　with　his　long　legs；　he　would　be　swift。　Then　the　oute　of　the　race　would　depend　on　whether　her　terror　or　his　insane　rage　was　the　greater　motivating　force。
　She　heard　movement；　the　creak　of　the　counter　gate；　footsteps。　Half　nauseated　from　protracted　fear；　she　was　gloriously　heartened　when　it　seemed　that　he　was　leaving。
　Then　she　realized　that　the　footsteps　were　not　crossing　toward　the　door　at　the　front　of　the　store。　They　were　approaching　her。
　She　was　squatting　on　her　haunches；　back　pressed　to　the　end　panel　of　the　shelf　row；　not　immediately　sure　where　he　was。　In　the　first　of　the　three　aisles；　toward　the　front　of　the　store？　In　the　center　aisle　immediately　to　her　left？
　No。　The　third　aisle。　To　her　right。　He　was　ing　past　the　coolers。　Not　fast。　Not　as　if　he　knew　that　she　was　here　and　intended　to　whack　her。
　Rising　into　a　crouch　but　staying　low；　Chyna　eased　to　the　left；　into　the　middle　of　the　three　passages。　Here　the　glow　from　the　coolers；　one　row　removed；　bounced　off　the　acoustic…tile　ceiling　but　provided　little　illumination。　All　the　merchandise　was　shelved　with　shadows。
　She　started　forward　toward　the　cashiers'　counter；　thankful　for　her　soft…soled　shoes…and　then　she　remembered　the　packaging　from　which　she　had　extracted　the　Bic　lighter。　She'd　left　it　on　the　floor　where　she'd　been　squatting　at　the　end　of　the　shelf　row。
　He　would　see　it；　probably　even　step　on　it。　Maybe　he　would　think　that　earlier　in　the　night　some　shoplifter　had　slipped　the　lighter　out　of　the　packaging　to　conceal　it　more　easily　in　a　pocket。　Or　maybe　he　would　know。
　Intuition　might　serve　him　as　well　as　it　sometimes　served　Chyna。　If　intuition　was　the　whisper　of　God；　then　perhaps　another　and　less　benevolent　god　spoke　with　equal　subtleness　to　a　man　like　this。
　She　turned　back；　leaned　around　the　corner；　and　snatched　up　the　empty　package。　The　stiff　plastic　crinkled　in　her　shaky　grip；　but　the　sound　was　faint　and；　luckily；　masked　by　his　footsteps。
　He　was　at　least　halfway　down　the　third　aisle　by　the　time　she　started　forward　along　the　second。　But　he　was　taking　his　time　while　she　was　scuttling　as　fast　as　she　could；　and　she　reached　the　head　of　her　aisle　before　he　arrived　at　the　end　of　his。
　At　the　terminus　of　the　shelf　row；　instead　of　a　flat　panel　like　the　one　at　the　far　end；　there　was　a　freestanding　wire　carousel　rack　holding　paperback　books；　and　Chyna　nearly　collided　with　it　when　she　turned　the　corner。　She　caught　herself　just　in　time；　slipped　around　the　rack；　and　sheltered　against　it；　between　aisles　once　more。
　On　the　floor　lay　a　Polaroid　photograph：　a　close…up　of　a　strikingly　beautiful　girl　of　about　sixteen；　with　long　platinum…blond　hair。　The　teenager's　features　were　posed　but　not　relaxed；　frozen　in　a　studied　blandness；　as　though　her　true　feelings　were　so　explosive　that　she　would　self…destruct　if　she　acknowledged　them。　Her　eyes　subtly　belied　her　calm　demeanor；　they　were　slightly　wide；　watchful；　achingly　expressive；　windows　on　a　soul　in　torment；　full　of　anger　and　fear　and　desperation。
　This　must　be　the　photograph　that　he　had　shown　to　the　clerks。
　Ariet。　The　girl　in　the　cellar。
　Although　she　and　Ariel　bore　no　resemblance　to　each　other；　Chyna　felt　as　though　she　were　staring　into　a　mirror　rather　than　looking　at　a　picture。　In　Ariel；　she　recognized　a　terror　akin　to　the　fear　that　had　suffused　her　own　childhood；　a　familiar　desperation；　loneliness　as　deep　as　a　cold　polar　ocean。
　The　killer's　footsteps　brought　her　back　to　the　moment。　judging　by　the　sound　of　them；　he　was　no　longer　in　the　third　aisle。　He　had　turned　the　corner　at　the　back　of　the　store　and　was　now　in　the　middle　passage。
　He　was　ing　forward；　leisurely　covering　the　same　territory　over　which　Chyna　had　just　scuttled。　〃What　the　hell　is　he　doing？
　She　wanted　to　take　the　photograph　but　didn't　dare。　She　put　it　on　the　floor　where　she　had　found　it。
　She　went　around　the　paperback　carousel　into　the　third　aisle；　which　the　killer　had　just　left；　and　she　headed　toward　the　end　of　the　shelf　row　again。　She　stayed　close　to　the　merchandise　on　the　left；　away　from　the　glass　doors　of　the　lighted　coolers　on　the　right；　to　avoid　throwing　a　shadow　on　the　ceiling　tiles；　which　he　might　see。
　When　she　was　moving；　she　could　still　hear　his　heavy　footsteps；　but　unless　she　stopped　to　listen；　she　couldn't　tell　in　which　direction　he　was　headed。　Yet　she　didn't　dare　stop　to　take　a　bearing　on　him；　lest　he　circle　again　into　this　aisle　and　catch　her　in　the　open。　When　she　reached　the　end　of　the　row　and　turned　the　er；　she　half　expected　to　discover　that　he　had　changed　directions；　to　collide　with　him；　and　to　be　caught。
　But　he　wasn't　there。　Sitting　on　her　haunches；　Chyna　leaned　back　against　the　end　panel　of　the　shelf　row；　the　very　spot　from　which　she'd　started。　Gingerly　she　put　the　empty　Bic　lighter　package　on　the　floor　between　her　feet；　in　the　same　place　from　which　she　had　retrieved　it　less　than　a　minute　before。
　She　listened。　No　footsteps。　Other　than　the　noise　made　by　the　coolers；　only　silence。
　Thumb　poised；　she　clutched　the　lighter　in　her　fist；　prepared　to　strike　the　flame。
　Vess　stuffs　two　snack　packages　of　cheese…and…peanut…butter　crackers；　one　Planters　peanut　bar；　and　two　Hershey　bars　with　almonds　into　his　raincoat　pockets；　in　which　he's　already　carrying　the　pistol；　the　Polaroid；　and　the　videotape。
　He　totals　the　cost　in　his　head。　Because　he　doesn't　want　to　waste　time　going　behind　the　register　to　make　change；　he　rounds　the　figure　to　the　nearest　dollar　and　leaves　the　payment　on　the　counter。
　After　picking　up　the　fallen　photograph　of　Ariel；　he　hesitates；　soaking　up　the　atmosphere　of　aftermath。　There　is　a　special　quality　to　a　room　in　which　people　have　recently　perished：　like　the　hush　in　a　theater　during　that　instant　between　when　the　final　curtain　falls　on　a　perfect　performance　and　when　the　wild　applause　begins；　a　sense　of　triumph　but　also　a　solemn　awareness　of　eternity　suspended　like　a　cold　droplet　at　the　point　of　a　melting　icicle。　With　the　screaming　done　and　the　blood　pooled　in　stillness；　Edgler　Vess　is　better　able　to　appreciate　the　effects　of　his　bold　actions　and　to　relish　the　quiet　intensity　of　death。
　Finally　he　leaves　the　store。　Using　the　tagged　key　that　he　took　from　the　pegboard；　he　locks　the　door。
　At　the　corner　of　the　building　is　one　public　telephone。　With　its　armored　cord；　the　handset　isn't　easily　tom　loose；　so　he　hammers　it　against　the　phone　box　five；　ten；　twenty　times；　until　the　plastic　cracks；　revealing　the　microphone。　He　tears　the　mike　out　of　the　broken　mouthpiece；　drops　it　on　the　pavement；　and　methodically　crushes　it　under　his　boot　heel。　Then　he　hangs　the　useless　handset　on　the　switch　hook　again。
　His　work　here　is　done。　Although　satisfying；　this　interlude　was　unexpected；　it　has　put　him　behind　schedule。
　He　has　much　driving　to　do。　He　is　not　tired。　He　had　slept　all　the　previous　afternoon　and　well　into　the　evening；　before　visiting　the　Templetons。　Nevertheless；　he　is　loath　to　waste　more　time。　He　longs　to　be　home。
　Far　to　the　north；　sheets　of　lightning　flutter　softly　between　dense　layers　of　clouds；　pulses　rather　than　bolts。　Vess　is　pleased　by　the　prospect　of　a　big　storm。　Here　at　ground　level；　where　life　is　lived；　tumult　and　turmoil　are　fundamental　elements　of　the　human　climate；　and　for　reasons　that　he　cannot　understand；　he　is　unfailingly　reassured　by　the　sight　of　violence　in　higher　realms　as　well。　Though　he　fears　nothing；　he　is　sometimes　inexplicably　disturbed　by　the　sight　of　serene　skies…whether　blue　or　overcast…and　often　on　a　clear　night　when　the　sky　is　deep　with　stars；　he　prefers　not　to　gaze　into　that　immensity。
　Now　no　stars　are　visible。　Above　lie　only　sullen　masses　of　clouds　harried　by　a　cold　wind；　briefly　veined　with　lightning；　pregnant　with　a　deluge。
　Vess　hurries　across　the　blacktop　toward　the　motor　home；　eager　to　resume　his　journey　northward；　to　meet　the　promised　storm；　to　find　that　best　place　in　the　night　where　the　lightning　will　e　in　great　shattering　bolts；　where　a　harder　wind　will　crack　trees；　where　rain　will　fall　in　destructive　floods。
　Crouching　at　the　end　of　the　shelf　row；　Chyna　had　listened　to　the　door　open　and　close；　not　daring　to　believe　that　the　killer　had　left　at　last　and　that　her　ordeal　might　be　over。　Breath　held；　she'd　waited　for　the　sound　of　the　door　opening　again　and　for　his　footsteps　as　he　reentered。
　When　she　had　heard；　instead；　the　key　scraping…clicking　in　the　lock　and　the　deadbolt　snapping　into　place；　she　had　gone　forward　along　the　middle　of　the　three　aisles；　staying　low；　cat…quiet　because　she　expected；　superstitiously；　that　he　might　hear　the　slightest　sound　even　from　outside。
　A　violent　hammering；　reverberating　through　the　building　walls；　had　brought　her　to　a　sudden　halt　at　the　head　of　the　aisle。　He　was　pounding　furiously　on　something；　but　she　couldn't　imagine　what　it　might　be。
　When　the　hammering　stopped；　Chyna　hesitated；　then　rose　from　her　crouch　and　leaned　around　the　end　of　the　shelves。　She　looked　to　the　right；　past　the　first　aisle；　toward　the　glass　door　and　the　windows　at　the　front　of　the　store。
　With　the　outside　lights　off；　the　service　islands　lay　in　murk　as　deep　as　that　on　any　river　bottom。
　She　could　not　at　first　see　the　killer；　who　was　at　one　with　the　night　in　his　black　raincoat。　But　then　he　moved；　wading　through　the　darkness　toward　the　motor　home。
　Even　if　he　glanced　back；　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　see　her　in　the　dimly　lighted　store。　Her　heart　thundered　anyway　as　she　stepped　into　the　open　area　between　the　heads　of　the　three　aisles　and　the　cashiers'　counter。
　The　photograph　of　Ariel　was　no　longer　on　the　floor。　She　wished　that　she　could　believe　it　had　never　existed。
　At　the　moment；　the　two　employees　who　had　kept　the　secret　of　her　presence　were　more　important　than　Ariel　or　the　killer。　The　roar　of　the　shotgun　and　the　sudden　cessation　of　the　soul…shriveling　screams　had　convinced　her　that　they　were　dead。　But　she　must　be　sure。　If　one　of　them　clung　miraculously　to　life；　a