dk.intensity-第8部分

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　With　fettered　hands　and　fettered　ankles　linked　by　a　chain；　Laura　was　thoroughly　hobbled。　She　wouldn't　be　able　to　stand；　let　alone　walk。
　Chyna　wasn't　strong　enough　to　carry　her。　She　saw　her　reflection　in　the　vanity　mirror　across　the　room；　and　she　realized　with　a　shock　how　nakedly　her　terror　was　revealed　in　her　wrenched　face。
　Trying　to　look　more　posed　for　Laura's　sake；　Chyna　stopped　beside　the　bed　again　and　murmured　almost　as　softly　as　her　friend　had　been　praying：　〃Is　there　a　gun？〃
　〃What？〃
　〃A　gun　in　the　house？〃
　〃No。〃
　〃Nowhere　in　the　house？〃
　〃No；　no。〃
　〃Shit。〃
　〃Jack。〃
　〃What？〃
　〃Has　one。〃
　〃A　gun？　At　the　bungalow？〃　Chyna　asked。
　〃Jack　has　a　gun。〃
　Chyna　didn't　have　time　to　get　to　the　bungalow　and　back　before　the　killer　returned　to　Laura's　room。　Anyway；　more　likely　than　not；　he　had　already　found　the　gun　and　confiscated　it。　〃Do　you　know　who　he　is？〃
　〃No。〃　Laura's　sky…blue　eyes　appeared　to　darken　with　despair。　〃Get　out。〃
　〃I'll　find　a　weapon。〃
　〃Get　out；〃　Laura　whispered　more　urgently；　cold　sweat　glistening　on　her　brow。
　〃A　knife；〃　Chyna　said。
　〃Don't　die　for　me。〃　Then；　sotto　voce；　tremulously　but　fiercely；　fiercely　she　said：　〃Run；　Chyna。　Oh；　God；　please　run！〃
　〃I'll　be　back。〃
　〃Run。〃
　
　From　outside；　a　sound　arose。　A　truck　engine。　Approaching。　Astonished；　Chyna　shot　to　her　feet。　〃Someone's　ing。　Help's　ing。〃
　Laura's　bedroom　was　toward　the　front　of　the　house。　Chyna　stepped　to　the　nearer　of　two　windows；　which　provided　a　view　of　the　half…mile　driveway　leading　in　from　the　two…lane　county　road。
　A　quarter　of　a　mile　away；　bright　headlights　pierced　the　night。　judging　by　the　height　of　the　lights　from　the　ground；　Chyna　concluded　that　the　truck　was　big。
　How　miraculous　that　anyone　would　show　up　at　this　hour；　in　this　lonely　place。
　As　a　thrill　of　hope　swept　through　Chyna；　she　realized　that　the　killer　would　have　heard　the　engine　too。　The　man　or　men　in　the　truck　wouldn't　know　what　trouble　they　were　getting　into。　When　they　stopped　in　front　of　the　house；　they　would　be　dead　men　breathing。　
　〃Hold　on；〃　she　said；　touched　Laura's　damp　forehead　to　reassure　her；　and　then　crossed　the　room　to　the　door；　leaving　her　friend　under　the　smug　and　somber　gaze　of　Sigmund　Freud。
　The　hallway　was　deserted。　Chyna　hurried　to　the　head　of　the　curved　stairs；　hesitated　to　mit　herself　to　the　tenebrous　lair　below；　but　then　realized　that　she　had　nowhere　else　to　go。　She　went　down　as　fast　as　she　dared　without　the　support　of　the　handrail。　Staying　clear　of　the　balustrade。　Too　exposed　there。　Close　to　the　wall　was　better。
　She　quickly　passed　a　series　of　large　landscape　paintings　in　ornate　frames；　which　seemed　almost　to　be　windows　on　actual　pastoral　vistas。　Earlier；　they　had　been　bright　and　cheerful　scenes。　Now　they　were　ominous：　goblin　forests；　black　rivers；　killing　fields。
　The　foyer。　An　oval　area　rug　on　polished　oak。　Through　a　closed　door　to　the　right　was　Paul　Templeton's　study。　Through　the　archway　on　the　left　was　the　dark　living　room。
　The　killer　could　be　anywhere。　Outside；　the　roar　of　the　truck　grew　louder。　It　was　almost　to　the　house。　The　driver　would　be　shot　through　the　windshield　the　moment　that　he　braked　to　a　stop。　Or　gunned　down　when　he　stepped　out　from　behind　the　steering　wheel。
　Chyna　had　to　warn　him；　not　solely　for　his　sake　but　for　her　own；　for　Laura's。　He　was　their　only　hope。
　Certain　that　the　spider…eating　intruder　was　nearby；　she　expected　a　savage　attack　and；　abandoning　caution；flew　at　the　front　door。　The　oval　rug　rucked　beneath　her　feet；　twisted；　and　nearly　spun　out　from　under　her。　She　stumbled；　reached　out　to　break　her　fall；　and　slammed　both　palms　flat　against　the　front　door。
　Such　a　noise；　hellacious　noise；　booming　through　the　house；　had　surely　drawn　the　killer's　attention　away　from　the　approaching　truck。
　Chyna　fumbled；　found　the　knob；　and　twisted　it。　The　door　was　unlocked。　Gasping；　she　pulled　it　open。
　A　cool　breeze　out　of　the　northwest；　faintly　scented　by　freshly　turned　vineyard　earth　and　fungicide；　whistled　through　the　bare　limbs　of　the　maple　trees　that　flanked　the　front　walkway。　Snuffling　like　a　pack　of　hounds；　it　rushed　past　her　into　the　foyer　as　she　stepped　out　onto　the　front　porch。
　The　truck　had　already　passed　the　house　and　was　heading　away　from　her。　It　would　e　around　for　a　second　approach　on　the　end…loop　of　the　driveway；　which　was　wide　enough　to　acmodate　produce　haulers　in　the　harvest　season；　and　park　facing　out　toward　the　county　road。　But　it　wasn't　a　truck　after　all。　A　motor　home。　An　older　model　with　rounded　lines；　well　kept；　forty　feet　long；　either　blue　or　green。　Its　chrome　glimmered　like　quicksilver　under　the　late…winter　moon。
　Amazed　that　she　had　not　yet　been　stabbed　or　shot　or　struck　from　behind；　glancing　back　at　the　open　front　door　where　the　killer　hadn't　yet　appeared；　Chyna　headed　for　the　porch　steps。
　The　motor　home　rounded　the　end　of　the　loop；　beginning　to　turn　toward　her。　Its　twin　beams　swept　across　the　Templetons'　barn　and　other　outbuildings。
　Larch　and　maple　and　evergreen　shadows　fled　before　the　arcing　headlights。　They　flickered　darkly　through　the　trellis　at　the　end　of　the　porch；　along　the　white　balustrade；　across　the　lawn　and　the　stone　walkway；　stretching　impossibly；　swooping　into　the　night　as　if　trying　frantically　to　tear　free　of　the　trees　that　cast　them。
　The　deep　quiet　in　the　house；　the　lack　of　lights　downstairs；　the　killer's　failure　to　attack　her　as　she　escaped；　the　timely　arrival　of　the　motor　home…suddenly　all　of　those　things　made　chilling　sense。　The　killer　was　driving　the　motor　home。　〃No。〃
　Chyna　swiftly　retreated　from　the　porch　steps　and　scrambled　back　into　the　foyer。
　At　her　heels；　the　headlights　came　all　the　way　around　the　end　of　the　driveway　loop。　They　pierced　the　trellis　grid；　projecting　geometric　patterns　across　the　porch　floor　and　the　front　wall　of　the　house。
　She　closed　the　door　and　fumbled　for　the　big　lock　above　the　knob。　Found　the　thumb…turn。　Engaged　the　heavy　deadbolt。
　Then　she　realized　her　mistake。　The　front　door　had　been　unlocked　because　the　killer　had　gone　out　that　way。　If　he　found　it　locked　now；　he　would　know　that　Laura　wasn't　the　only　person　alive　in　the　house；　and　the　hunt　would　begin。
　Her　sweaty　fingers　slipped　on　the　brass　thumb…turn；　but　the　bolt　snapped　open　with　a　hard　clack。
　Earlier；　he　must　have　parked　the　vehicle　near　the　end　of　the　halfmile…long　driveway；　out　toward　the　county　road；　and　must　have　walked　to　the　house。
　Now　tires　crunched　through　gravel。　Air　brakes　issued　a　soft　whoosh　and　a　softer　whine；　and　the　motor　home　came　to　a　full　stop　in　front　of　the　house。
　Remembering　the　oval　rug　that　had　turned　under　her　feet　and　had　nearly　sent　her　sprawling；　Chyna　dropped　to　her　knees。　She　crawled　across　the　wool；　smoothing　the　rumples　with　her　hands。　If　the　killer　tripped　over　the　disarranged　rug；　he　would　know　that　it　hadn't　been　in　that　condition　when　he'd　left。
　Footsteps　arose　outside：　boot　heels　ringing　off　the　flagstone　walkway。
　Chyna　came　to　her　feet　and　turned　toward　the　study。　No　good。　She　couldn't　know　for　sure　where　he　would　go　when　he　reentered　the　house；　and　if　he　stepped　into　the　study；　she　would　be　trapped　in　there　with　him。
　His　tread　echoed　hollowly　from　the　wooden　porch　steps。　Chyna　lunged　across　the　foyer；　through　the　archway；　into　the　dark　living　room…and　immediately　came　to　a　halt；　afraid　of　stumbling　into　furniture　and　knocking　it　over。　She　edged　forward；　feeling　her　way　with　both　hands；　vision　hampered　by　the　muddy…red　ghost　images　of　the　motor…home　headlights；　which　still　floated　faintly　across　her　retinas。
　The　front　door　opened。　Less　than　halfway　across　the　living　room；　Chyna　squatted　beside　an　armchair。　If　the　killer　entered　and　switched　on　the　lights；　he　would　see　her。
　Without　closing　the　door　behind　him；　the　man　appeared　in　the　foyer；　beyond　the　arch。　He　was　dimly　linmed　by　the　glow　from　the　second…floor　hallway。　He　passed　the　living　room　and　went　directly　to　the　stairs。
　Laura。　Chyna　still　had　no　weapon。　She　thought　of　the　fireplace　poker。　Not　good　enough。　Unless　she　caved　in　his　skull　on　the　first　blow　or　broke　his　arm；　he　would　wrest　the　poker　away　from　her。　She　had　the　strength　of　terror；　but　maybe　that　wouldn't　be　enough。
　Rather　than　rise　to　her　feet　and　blunder　blindly　across　the　living　room；　she　stayed　down　and　crawled　because　it　was　safer　and　quicker。　She　reached　the　dining…room　archway　and　angled　toward　where　she　thought　she'd　find　the　kitchen　door。
　She　thumped　into　a　chair。　It　rattled　against　a　table　leg。　On　the　table；　something　shifted　with　a　clink…clink；　and　she　remembered　seeing　carefully　arranged　ceramic　fruit　in　a　copper　bowl。
　She　didn't　think　that　he　could　have　heard　these　sounds　all　the　way　upstairs；　so　she　kept　going。　There　was　nothing　to　do　but　keep　going　anyway；　whether　he　had　heard　or　not。
　When　she　reached　the　swinging　door　sooner　than　she　had　expected；　she　got　to　her　feet。
　Though　the　infiltrating　moonlight　was　already　dim；　it　suddenly　faded　away；　causing　the　flesh　on　the　nape　of　her　neck　to　crawl　with　a　dire　expectation。　She　turned；　pressing　her　back　against　the　doorframe；　certain　that　the　killer　was　close　behind　her；　silhouetted　in　front　of　a　window；　blocking　the　lunar　glow；　but　he　wasn't　there。　The　silver　radiance　no　longer　painted　the　glass。　Evidently　the　storm　clouds；　rolling　out　of　the　northwest　since　before　midnight；　had　finally　shrouded　the　moon。
　Pushing　on　the　swinging　door；　she　went　into　the　kitchen。　She　wouldn't　need　to　switch　on　the　overhead　fluorescent　panels。　The　upper　of　the　double　ovens　featured　a　digital　clock　with　green　numerals　that　emitted　a　surprising　amount　of　light；　enough　to　allow　her　to　find　her　way　around　the　room。
　She　recalled　having　seen　a　section　of　butcher…block　countertop　to　one　side　of　the　stainless…steel　sinks。　The　sinks　were　in　front　of　the　wider　of　the　two　windows。　She　slid　her　hand　along　the　cold　granite　counters　until　she　located　the　remembered　wooden　surface。
　The　house　above　her　seemed　filled　with　a　higher　order　of　silence　than　ever　before。
　What　the　bastard　doing　up　there　in　all　that　silence；　up　there　in　all　that　silence　with　Laura？
　Under　the　butcher　block　was　a　drawer　where　she　expected　to　find　knives。　Found　them。　Neatly　slotted　in　a　holder。
　She　withdrew　one。　Too　short。　Another。　This