dk.intensity-第14节

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m；　step　over　him；　and　leave　by　the　front。　Just　minutes　ago　she　had　been　ready　to　kill　him；　and　she　could　make　herself　be　ready　again。
　The　engine　vibrations　rose　through　the　floor；　half　numbing　her　butt。　Total　numbing　would　have　been　wele；　the　carpet　soon　proved　to　be　inadequate　padding；　and　her　tailbone　began　to　ache。　She　shifted　her　weight　from　cheek　to　cheek；　leaned　forward　and　then　leaned　back；　nothing　provided　more　than　a　few　seconds　of　relief。　The　ache　spread　to　the　small　of　her　back；　and　mild　disfort　escalated　into　serious　pain。
　Twenty　minutes；　half　an　hour；　forty　minutes；　an　hour；　longer；　she　endured　the　agony　by　striving　to　imagine　all　the　ways　that　her　escape　might　unfold　once　the　motor　home　stopped　and　the　killer　got　out　from　behind　the　wheel。　Concentrating。　Thinking　it　through。　Planning　for　myriad　eventualities。　Finally；　however；　she　couldn't　think　about　anything　but　the　pain。
　The　motor　home　was　cool；　and　down　in　the　step　well；　there　was　no　heat　at　all。　The　engine　and　road　vibrations　penetrated　her　shoes；　beatingy　relentlessly　on　her　heels　and　soles。　She　flexed　her　toes；　afraid　that　her　cold；　achy　feet　and　stiffening　calf　muscles　would　develop　cramps　and　hobble　her　when　the　time　came　for　action。
　With　a　strange　hilarity　unnervingly　close　to　despair；　she　thought；　Forget　about　grief。　Forget　aboutjustice。　Rigbt　now　just　give　me　a　fortable　cbair　to　pamper　my　assjust　let　me　sitfor　a　wbile　until　myftet　are　warm　again；　and　lateryou　can　bave　my　life　ifyou　want　it。
　The　prolonged　inactivity　not　only　took　a　physical　toll　but　soon　began　to　depress　her。　Back　at　the　house　when　she'd　first　heard　the　intruder；　before　he　had　even　e　to　the　guest　room；　Chyna　had　known　that　safety　lay　in　movement。　Now　emotional　safety　lay　in　movement；　distraction。　But　circumstances　required　her　to　be　still　and　wait。　She　had　too　much　time　to　think…and　too　many　disturbing　thoughts　on　which　to　dwell。
　'；）he　worked　herself　into　such　a　state　of　distress　that　tears　welledwhich　was　when　she　realized　that　she　was　not　suffering　unduly　from　butt　ache　or　back　pain　or　the　cold　throbbing　in　her　feet。　The　real　pain　was　in　her　heart；　the　anguish　that　she　had　been　forced　to　repress　since　she'd　found　Paul　and　Sarah；　since　she'd　detected　the　vague　ammoniacal　scent　of　semen　in　Laura's　bedroom　and　had　seen　the　dimly　gleaming　links　of　the　shackling　chain。　Her　physical　pain　was　only　a　lame　excuse　for　tears。
　If　she　dared　weep　in　self…pity；　however；　then　aflood　would　e　for　Paul；　for　Sarah；　for　Laura；　for　the　whole　sorry　damn　screwed…up　human　race；　and　in　useless　resentment　at　the　fact　that　hard…won　hope　so　often　spiraled　into　nightmare。　She　would　bury　her　face　in　her　hands；　uselessly　wailing　the　question　that　had　been　asked　of　God　more　often　than　any　other：　〃why；　why；　why；　why；　why？〃
　Surrendering　to　tears　would　be　so　easy；　satisfying。　These　were　selfish　tears　of　defeat；　they　would　not　only　purge　the　heart　of　grief　but　also　wash　out　the　need　to　care　about　anyone；　anything。　Blessed　relief　could　be　hers　if　she　simply　admitted　that　the　long　struggle　to　understand　wasn't　worth　the　pain　of　experience。　Her　sobbing　would　bring　the　motor　home　to　a　sudden　halt；　and　the　driver　would　e　back　to　find　her　huddled　at　the　step　well。　He　would　club　her；　drag　her　into　the　bedroom；　rape　her　beside　the　body　of　her　friend；　there　would　be　terror　beyond　anything　that　she　had　ever　known　before；　but　it　would　be　brief。　And　this　time　it　would　be　final。　He　would　free　her　forever　from　the　need　to　ask　why；　from　the　torment　of　repeatedly　falling　through　the　fragile　floor　of　hope　into　this　too　familiar　desolation。
　For　a　long　time；　maybe　even　since　the　stormy　night　of　her　eighth　birthday　and　the　frenzied　palmetto　beetle；　she'd　known　that　being　a　victim　was　often　a　choice　people　made。　As　a　child；　she　hadn't　been　able　to　put　this　insight　into　words；　and　she　hadn't　known　why　so　many　people　chose　suffering；　when　older；　she　had　recognized　their　self…hatred；　masochism；　weakness。
　Not　all　or　even　most　suffering　is　at　the　hands　of　fate；　it　befalls　us　at　our　invitation。
　She'd　always　chosen　not　to　be　victimized；　to　resist　and　fight　back；　to　hold　on　to　hope　and　dignity　and　faith　in　the　future。　But　victimhood　was　seductive；　a　release　from　responsibility　and　caring：　Fear　would　be　transmuted　into　weary　resignation；　failure　would　no　longer　generate　guilt　but；　instead；　would　spawn　a　forting　self…pity。
　Now　she　trembled　on　an　emotional　high　wire'　not　sure　whether　she　would　be　able　to　keep　her　balance　or　would　allow　herself　to　fail　and　fall。
　The　motor　home　slowed　again。　They　were　angling　to　the　right。　slowing。　Maybe　pulling　off　the　highway　and　stopping。
　She　tried　the　door。　She　knew　that　it　was　locked；　but　she　quietly　worked　the　lever…action　handle　anyway；　because　she　wasn't　capable；　after　all；　of　simply　giving　up。
　As　they　climbed　a　slight　incline；　their　speed　continued　to　drop。　Wincing　at　the　pain　in　her　calves　and　thighs　as　she　moved；　yet　relieved　to　be　off　her　butt；　she　rose　just　far　enough　to　look　across　the　dining　nook。
　The　back　of　the　killer's　head　was　the　most　hateful　thing　that　Chyna　had　ever　seen；　and　it　aroused　fresh　anger　in　her。　The　brain　beneath　that　curve　of　bone　hummed　with　vicious　fantasies。　It　was　infuriating　that　he　should　be　alive　and　Laura　dead。　That　he　should　be　sitting　here　so　smug；　so　content　with　all　his　memories　of　blood；　recalling　the　pleas　for　mercy　that　must　be　like　music　to　him。　That　he　should　ever　see　a　sunset　again　and　take　pleasure　from　it；　or　taste　a　peach；　or　smell　a　flower。　To　Chyna；　the　back　of　this　man's　skull　seemed　like　the　smooth　chitinous　helmet　of　an　insect；　and　she　believed　that　if　she　ever　touched　him；　he　would　be　as　cold　as　a　squirming　beetle　under　her　hand。
　Beyond　the　driver；　beyond　the　windshield；　at　the　top　of　the　low　rise　toward　which　they　were　headed；　a　structure　appeared；　indistinct　and　unidentifiable。　A　few　tall　sodium…vapor　arc　lamps　cast　a　sour；　sulfurous　light。
　She　squatted　below　the　back　of　the　dining　nook　again。　She　picked　up　the　knife。　They　had　reached　the　top　of　the　rise。　They　were　on　level　ground　once　more。　Steadily　slowing。
　Turning　around；　facing　away　from　the　exit；　she　eased　into　the　step　well。　Left　foot　on　the　lower　step；　right　foot　on　the　higher。　Back　pressed　to　the　locked　door；　crouching　in　shadows　beyond　the　reach　of　the　nook　lamp；　she　was　ready　to　launch　herself　up　and　at　him　if　he　came　back　through　the　motor　home　and　gave　her　a　chance。
　With　a　final　sigh　of　air　brakes；　the　vehicle　stopped。　Wherever　they　were；　people　might　be　nearby。　People　who　could　help　her。
　But　if　she　screamed；　would　those　outside　be　near　enough　to　hear？
　Even　it　they　heard；　they　would　never　reach　her　in　time。　The　killer　would　get　to　her　first；　gun　in　hand。
　Besides；　maybe　this　was　a　roadside　rest　area：　nothing　more　than　a　parking　lot；　some　picnic　tables；　a　poster　warning　about　the　dangers　of　campfires；　and　rest　rooms。　He　might　have　taken　a　break　to　use　the　public　facilities　or　the　john　in　the　trailer。　At　this　dead　hour；　after　three　o'clock　in　the　morning；　they　were　likely　to　be　the　only　vehicle　on　site；　in　which　case　she　could　scream　until　she　was　hoarse；　and　no　one　would　e　to　her　assistance。
　The　engine　cut　off。　Quiet。　No　vibrations　in　the　floor。　Now　that　the　motor　home　was　still；　Chyna　was　shaking。　No　longer　depressed。　Stomach　muscles　fluttering。　Scared　again。　Because　she　wanted　to　live。
　She　would　have　preferred　that　he　go　outside　and　give　her　a　chance　to　escape；　but　she　expected　him　to　use　the　trailer　facilities　instead　of　the　public　rest　room。　He　would　e　right　past　her。　If　she　couldn't　escape；　then　she　was　hot　to　finish　this。
　Crazily；　she　wondered　if　what　came　out　of　him　when　he　was　cut　would　be　blood…or　the　stuff　that　oozed　from　a　fat　beetle　when　it　was　crushed。
　She　expected　to　hear　the　bastard　moving；　heavy　footfalls　and　the　hollow　spong　when　he　stepped　on　a　weak　seam　in　the　floor；　but　there　was　silence。　Maybe　he　was　taking　a　moment　to　stretch　his　arms；　roll　his　achy　shoulders；　massage　the　back　of　his　bull　neck；　and　shrug　off　the　weariness　of　travel。
　Or　perhaps　he　bad　glimpsed　her　in　the　rearview　mirror；　her　face　moon…bright　in　the　light　from　the　dining…table　lamp。　He　could　ease　out　of　his　seat　and　creep　toward　her；　avoiding　all　the　creaks　in　the　floor　because　he　knew　where　they　were。　Slide　into　the　dining　nook。　Lean　over　the　back　of　the　booth。　Shoot　her　point…blank　where　she　crouched　in　the　step　well。　Shoot　her　in　the　face。
　Chyna　looked　up　and　to　her　left；　across　the　back　of　the　booth。　Too　low　to　see　the　lamp　hanging　over　the　center　of　the　table；　she　saw　only　the　glow　of　it。　She　wondered　if　the　angle　of　his　approach　would　give　her　a　warning　or　if　he　would　just　be　a　sudden　silhouette　popping　up　from　the　booth　as　he　opened　fire　on　her。
　Intensity。
　He　believes　in　living　with　intensity。　Sitting　at　the　steering　wheel；　he　closes　his　eyes　and　massages　the　back　of　his　neck。
　He　isn't　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　pain。　It　came　on　its　own；　and　it　will　leave　him　naturally　in　time。　He　never　takes　Tylenol　and　other　crap　like　that。
　What　he's　trying　to　do　is　enjoy　the　pain　as　fully　as　possible。　With　his　fingertips　he　finds　an　especially　sore　spot　just　to　the　left　of　the　third　cervical　vertebra；　and　he　presses　on　it　until　the　pai