dk.intensity-第19部分

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onvinced　her　that　they　were　dead。　But　she　must　be　sure。　If　one　of　them　clung　miraculously　to　life；　and　if　she　could　get　help　for　himpolice　and　paramedics…she　would　partially　redeem　herself。
　She　had　been　unable　to　do　anything　to　stop　the　blood…loving　bastard；　she　had　only　cowered　out　of　his　sight；　praying　frantically　for　invisibility。　Now　nausea　rolled　like　a　slop　of　chilled　oysters　in　her　stomach…and　at　the　same　time　she　was　lifted　by　a　sickening　exhilaration　that　she　had　lived　when　so　many　others　had　died。　Understandable　though　it　was；　the　exhilaration　shamed　her；　and　for　herself　as　well　as　for　the　two　clerks；　she　hoped　that　she　could　still　save　them。
　She　pushed　through　the　gate　in　the　counter；　and　the　piercing　creak　of　a　hinge　scraped　the　hollows　of　her　bones。
　A　gooseneck　lamp　provided　some　light。　The　two　men　were　on　the　floor。　
　〃Ah；〃　she　said。　And　then：　〃God。〃　
　They　were　beyond　her　help；　and　immediately　she　turned　awayy　from　them；　her　vision　blurring。
　On　the　counter；　directly　under　the　lamp；　lay　a　revolver。　She　stared　at　it　in　disbelief；　blinking　back　tears。
　Evidently　it　had　belonged　to　one　of　the　clerks。　She'd　overheard　the　conversation　between　the　killer　and　the　two　men；　and　she　vaguely　recalled　a　harsh　admonition　that　might　have　been　a　warning　to　drop　a　gun。　This　gun。
　She　grabbed　it；　held　it　in　both　hands…a　weight　that　buoyed　her。　If　the　killer　returned；　she　was　ready；　no　longer　helpless；　for　she　knew　how　to　use　guns。　Some　of　her　mother's　craziest　friends　had　been　expert　with　weaponry；　hate…filled　people　with　a　queer　brightness　in　the　eyes　that　was　a　sign　of　drug　use　in　some　cases　but　that　was　visible　in　others　only　when　they　spoke　passionately　about　their　deep　mitment　to　truth　and　justice。　On　an　isolated　farm　in　Montana；　when　Chyna　was　only　twelve；　a　woman　named　Doreen　and　a　man　named　Kirk　had　instructed　her　in　the　use　of　a　pistol；　although　her　slender　arms　had　jumped　wildly　with　the　recoil。　Patiently　teaching　her　control；　they　had　said　that　someday　she　would　be　a　true　soldier　and　a　credit　to　the　movement。
　Chyna　had　wanted　to　learn　about　firearms　not　to　use　them　in　one　noble　cause　or　another　but　to　protect　herself　from　those　people　in　her　mother's　strange　circles　who　succumbed　to　drug…enhanced　rages…or　who　stared　at　her　with　a　sick　desire。　She　had　been　too　young　to　want　their　attention；　too　self…respecting　to　encourage　them…but　thanks　to　her　mother；　she　had　not　been　too　innocent　to　understand　what　some　of　them　wanted　to　do　with　her。
　Now；　with　the　dead　clerk's　revolver　in　hand；　she　turned　and　saw　the　shattered　telephone。　〃Shit。〃
　She　hurried　back　through　the　gate；　into　the　public　part　of　the　store；　directly　to　the　front　door。
　The　motor　home　was　still　parked　on　this　side　of　the　farther　of　the　two　service　islands。　The　headlights　were　off。
　The　killer　was　not　in　sight　at　first…but　then　he　walked　into　view　around　the　back　of　the　motor　home；　his　unbuttoned　coat　flaring　like　a　cape　in　the　wind。
　Although　the　man　was　about　sixty　feet　away；　surely　he　couldn't　see　her　at　the　door。　He　wasn't　even　looking　in　her　direction；　but　Chyna　took　a　step　backward。
　Apparently　he　had　been　racking　the　hose　at　the　gasoline　pump　and　capping　the　fuel　tank。　He　walked　alongside　the　vehicle　toward　the　driver's　door。
　She　had　planned　to　telephone　the　police　and　tell　them　that　the　killer　was　headed　north　on　Highway　i　o　i。　Now；　by　the　time　she　got　to　a　phone；　called　the　cops；　and　made　them　understand　the　situation；　he　might　have　as　much　as　an　hour's　lead。　Within　an　hour；　he　would　have　several　choices　of　other　routes　that　branched　off　ioi。　He　might　continue　north　toward　Oregon；　turn　east　toward　Nevada…or　even　angle　West　to　the　coast；　thereafter　turning　south　again　along　the　Pacific　and　into　San　Francisco；　vanishing　in　the　urban　maze。　The　more　miles　he　traveled　before　an　all…points　bulletin　went　out　for　him；　the　harder　he　would　be　to　find。　He　would　soon　be　in　another　police　agency's　jurisdiction；　first　a　different　county　and　perhaps　eventually　a　different　state；　plicating　the　search　for　him。
　And　now　that　she　thought　about　it；　Chyna　realized　that　she　had　precious　little　information　that　would　be　helpful　to　the　cops。　The　motor　home　might　be　blue　or　green；　she　wasn't　sure　which…or　even　if　it　was　either…because　she'd　seen　it　only　in　the　darkness　and　then　in　the　color…distorting　yellow　glow　of　the　service　station's　sodium…vapour　lights。　She　didn't　know　the　make　of　it　either；　and　she　hadn't　seen　the　license　plate。
　He　was　getting　away。　Unhurried；　clearly　confident　that　he　was　in　no　imminent　danger　of　discovery；　he　climbed　into　the　motor　home　and　pulled　shut　the　driver's　door。
　He　is　going　to　get　away。　Yesus。　No；　intolerable；　unthinkable。　He　can't　be　allowed　to　get　away；　neverpayfor　what　he　did　to　Laura；　to　all　of　them　worse；　have　a　chance　to　do　it　again。　No；　God；　please；　let　me　drop　the　hateful　rotten　fucking　bastard　with　a　shot　in　the　head。
　She　stepped　close　to　the　door　again。　It　could　be　unlocked　only　with　a　key。　She　didn't　have　a　key。
　She　heard　the　motor…home　engine　turn　over。
　If　she　shot　out　the　glass；　he　would　hear。　Even　over　the　roar　of　the　engine　and　from　a　distance；　he　would　hear。
　Once　through　the　door；　she　would　be　too　far　away　to　shoot　him。　Fifty　or　sixty　feet；　at　night；　with　a　handgun；　the　gasoline　pumps　intervening。　No　way。　She　had　to　get　close；　right　up　against　the　motor　home；　put　the　muzzle　to　the　window。
　But　if　he　heard　her　shoot　her　way　through　the　locked　door　and　saw　her　ing　out　of　the　store；　she　wouldn't　have　a　chance　to　get　close　to　him；　not　in　a　million　years；　and　then　he　would　be　stalking　her　again；　across　the　service…station　property；　wherever　she　went；　and　his　shotgun　was　better　armament　than　her　revolver。
　Out　at　the　motor　home；　he　switched　on　the　headlights。　〃No。〃　She　ran　to　the　gate　in　the　counter；　shoved　through　it；　stepped　around　the　dead　men；　and　went　to　the　door　in　the　back　wall。
　There　had　to　be　a　rear　entrance。　Both　practical　function　and　fire　codes　would　require　it。
　The　door　opened　onto　blackness。　As　far　as　she　could　tell；　there　were　no　windows　ahead　of　her。　Maybe　it　was　only　a　supply　closet　or　a　bathroom。　She　stepped　across　the　threshold；　closed　the　door　behind　her　to　prevent　light　from　leaking　into　the　store；　felt　along　the　wall　to　her　left；　found　a　switch；　and　risked　turning　on　the　lights。
　She　was　in　a　cramped　office。　On　the　Jesk　was　another　shattered　telephone。
　Directly　across　the　room　from　the　door　that　she　had　just　used　was　another　door。　No　obvious　lock。　That　would　be　a　bathroom。
　To　her　left；　in　the　back　wall　of　the　building；　a　metal　door　featured　a　pair　of　over…and…under　deadbolts　with　thumb…tums。　She　disengaged　the　locks　and　opened　the　door；　and　a　flood　tide　of　cold　wind　washed　into　the　office。
　Behind　the　store　spread　a　twenty…foot…wide　paved　area；　and　then　a　steep　hillside　rose　with　serried　trees　that　were　black　in　the　night　and　restless　in　the　wind。　A　security　light　in　a　wire　cage　revealed　two　parked　cars；　which　probably　belonged　to　the　clerks。
　I　Cursing　the　killer；　Chyna　turned　to　the　right　and　sprinted　along　the　shorter　length　of　the　building；　around　the　er；　past　public　rest　rooms。　She　had　never　caused　anyone　physical　harm；　not　once　in　her　life；　but　she　was　ready　to　kill　now；　and　she　knew　that　she　could　do　it　without　hesitation；　with　no　thought　of　mercy；　with　a　vengeance；　because　be　had　empowered　her　to　do　it。　This　was　what　he　had　reduced　her　to…this　blind；　animal　fury…and　the　worst　thing　was　that　it　felt　good；　this　rage；　so　good　in　parison　to　the　fear　and　helplessness　she　had　endured；　a　sweet　singing　of　rushing　blood　in　the　veins　and　an　exhilarating　sense　of　savage　strength。　She　should　have　been　appalled　at　the　lust　for　blood　that　seized　her；　but　she　liked　it；　and　she　knew　that　she　would　like　it　even　more　when　she　caught　up　with　the　motor　home　and　shot　him　through　the　driver's…side　window；　pulled　open　the　door　and　shot　him　again　where　he　sat　bleeding；　dragged　him　out　and　let　him　sprawl　on　the　pavement　and　emptied　the　revolver　into　him　until　he　could　never　again　go　hunting。
　She　rounded　the　second　corner　and　reached　the　front　of　the　building。
　The　motor　home　was　pulling　away　from　the　pumps。　She　raced　after　it；　faster　than　she　had　ever　run　in　her　life；　cleaving　a　resistant　wind　that　stung　new　tears　from　her　eyes；　shoes　pounding　noisily　on　the　blacktop。
　Now　it　was　Dear　Lord；　let　me　catch　him　instead　of　Dear　Lord；　let　me　get　awayfrom　him；　and　now　it　was　Dear　Lord；　let　me　kill　him　instead　of　Dear　Lord；　don't　let　him　kill　me。
　The　motor　home　picked　up　speed。　It　was　already　out　of　the　service　area；　entering　the　eighth…of…a…mile　lane　that　would　take　it　back　onto　the　highway。
　She　would　never　be　able　to　catch　it。
　He　was　getting　away。　She　halted　and　planted　her　feet　wide　apart。　The　revolver　was　in　her　right　hand。　She　raised　it；　gripped　it　with　both　hands；　arms　extended；　elbows　locked。　Shooter's　stance。　Every　good　girl　should　know　it；　e　the　revolution。
　Her　heart　didn't　merely　beat；　it　crashed；　and　every　explosive　pump　shook　her　arms；　so　she　couldn't　hold　the　revolver　on　target。　The　motor　home　was　too　distant　anyway。　She'd　miss　it　by　yards。　And　even　if　she　got　lucky　and　put　one　round　in　the　back　wall；　it　would　be　nowhere　near　the　driver。　He　was　out　of　her　reach；　beyond　harm；　cruising　away。
　It　was　over。　She　could　go　for　help；　find　the　nearest　working　phone；　call　the　local　police；　and　try　to　cut　his　lead　time　as　short　as　possiblebut　for　now　and　here；　it　was　over。
　Except　that　it　wasn't　over；　and　she　knew　it　wasn't；　no　matter　how　much　she　wanted　to　be　finished　with　it；　because　she　said　aloud；　〃Ariel。〃
　Sixteen。　Prettiest　thing　this　side　ofparadise。　Pure　angel。　Porcelain　skin。　Breathtaking。　Locked　in　the　basement　for　a　year　Never　touched　her　that　way。　Waiting　for　her　to　ripen；　get　just　a　little　sweeter　In　Chyna's　mind's　eye；　the　Polaroid　photograph　of　Ariel　was　as　clear　and　detailed　as　it　had　been　when　she'd　held　it　in　her　hand。　That　bland　expression；　maintained　with　obvious　effort。　Those　eyes；　brimming　with　anguish。
　Earlier；　listening　to　the　conversation　between　the　killer　and　the　two　clerks；　Chyna　had　known　that　he　was　not　merely　playing　games　with　them；　that　he　was　telling　the　truth。　The　creep　was　letting　them　in　on　his　secrets；　ad