dk.intensity-第42部分

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languishing　in　shackles。
　The　technological　revolution　here　at　the　end　of　the　millennium　offers　numerous　conveniences　and　great　opportunities；　but　it　also　has　dangerous　aspects。　Thanks　to　his　expertise　with　puters；　he　has　cleverly　altered　his　fingerprint　files　with　various　agencies　and　can　go　without　gloves　at　places　like　the　Templeton　house；　enjoying　the　full　sensuality　of　the　experience　without　fear。　But　one　cellular　phone　in　the　wrong　hands　at　the　wrong　time　could　lead　suddenly　to　the　most　intense　experience　of　his　life…and　the　final　one。　He　sometimes　longs　for　the　simpler　age　of　Jack　the　Ripper；　or　the　splendid　Ed　Gein；　who　inspired　Psycho；　or　Richard　Speck；　he　dreams　wistfully　of　the　less　plicated　world　of　earlier　decades　and　of　killing　fields　that　were　less　trampled；　then；　by　such　as　he。
　By　feverishly　pursuing　high　ratings；　by　hyping　every　story　steeped　in　blood；　by　making　celebrities　out　of　killers；　and　by　fawning　over　celebrity　killers；　the　electronic　news　media　happily　may　have　inspired　more　of　his　clear…thinking　kind。　But　they　have　also　alarmed　the　sheep　too　much。　Too　many　in　the　herd　are　walleyed　with　alertness　and　quick　to　run　at　the　first　perception　of　danger。
　Still；　he　manages　to　have　his　fim。　After　making　his　calls；　Mr。　Vess　goes　out　to　the　motor　home。　The　license　plates；　the　blunt…end　screws　and　the　nuts　to　attach　them　to　the　vehicle；　and　a　screwdriver　are　in　a　drawer　in　the　kitchenette。
　By　various　means；　usually　two　or　three　weeks　prior　to　one　of　his　expeditions；　Mr。　Vess　carefully　selects　his　primary　targets；　like　the　Templeton　family。　And　though　he　sometimes　brings　back　a　living　prize　for　the　cellar　room；　he　nearly　always　travels　well　beyond　the　borders　of　Oregon　to　minimize　the　chances　that　his　two　lives…good　citizen　and　homicidal　adventurer…will　cross　at　the　most　inconvenient　moment。　（Though　he　didn't　employ　this　method　to　get　Laura　Templeton；　he　has　found　that　clandestine　browsing；　via　puter；　through　the　huge　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles'　records　in　neighboring　California　is　an　excellent　method　of　locating　attractive　women。　Their　driver's　license　photographs…head　shots　only　are　now　on　file　with　the　DAW。　Provided　with　each　picture　are　the　woman's　age；　height；　and　weightstatistics　that　assist　Vess　in　identifying　unacceptable　candidates；　so　he　can　avoid　grandmothers　who　photograph　well　and　plump　women　with　thin　faces。　And　though　some　people　list　post　office　boxes　only；　most　use　their　street　addresses；　thereafter；　Mr。　Vess　needs　only　a　series　of　good　maps。）　Upon　nearing　the　end　of　his　drive；　when　he　gets　within　fifty　miles　of　the　target　residence；　he　removes　the　license　plates　from　the　motor　home。　Later；　because　he　makes　a　point　of　being　far　away　from　the　scene　of　his　games　by　the　time　anyone　finds　the　aftermath；　he　could　be　tracked　down　only　if　someone　in　the　victim's　neighborhood　happened　to　see　the　motor　home　and；　though　it　looked　perfectly　innocent；　happened　to　glance　at　the　plates　and…that　damn　blown　tire　again…happened　to　have　a　photographic　memory。　Therefore；　he　leaves　the　tags　off　his　vehicle　until　he　is　safely　back　in　Oregon。
　If　he　were　stopped　by　a　police　officer　for　speeding　or　for　some　other　traffic　violation；　he　would　express　surprise　when　asked　about　his　missing　license　plates　and　would　say　that；　for　God　knows　what　reason；　they　must　have　been　stolen。　He　is　a　good　actor；　he　could　sell　his　bafflement。　If　the　chance　arose　to　do　so　without　putting　himself　in　serious　jeopardy；　he　would　kill　the　cop。　And　if　no　such　opportunity　presented　itself；　he　would　most　likely　be　able　to　count　on　a　swift　resolution　of　the　problem　by　calling　upon　professional　courtesy。
　Now　he　squats　on　his　haunches　and　attaches　one　of　the　tags　to　the　frame　in　the　front　license…plate　niche。
　One　by　one　the　dogs　e　to　him；　sniffing　at　his　hands　and　his　clothes；　perhaps　disappointed　to　find　only　the　scents　of　aftershave　and　dishwashing　soap。　They　are　starved　for　attention；　but　they　are　on　duty。　None　of　them　lingers　long；　each　returning　to　its　patrol　after　one　pat　on　the　head；　a　scratch　behind　the　ears；　and　a　word　of　affection。
　〃Good　dog；〃　Mr。　Vess　says　to　each。　〃Good　dog。〃
　When　he　finishes　with　the　front　plate；　he　stands；　stretches；　and　yawns　while　surveying　his　domain。
　At　ground　level；　anyway；　the　wind　has　died。　The　air　is　still　and　moist。　It　smells　of　wet　grass；　earth；　moldering　dead　leaves；　and　pine　forests。
　With　the　rain　finished；　the　mist　is　lifting　off　the　foothills　and　off　the　lower　flanks　of　the　mountains　behind　the　house。　He　can't　see　the　peaks　of　the　western　range　yet　or　even　the　blanket　of　snow　lingering　on　the　higher　slopes。　But　directly　overhead　and　to　the　east；　where　the　mist　doesn't　intervene；　the　clouds　are　more　gray　than　thunderhead　black；　a　soft　moleskin　gray；　and　they　are　moving　rapidly　southeast　in　front　of　a　high…altitude　wind。　By　midnight；　as　he　promised　Ariel；　there　might　be　stars　and　even　a　moon　to　light　the　tall　grass　in　the　meadow　and　to　shine　in　the　milky　eyes　of　the　dead　Laura。
　Mr。　Vess　goes　to　the　back　of　the　motor　home　to　attach　the　second　license　plate…and　discovers　odd　tracks　on　the　driveway。　As　he　stands　staring　at　them；　a　frown　pools　and　deepens　on　his　face。
　The　driveway　is　shale；　but　during　a　heavy　rain；　mud　washes　out　from　the　surrounding　yard。　Here　and　there　it　forms　a　thin　skin　atop　the　stone；　not　soupy　but　dark　and　dense。
　In　this　skin　of　mud　are　hoof　impressions；　perhaps　those　of　a　deer。　A　sizable　deer。　It　has　crossed　the　driveway　more　than　once。
　He　sees　a　place　where　it　stood　for　a　while；　pawing　the　ground。　No　tire　tracks　mar　the　mud；　because　they　were　erased　by　the　rain　that　had　been　falling　when　he'd　e　home。　Evidently　the　deer　spoor　date　from　after　the　storm。
　He　crouches　beside　the　tracks　and　puts　his　fingers　to　the　cold　mud。　He　can　feel　the　hardness　and　smoothness　of　the　hooves　that　stamped　the　marks。
　A　variety　of　deer　thrive　in　the　nearby　foothills　and　mountains。　They　rarely　venture　onto　Mr。　Vess's　property；　however；　because　they　are　frightened　of　the　Dobermans。
　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　d