dk.intensity-第25部分

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　Coastal　elk　should　have　been　somewhat　closer　to　the　sea；　in　the　open　meadows　beyond　the　redwoods；　where　the　grass　was　lush　and　green　from　the　winter　rains；　where　the　grazing　was　good。　Although　they　were　not　strangers　to　the　forest；　their　presence　here；　in　the　rainy　predawn　darkness；　was　remarkable。
　Then　she　saw　others　in　addition　to　the　herd　of　six…one　here；　one　there；　and　there　a　third；　and　still　more…between　trees；　at　a　greater　distance　than　the　initial　group。　Some　were　barely　visible　in　the　bosky　grove；　at　the　extreme　reach　of　the　backwash　from　the　motor…home　headlights；　but　she　thought　that　there　were　as　many　as　a　dozen　altogether；　all　standing　at　attention；　as　though　transfixed　by　woodland　music　beyond　human　hearing。
　Lightning　spread　branches　across　the　sky；　put　down　jagged　roots　toward　the　earth；　and　briefly　brightened　the　grove　sufficiently　for　Chyna　to　see　all　the　elk　more　clearly　than　before。　More　of　them　than　she　had　thought。　In　mist　and　ferns；　among　flowering　red　rhododendron；　revealed'by　fluttering　leaves　of　light。　Heads　lifted；　their　breath　steaming　from　black　nostrils。　Their　eyes　fixed　on　her。
　She　looked　out　at　the　highway。　The　killer　had　given　up　trying　to　start　the　engine。　He　put　the　Honda　in　gear；　and　it　began　to　roll　backward　on　the　slightly　sloped　pavement。
　After　one　last　glance　at　the　elk；　Chyna　stepped　out　from　between　the　two　redwoods。
　The　killer　pulled　the　steering　wheel　hard　to　the　right；　letting　the　momentum　of　the　car　carry　it　backward　in　an　arc　until　it　was　facing　downhill。
　Through　sparse　ferns　and　scattered　clumps　of　bunch　grass；　Chyna　approached　the　highway。　The　weakness　in　her　legs　was　gone；　and　her　spasm　of　irresolution　had　passed。
　Under　the　killer's　guidance；　the　Honda　coasted　downhill　and　onto　the　right　shoulder。
　She　could　go　after　him；　shoot　him　in　the　car　or　as　he　got　out　of　the　car。　But　he　was　fifty　yards　away　now；　sixty；　and　he　would　surely　see　her　ing。　She　would　have　no　hope　of　keeping　the　advantage　of　surprise；　so　she　would　have　to　shoot　to　kill；　which　would　do　Ariel　no　good　at　all；　because　with　this　bastard　dead　they　would　still　have　to　search　for　the　girl　wherever　she　was　hidden。　And　they　might　never　find　her。　Besides；　the　creep　probably　had　a　gun　on　him；　and　if　this　turned　into　a　shooting　match；　he　would　win；　because　he　was　far　more　practiced　than　she　was…and　bolder。
　She　had　no　one　to　whom　she　could　turn。　As　in　childhood。
　So　now　get　out　of　sight　quickly。　Don't　be　rash。　Wait　for　the　ideal　situation。　Pick　the　moment　of　the　confrontation　and　control　the　showdown　when　it　es。
　Fierce　lightning　again；　and　a　long　hard　crash　of　thunder　like　vast　structures　collapsing　high　in　the　night。
　She　reached　the　motor　home。　Oh；　God。　The　driver's　door　stood　open。　Oh；yesus。　Oh；　God。　She　couldn't　do　it。　She　had　to　do　it。　Downhill；　on　the　shoulder；　with　a　rattle　of　twisted　steel；　the　Honda　was　coasting　to　a　stop。
　She　had　the　revolver。　That　made　all　the　difference。　She　was　safe　with　the　gun。
　Who　will　save　this　girl　hidden　in　a　cellar；　this　girl　ripeningfor　this　son…of…a…bitch　bastard　freak；　this　girl　like　me？　Who　is　ever　there　for　frightened　girls　hidingin　the　backs　ofclosets　or　under　beds；　who　is　ever　there　but　twitchingpalmetto　beetles？　Who　will　be　there　if　not　me；　where　will　I　be　ifnot　there；　why　is　this　the　only　choice…and　when　the　answer　is　so　obvious；　why　even　ask　why？
　Downslope；　the　Honda　came　to　a　full　stop。　With　the　revolver　heavy　in　her　hand；　Chyna　climbed　into　the　cockpit　and　behind　the　steering　wheel。　She　swung　around　in　the　driver's　seat；　got　up；　and　hurried　back　through　the　motor　home；　murmuring；　〃Jesus；　Jesus；〃　telling　herself　that　it　was　all　right；　this　crazy　thing　she　was　doing；　all　right　because　this　time　she　had　the　revolver。
　But　she　wondered　if　even　the　gun　would　give　her　enough　of　an　edge　when　the　time　arrived　to　go　face…to…face　with　this　man。
　Of　course　a　direct　confrontation　might　never　have　to　take　place。　Chyna　intended　to　hide　until　they　arrived　at　his　house　and　then　find　out　where　the　girl　was　being　held。　With　that　information；　she　would　be　able　to　go　to　the　police；　and　they　could　nail　this　creep　and　free　Ariel　and…And　what？　And　in　saving　the　girl；　she　would　save　herself。　From　what；　she　was　not　sure。　From　a　life　of　merely　surviving？　From　the　endless　and　fruitless　struggle　to　understand？
　Crazy；　crazy；　but　there　was　no　turning　back　now。　And　in　her　heart　she　knew　that　risking　all　was　less　crazy　than　living　a　life　that　had　no　higher　goal　than　survival。
　As　if　thrown　forward　by　the　hard　knocking　of　her　heart；　Chyna　reached　the　rear　of　the　motor　home。　The　closed　door　to　the　only　bed…room。
　Jesus。　She　didn't　want　to　go　in　there。　With　Laura　dead。　The　man　in　the　closet。　The　sewing　kit　waiting　to　be　used　again。
　Jesus。　But　it　was　the　best　place　to　hide；　so　she　opened　the　door　and　went　in　and　closed　the　door　behind　her　and　eased　to　the　left　through　the　palpable　darkness　and　put　her　back　against　the　wall。
　Maybe　he　wouldn't　drive　straight　home。　He　might　stop　at　some　point　between　here　and　there　to　e　to　the　back　of　the　motor　home　and　have　a　look　at　his　trophies。
　Then　she　would　kill　him　the　instant　that　he　stepped　through　the　door。　Empty　the　revolver　into　him。　Take　no　chances。
　With　him　dead；　they　might　never　find　Ariel。　Or　they　might　find　her　only　after　she　had　perished　of　starvation；　an　excruciatingly　painful　way　to　die。
　Nevertheless；　if　the　killer　entered　this　bedroom；　Chyna　wouldn't　rely　on　half　measures。　She　would　not　attempt　to　wound　him　and　keep　him　alive　for　police　interrogation；　not　in　this　tight　space　with　him　looming　over　her　and　with　so　many　ways　that　things　could　go　wrong。
　Lights　off；　windshield　wipers　off；　Edgler　Vess　sits　in　the　dead　car　by　the　side　of　the　road。　Thinking。
　There　are　numerous　ways　that　he　can　proceed　from　here。　Life　is　always　a　laden　buffet　of　treats；　a　vast　smorgasbord　groaning　with　infinite　choices　of　sensations　and　experiences　to　thrill　the　heart…but　never　more　so　than　now。　He　wishes　to　exploit　the　opportunity　to　the　fullest　possible　extent；　to　extract　from　it　the　greatest　possible　excitement　and　the　most　poignant　sensations；　and　he　must；　therefore；　not　act　precipitously。
　Luck　had　given　him　a　glimpse　of　her　in　the　rearview　mirror：　as　fleet　as　a　deer　across　the　blacktop；　hesitating　at　the　open　door　of　the　motor　home；　and　then　up　and　inside　and　out　of　sight。
　She　must　be　the　woman　from　the　Honda。　When　she　passed　him　earlier；　he　had　looked　down　through　the　windshield　of　her　car　and　had　seen　her　red　sweater。
　In　the　accident；　she　might　have　received　a　hard　blow　to　the　head。　Now　perhaps　she　is　dazed；　confused；　frightened。　This　would　explain　why　she　doesn't　approach　him　directly　and　ask　for　help　or　for　a　ride　to　the　nearest　service　station。　If　her　thoughts　are　addled；　the　irrational　decision　to　bee　a　stowaway　aboard　the　motor　home　might　seem　perfectly　reasonable　to　her。
　She　did　not　appear　to　be　suffering　from　a　head　injury；　however；　or　any　injury　at　all。　She　hadn't　staggered　or　stumbled　across　the　highway　but　had　been　swift　and　surefooted。　At　this　distance　and　in　the　rearview　mirror；　Vess　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　see　blood　even　if　she　had　been　bleeding；　but　he　knows　intuitively　that　there　was　no　blood。
　The　longer　he　considers　the　situation；　the　more　it　seems　to　him　that　the　accident　was　staged。
　But　why？　If　the　motive　had　been　robbery；　she　would　have　accosted　him　the　moment　that　he　stepped　onto　the　highway。
　Besides；　he　isn't　driving　one　of　those　elaborate　three…hundredthousand…dollar　land　yachts　that；　by　their　very　flashiness；　advertise　their　contents　to　thieves。　His　vehicle　is　seventeen　years　old　and；　though　well　maintained；　worth　considerably　less　than　fifty　thousand　bucks。　It　seems　pointless　to　wreck　a　relatively　new　Honda　for　the　purpose　of　looting　the　contents　of　an　aging　vehicle　that　promises　no　treasures。
　He　has　left　his　keys　in　the　ignition；　the　engine　running。　She　already　could　have　driven　away　in　the　motor　home　if　that　had　been　her　intention。
　And　a　woman　alone　on　a　lonely　highway　at　night　is　not　likely　to　be　planning　a　robbery。　Such　behavior　doesn't　fit　any　criminal　profile。
　He　is　baffled。　Deeply。　Mr。　Vess's　simple　life　is　not　often　touched　by　mystery。　There　are　things　that　can　be　killed　and　things　that　can't。　Some　things　are　harder　to　kill　than　others；　and　some　are　more　fun　to　kill　than　others。　Some　scream；　some　weep；　some　do　both；　some　only　tremble　silently　and　wait　for　the　end　as　if　having　spent　their　whole　lives　in　anticipation　of　this　awful　pain。　Thus　the　days　go　by　pleasantly　straightforward；　a　river　of　raw　sensation　upon　which　enigma　seldom　sets　sail。
　But　this　woman　in　a　red　sweater　is　an　enigma；　all　right；　as　mystenous　and　intriguing　as　anyone　Mr。　Vess　has　ever　known。　What　experiences　he　will　have　with　her　are　difficult　to　imagine；　and　he　is　excited　by　the　prospect　of　such　novelty。
　He　gets　out　of　the　Honda　and　closes　the　door。　For　a　moment　he　stands　staring　at　the　forest　in　the　cold　rain；　hoping　to　appear　unsuspecting　if　the　woman　should　be　watching　him　from　inside　the　motor　home。　Maybe　he　is　wondering　what　happened　to　the　driver　of　the　Honda。　Maybe　he　is　a　good　citizen；　concerned　about　her　and　considering　a　search　of　the　woods。
　Multiple　bolts　of　lightning　chase　across　the　sky；　as　white　and　jagged　as　running　skeletons。　The　subsequent　blasts　of　thunder　are　so　powerful　that　they　rattle　through　Mr。　Vess's　bones；　a　vibration　that　he　finds　most　agreeable。
　Unfazed　by　the　storm；　several　elk　suddenly　appear　from　out　of　the　forest；　drifting　between　the　trees　and　into　the　bordering　sward　of　ferns。　They　move　with　stately　grace；　in　a　silence　that　is　ethereal　behind　the　fading　echo　of　thunder；　eyes　shining　in　the　backwash　of　the　headlight　beams。　They　seem　almost　to　be　apparitions　rather　than　real　animals。
　Two；　five；　seven；　and　yet　more　of　them　appear。　Some　stop　as　though　posing；　and　others　move　farther　but　then　stop　as　well；　until　now　a　dozen　or　more　are　revealed　and　standing　still；　and　every　one　of　them　is　staring　at　Mr。　Vess。
　Their　beauty　is　unearthly；　and　killing　them　would　be　enormously　satisfying。　If　he　had　one　of　his　guns　at　hand；　he　would　shoot　as　many　of　them　as　he　could　manage　before　they　bolted　beyond　range。
　As　a　young　boy；　he　began　his　work　with　a