dk.intensity-第9部分

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　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　one　was　a　bread　knife　with　a　blunt　round　end。　The　third　that　she　selected　proved　to　be　a　butcher　knife。　She　carefully　tested　the　cutting　edge　against　the　ball　of　her　thumb　and　found　it　satisfyingly　sharp。
　Upstairs；　Laura　screamed。　Chyna　started　toward　the　dining…room　door　but　sensed　intuitively　that　she　dared　not　go　that　way。　She　rushed　instead　to　the　back　stairs；　even　though　they　couldn't　be　climbed　without　making　noise。
　She　switched　on　the　light　in　the　stairwell。　The　killer　could　not　see　her　here。
　From　the　second　floor；　Laura　cried　out　again…a　terrible　wail　of　despair；　pain；　horror；　like　a　cry　that　might　have　been　heard　in　the　poisongas　chambers　at　Dachau　or　in　the　windowless　interrogation　rooms　of　Siberian　prisons　during　the　era　of　the　gulags。　It　was　not　a　scream　for　help　or　even　a　begging　for　mercy；　but　a　plea　for　release　at　any　cost；　even　death。
　Chyna　clambered　up　the　stairs　into　that　scream；　which　presented　her　with　real　resistance；　as　if　she　were　a　swimmer　struggling　toward　the　surface　of　a　sea；　against　a　great　weight　of　water。　As　cold　as　an　Arctic　current；　the　cry　chilled　her；　numbed　her；　throbbed　icily　in　the　hollows　of　her　bones。　She　was　overe　by　a　pulsion　to　scream　with　Laura　as　a　dog　wails　in　sympathy　when　it　hears　another　dog　suffering；　a　primal　need　to　howl　in　misery　at　the　sheer　helplessness　of　human　existence　in　a　universe　full　of　dead　stars；　and　she　had　to　fight　that　urge。
　Laura's　scream　spiraled　into　a　bawling　for　her　mother；　though　she　must　know　that　her　mother　was　dead。　〃Mommy；　Mommy；　Mommeeeeee。　〃　She　was　reduced　to　the　dependency　of　an　infant；　too　terrified　of　life　itself　to　find　solace　anywhere　but　in　the　familiar　succoring　breast　and　in　the　sound　of　that　same　heartbeat　remembered　from　the　womb。
　And　then　sudden　quiet。　Bleak　silence。　On　the　landing；　halfway　to　the　second　floor；　Chyna　was　surprised　to　realize　that　the　thousand…fathom　weight　of　the　scream　had　brought　her　to　a　standstill。　Her　legs　were　weak；　her　calf　and　thigh　muscles　quivered　as　if　she　had　ran　a　marathon。　She　seemed　on　the　brink　of　collapse。
　Because　it　might　signify　the　end　of　hope；　the　silence　was　now　as　oppressive　as　the　scream。　She　bent　her　head　under　a　hush　as　heavy　as　an　iron　crown；　hunched　her　shoulders；　and　huddled　miserably　upon　herself。
　It　would　be　so　easy　to　lean　against　the　wall；　slide　down　to　the　floor；　put　the　knife　aside；　and　curl　defensively。　Just　wait　until　he　had　gone　away。　Wait　until　a　relative　or　a　friend　of　the　family　arrived；　discovered　the　bodies；　went　for　the　police；　and　took　care　of　everything。
　Instead；　after　pausing　only　a　few　seconds　on　the　landing；　Chyna　forced　herself　to　continue　the　climb；　heart　pounding　so　hard　that　it　seemed　as　if　each　blow　might　knock　her　down。
　Her　arms　shook　uncontrollably。　In　her　white…knuckle　grip；　the　butcher　knife　carved　wobbly　patterns　in　the　air　in　front　of　her；　and　she　wondered　if　she　would　have　the　strength；　in　any　confrontation；　to　thrust　and　slash　effectively。
　That　was　the　thinking　of　a　loser；　and　she　hated　herself　for　it。　During　the　past　ten　years　she　had　transformed　herself　into　a　winner；　and　she　was　determined　not　to　backslide。
　The　old　wooden　stairs　protested　under　her；　but　she　moved　fast；　heedless　of　the　noise。　Whether　Laura　was　alive　or　dead；　the　killer　would　be　at　play；　distracted　by　his　games；　unlikely　to　hear　anything　other　than　the　thunderous　rush　of　his　own　blood　in　his　ears　and　over　whatever　urgent　inner　voices　spoke　to　him　at　that　very　moment　when　he　held　a　life　in　his　hands。
　She　stepped　into　the　upstairs　hall。　Propelled　by　her　fear　for　Laura　and　by　a　rage　born　from　self…disgust　at　her　moment　of　weakness　on　the　landing；　she　hurried　past　the　closed　door　of　the　guest　room　to　the　turn　in　the　L…shaped　corridor；　around　the　corner；　past　the　half…open　door　of　the　master　suite　and　through　the　amber　light　that　spilled　from　it。　She　dashed　along　the　arbor　of　faded　roses；　rage　swelling　into　fury　as　she　went；　shocked　by　her　own　boldness；　seeming　to　glide　along　the　carpet；　as　swift　as　if　sliding　down　an　icy　slope；　straight　to　the　open　door　of　Laura's　room；　without　hesitation；　knife　raised　high；　her　arm　no　longer　shaking；　steady　and　sure；　crazy　with　terror　and　despair　and　righteousness；　across　the　threshold　and　into　the　bedroom；　where　Freud　was　unshaken　by　what　had　happened　under　his　gaze…and　where　the　rumpled　bed　was　empty。
　Laura　was　gone。　The　room　was　deserted。
　Over　the　rush　of　her　breathing　and　the　booming　of　her　heart；　she　heard　the　rattle…clink　of　a　shackle　chain。　Not　in　the　room。　Elsewhere。
　Careless　of　danger；　she　returned　to　the　hall；　to　the　balustrade　that　overlooked　the　foyer。
　Below；　barely　illuminated　by　the　pale　light　from　the　upstairs　hallway；　the　killer　went　through　the　open　front　door　onto　the　porch。　He　was　carrying　Laura　in　his　arms。　She　was　wrapped　in　a　bedsheet；　one　pale　arm　trailing　limply；　head　lolling　to　the　side；　and　face　concealed　by　her　golden　hair：　unconscious；　offering　no　resistance。
　He　must　have　been　descending　the　shadowy　stairs　when　Chyna　had　passed　them。　She　had　been　so　focused　on　getting　to　Laura's　room；　so　pumped　for　the　attack；　that　she　hadn't　been　aware　of　him；　even　though　the　chain　and　the　cuffs　must　have　been　rattling　then　as　well。
　Evidently；　he'd　been　making　enough　noise　that　he　hadn't　heard　Chyna　either。
　Instinct　had　told　her　to　take　the　back　stairs；　and　she'd　been　wise　to　listen。　If　she'd　been　ascending　the　front　stairs；　she'd　have　met　him　as　he'd　been　ing　down。　He　would　have　thrown　Laura　at　her；　followed　the　two　of　them　as　they　tumbled　into　the　foyer；　kicked　the　knife　out　of　Chyna's　hand　if　she　hadn't　lost　it　already；　and　savaged　her　where　she'd　fallen。
　She　couldn't　let　him　take　Laura　away。　Afraid　that　thinking　about　the　situation　would　paralyze　her　again；　Chyna　recklessly　descended　the　stairs。　If　she　could　take　him　by　surprise　and　plunge　the　knife　into　his　back；　Laura　might　yet　have　a　chance。
　She　could　do　it　too。　She　wasn't　squeamish。　She　could　slam　the　blade　deep；　try　for　his　heart　from　the　back；　puncture　a　lung；　yank　the　knife　out　of　him　and　ram　it　in　again；　stab　the　son　of　a　bitch　and　listen　to　him　squealing　for　mercy　and　stab　stab　stab　him　until　he　was　silent　forever。　Never　had　she　done　anything　like　that；　never　had　she　hurt　anyone。　But　she　could　do　it　now；　waste　him；　because　she　was　terrified　for　Laura；　because　she　was　sick　at　the　thought　of　failing　her　friendand　because　she　was　a　natural…born　vengeance　machine；　a　human　being。
　At　the　bottom　of　the　stairs；　the　oval　rug　didn't　spin　out　from　under　her　as　it　had　done　before；　and　she　went　straight　toward　the　open　door。
　She　no　longer　held　the　knife　high　but　held　it　low；　at　her　side。　If　he　heard　her　ing；　he　would　turn；　and　then　she　could　swing　the　knife　up　in　an　arc；　under　the　girl　that　he　held　in　his　arms；　and　into　his　belly。　That　was　better　than　trying　to　plunge　it　into　his　back；　where　the　point　might　be　deflected　by　a　shoulder　blade　or　rib；　or　might　skid　off　his　spine。　Go　for　the　softest　part　of　him。　She'd　be　face…to…face　with　him　that　way。　Looking　straight　into　his　eyes。　Would　that　make　her　hesitate？　He　had　it　ing。　The　bastard。　She　thought　of　Sarah　on　the　floor　of　the　shower　stall；　huddled　naked　in　the　cold　drizzle。　She　could　do　it。　She　could　do　it。
　Into　the　doorway；　across　the　threshold；　onto　the　porch；　she　was　not　only　ready　to　kill　but　prepared　to　die　in　the　attempt　to　get　him。　Yet　as　swift　as　she　had　been；　she　hadn't　been　swift　enough；　because　he　was　not　just　that　moment　going　down　the　porch　steps；　as　she　had　hoped；　but　was　already　nearing　the　motor　home。　The　burden　of　Laura　hadn't　slowed　him　at　all。　He　was　inhumanly　quick。
　She　landed　on　only　one　stair　tread　from　the　front　porch　to　the　walkway；　and　the　rubber　soles　of　her　shoes　slapped　the　flagstones　loud　enough　to　carry　even　over　the　moaning　of　the　wind。　The　moon　was　gone；　and　half　the　stars　as　well；　displaced　by　towering　palisades　of　clouds；　but　if　the　killer　heard　her　and　turned；　he　would　be　able　to　see　her　clearly。
　Evidently；　he　didn't　hear；　for　he　didn't　glance　back；　and　Chyna　angled　off　the　walkway；　onto　the　quieter　grass；　determinedly　going　after　him。
　Two　doors　were　open　on　the　motor　home：　one　at　the　driver's　side　of　the　cockpit；　the　other　on　that　same　flank　of　the　vehicle　but　two…thirds　of　the　way　toward　the　back。　The　killer　chose　the　rear　door。
　With　Laura　in　his　arms；　he　was　forced　to　turn　sideways；　pulling　her　tightly　to　him　as　he　squeezed　through　the　open　door　and　crabbed　up　the　two　interior　steps；　but　he　was　as　agile　as　he　was　strong。　He　disappeared　into　the　vehicle　before　Chyna　could　reach　him。
　She　considered　going　inside　after　him。　But　all　the　windows　were　curtained；　so　she　didn't　know　if　he　had　turned　left　or　right。　And　if　he　had　put　Laura　down　immediately　upon　entering；　he　would　now　be　better　able　to　defend　himself　against　an　attack。　That　was　his　turf；　beyond　the　door；　and　she　wasn't　sufficiently　reckless　with　vengeance　to　want　to　confront　him　there。
　She　pressed　her　back　to　the　wall　of　the　motor　home；　beside　the　open　door；　waiting　for　him。　If　he　came　outside　again；　she'd　go　at　him　even　as　his　foot　was　reaching　for　the　ground。　The　element　of　surprise　was　still　working　for　her；　maybe　better　than　ever…because　the　killer　was　ciose　to　a　ciean　getaway　ana　teeang　so　good　about　himself　that　he　might　be　careless。
　Maybe　he　wouldn't　e　outside　again；　but　at　least　he　would　have　to　reach　out　to　pull　the　door　shut。　Standing　on　the　step；　leaning　to　grab　at　the　handle；　he　would　not　be　well　balanced；　and　she　would　have　the　knife　deep　into　him　before　he　had　a　chance　to　jerk　back。
　Movement　inside。　A　thump。　She　tensed。　He　didn't　appear。　Silence　again。　The　scent　of　blood　was　suddenly　heavy　out　of　the　northwest；　as　though　a　slaughterhouse　lay　upwind　of　her。　Then　it　passed；　and　she　realized　that　she　hadn't　actually　smelled　blood　but　had　flashed　back　on　the　smell　of　the　sodden　sheets　in　the　Templetons'　master　suite。
　The　aluminum　wall　of　the　motor　home　was　cold　against　her　spine；　and　she　shivered　because　it　seemed　that　some　of　the　coldness　of　the　man　inside　was　seeping　through　to　her。
　Waiting；　she　began　t