dk.intensity-第13节

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en　depression　plagued　her；　when　her　green　eyes　were　gray　and　sad　with　miseries　that　she　could　not　explain。　But　at　that　kitchen　table　in　Oakland　and　in　that　cool　bunker　beneath　the　cottage　in　Key　West…in　fact；　whenever　she　was　at　the　side　of　a　man　like　Woltz…her　porcelain　skin　was　even　clearer　than　usual；　almost　translucent；　excitement　enlivened　her　exquisite　features；　she　became　magically　more　graceful；　appeared　more　lithe　and　supple；　was　quicker　to　smile。　The　prospect　of　violence；　playing　at　being　Bonnie　to　any　man's　Clyde；　filled　her　stunning　face　with　a　light　as　glorious　as　a　Florida　sunset；　and　her　jewel…green　eyes　were；　at　those　times；　as　pelling　and　mysterious　as　the　Gulf　of　Mexico　darkening　toward　twilight。
　Although　the　prospect　of　violence　might　be　romantic；　the　reality　was　blood；　bone；　deposition；　dust。　The　reality　was　Laura　on　the　bed　and　the　unknown　young　man　sewn　into　silence　behind　the　pleated　vinyl　door。
　Chyna　sat　with　her　cold　hands　covering　her　colder　face；　aware　that　she　would　never　be　as　strangely　beautiful　as　her　mother。
　Eventually　she　regained　control　of　her　breathing。　The　motor　home　rolled　on；　and　she　was　reminded　of　nights　when；　as　a　child；　she　had　dozed　on　trains；　on　buses；　in　the　backseats　of　cars；　lulled　by　the　motion　and　the　hum　of　wheels；　unsure　where　her　mother　was　taking　her；　dreaming　of　being　part　of　a　family　like　one　of　those　on　television…with　befuddled　but　loving　parents；　an　amusing　next…door　neighbor　who　might　be　frustrating　but　never　malicious；　and　a　dog　that　knew　a　few　tricks。　But　good　dreams　never　lasted；　and　she　woke　repeatedly　from　nightmares；　gazing　out　windows　at　strange　landscapes；　wishing　that　she　could　travel　forever　without　stopping。　The　road　was　a　promise　of　peace；　but　destinations　were　always　hell。
　Chyna　didn't　want　to　go　there。　She　intended　to　get　off　between　destinations　and　hoped　to　find　her　way　back　to　the　better　life　that　she　had　struggled　so　hard　to　build　these　past　ten　years。
　She　left　the　er　of　the　bedroom　to　retrieve　the　butcher　knife；　which　she　had　dropped　when　she'd　been　rocked　backward　by　the　sight　of　the　dead　man　in　the　closet。　Then　she　went　around　the　bed　to　the　nightstand　and　switched　off　the　pharmacy　lamp。
　Being　in　the　dark　with　dead　people　didn't　frighten　her。　Only　the　living　were　a　danger。
　The　motor　home　slowed　again　and　then　turned　left。　Chyna　leaned　against　the　tilt　of　the　vehicle　to　keep　her　balance。
　They　must　be　on　State　Highway　29。　A　right　turn　would　have　taken　them　down　the　Napa　Valley；　south　into　the　town　of　Napa。　She　wasn't　sure　what　munities　lay　to　the　north；　other　than　St。　Helena　and　Calistoga。
　Even　between　the　towns；　however；　there　would　be　vineyards；　farms；　houses；　and　rural　businesses。　Wherever　she　got　out　of　the　motor　home；　she　should　be　able　to　find　help　within　a　reasonable　distance。
　She　sidled　blindly　to　the　door　and　stood　with　one　hand　on　the　knob；　waiting　for　instinct　to　guide　her　once　more。　Much　of　her　life　had　been　lived　like　a　balancing　act　on　a　spearpoint　fence；　and　on　a　particularly　difficult　night　when　she　was　twelve；　she　had　decided　that　instinct　was；　in　fact；　the　quiet　voice　of　God。　Prayers　did　receive　replies；　but　you　had　to　listen　closely　and　believe　in　the　answer。　At　twelve；　she　wrote　in　her　diary：　〃God　doesn't　shout；　He　whispers；　and　in　the　whisper　is　the　way。〃
　Waiting　for　the　whisper；　she　thought　about　the　battered　body　in　the　closet；　which　appeared　to　have　been　dead　for　less　than　a　day；　and　about　Laura；　still　warm　on　the　sagging　bed。　Sarah；　Paul；　Laura's　brother　Jack；　Jack's　wife；　Nina：　six　people　murdered　in　twenty…four　hours。　The　eater　of　spiders　was　not　an　ordinary　homicidal　sociopath。　In　the　language　of　the　cops　and　the　criminologists　who　specialized　in　searching　for　and　stopping　men　like　this；　he　was　hot；　going　through　a　hot　phase；　burning　up　with　desire；　need。　But　Chyna；　who　intended　to　follow　her　master's　in　psychology　with　a　doctorate　in　criminology；　even　if　she　had　to　work　six　years　waiting　tables　to　get　there；　sensed　that　this　guy　was　not　just　hot。　He　was　a　singularity；　conforming　only　in　part　to　standard　profiles　in　aberrant　psychology；　as　purely　alien　as　some…thing　from　the　stars；　a　runaway　killing　machine；　merciless　and　irresistible。　She　had　no　hope　of　eluding　him　if　she　didn't　wait　for　the　murmunng　voice　of　instinct。
　She　remembered　seeing　a　large　rearview　mirror　when　she'd　briefly　occupied　the　driver's　seat　earlier。　The　vehicle　had　no　rear　window；　so　the　mirror　was　there　to　provide　the　driver　with　a　view　of　the　lounge　and　the　dining　area　behind　him。　He　would　be　able　to　see　all　the　way　into　the　end　hall　that　served　the　bath　and　bedroom；　and　if　the　devil's　luck　was　with　him；　he　would　glance　up　just　when　Chyna　opened　the　door；　stepped　out；　and　was　exposed。
　When　the　moment　felt　right；　Chyna　opened　the　door。　A　small　blessing；　a　good　omen：　The　ceiling　light　in　the　hall　was　out。　Standing　in　gloom；　she　quietly　pulled　shut　the　bedroom　door。　The　lamp　above　the　dining　table　was　on　as　before。　At　the　front　of　the　vehicle　was　the　green　glow　of　the　instrument　panel…and　beyond　the　windshield；　the　headlights　were　silver　swords。
　After　moving　forward　past　the　bathroom　and　out　of　the　wele　shadows；　she　crouched　behind　the　paneled　side　of　the　dining　nook。　She　peered　across　the　crescent　booth　to　the　back　of　the　driver's　head；　about　twenty　feet　away。
　He　seemed　so　close…and；　for　the　first　time；　vulnerable。　Nevertheless；　Chyna　wasn't　foolish　enough　to　creep　forward　and　attack　him　while　he　was　driving。　If　he　heard　her　ing　or　glanced　at　the　rearview　mirror　and　spotted　her；　he　could　wrench　the　steering　wheel　or　slam　on　the　brakes；　sending　her　sprawling。　Then　he　might　be　able　to　stop　the　vehicle　and　get　to　her　before　she　could　reach　the　rear　door…or　he　might　swivel　in　his　chair　and　shoot　her　down。
　The　entrance　through　which　he　had　carried　Laura　was　immediately　to　Chyna's　left。　She　sat　on　the　floor　with　her　feet　in　the　step　well；　facing　this　door；　concealed　from　the　driver　by　the　dining　nook。
　She　put　the　butcher　knife　aside。　When　she　leaped　out；　she　would　probably　fall　and　roll…and　she　might　easily　stab　herself　with　the　knife　if　she　tried　to　take　it　with　her。
　She　didn't　intend　to　jump　until　the　driver　either　stopped　at　an　intersection　or　entered　a　turn　sharp　enough　to　require　him　to　cut　his　speed　dramatically。　She　couldn't　risk　breaking　a　leg　or　being　knocked　unconscious　in　a　fall；　because　then　she　wouldn't　be　able　to　get　away　from　the　road　and　safely　into　hiding。
　。jne　alan't　ciouut　that　he　would　be　aware　of　her　escape　even　as　it　began。　He　would　hear　the　door　open　or　the　wind　whistling　at　it；　and　he　would　see　her　either　in　his　rearview　or　in　his　side…mounted　mirror　as　she　made　her　break　for　freedom。　Even　in　the　unlikely　event　that　she　was　not　seen；　the　wind　would　slam　the　door　hard　behind　her　the　instant　she　was　gone；　the　killer　would　suspect　that　he　hadn't　been　alone　with　his　collection　of　corpses；　and　he'd　pull　off　the　highway　and　e　back　along　the　pavement；　panicky；　to　have　a　look。
　Or　perhaps　not　panicky。　Not　panicky　at　all。　More　likely；　he　would　search　with　grim；　methodical；　machine　efficiency。　This　guy　was　all　about　control　and　power；　and　Chyna　found　it　difficult　to　imagine　him　ever　succumbing　to　panic。
　The　motor　home　slowed；　and　Chyna's　heart　quickened。　As　the　driver　reduced　speed　further；　Chyna　rose　into　a　crouch　in　the　step　well　and　put　a　hand　on　the　lever…action　door　handle。
　They　came　to　a　full　stop；　and　she　pressed　down　on　the　handle；　but　the　door　was　locked。　Quietly　but　insistently　she　pressed　up；　down；　up…to　no　avail。
　She　couldn't　find　any　latch　button。　just　a　keyhole。　She　remembered　the　rattling　that　she'd　heard　when　she'd　been　in　the　bedroom　and　the　spider　eater　had　e　back　inside　and　closed　this　door。　Rattle；　rattle。　The　rattle　of　a　key；　perhaps。
　Maybe　this　was　a　safety　feature　to　prevent　kids　from　tumbling　out　into　traffic。　Or　maybe　the　crazy　bastard　had　modified　the　door　lock　to　enhance　security；　to　make　it　more　difficult　for　a　burglar　or　casual　intruder　to　stumble　upon　any　lip…sewn　or　shackled　cadavers　that　might　just　happen　to　be　aboard。　Can't　be　too　careful　when　you　have　dead　bodies　stacked　in　the　bedroom。　Prudence　requires　certain　security　measures。
　The　motor　home　pulled　forward　through　the　intersection　and　began　to　pick　up　speed　again。
　She　should　have　known　that　escape　wouldn't　be　easy。　Notbing　was　easy。　Ever。
　She　sat　down；　leaning　against　the　breakfast…nook　paneling；　still　facing　the　door；　thinking　furiously。
　Earlier；　on　her　way　back　through　the　vehicle　from　the　driver's　seat；　she'd　seen　a　door　on　the　other　side；　toward　the　front；　behind　the　co…pilot's　chair。　Most　motor　homes　had　two　doors；　but　this　was　a　rare　older　model　with　three。　She　was　reluctant　to　go　forward　to　escape；　however；　and　for　the　same　reason　that　she　didn't　want　to　attack　him：　He　might　see　her　ing；　rock　her　off　her　feet；　and　shoot　her　before　she　could　get　up。
　All　right；　she　had　one　advantage。　He　didn't　know　that　she　was　aboard。
　If　she　couldn't　just　open　a　door　and　jump　out；　if　she　was　going　to　have　to　kill　him；　she　could　lie　in　wait　here　past　the　dining　nook；　surprise　the　bastard；　gut　him；　step　over　him；　and　leave　by　the　front。　Just　minutes　ago　she　had　been　ready　to　kill　him；　and　she　c