dk.intensity-第32节

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　Mr。　Vess　gets　to　his　feet。　He　picks　up　the　shotgun　and　slams　the　door　of　the　motor　home。
　The　dogs　spring　to　his　side；　jostling　one　another　to　be　close　to　him；　alertly　surveying　the　rain…shrouded　day　for　any　threat　to　their　master。
　Quietly；　so　the　woman　inside　cannot　possibly　hear　the　word；　he　says；　〃Seuss。〃
　The　dogs　freeze；　looking　up　at　him；　heads　cocked。　〃Seuss；〃　he　repeats。　The　four　Dobermans　are　no　longer　on　attack　status　and　will　not　automatically　tear　to　pieces　anyone　who　enters　the　property。　They　shake　themselves；　as　if　casting　off　tension；　then　pad　around　in　a　vaguely　bewildered　fashion；　sniffing　at　the　grass　and　at　the　front　tires　of　the　motor　home。
　They　are　like　Mafia　hit　men　who；　following　their　own　executions；　have　now　regained　a　baffled　self…awareness　after　being　reincarnated；　only　to　discover　that　they　are　accountants　in　this　new　life。
　If　any　visitor　were　to　attempt　to　harm　their　master；　of　course；　they　would　leap　to　his　defense；　whether　or　not　he　had　time　to　shout　the　word　Nietzsche。　The　result　wouldn't　be　pretty。
　They　are　trained　first　to　tear　out　the　throat。　Then　they　will　bite　the　face　to　effect　maximum　terror　and　pain…go　for　the　eyes；　the　nose；　the　lips。　Then　the　crotch。　Then　the　belly。　They　won't　kill　and　turn　at　once　away；　they　will　be　busy　for　a　while　with　their　quarry；　after　they　have　brought　it　down；　until　no　doubt　exists　that　they　have　done　their　job。
　Even　a　man　with　a　shotgun　could　not　take　out　all　of　them　before　at　least　one　managed　to　sink　its　teeth　into　his　throat。　Gunfire　will　not　drive　them　away　or　even　make　them　flinch。　Nothing　can　frighten　them。　Most　likely；　the　hypothetical　man　with　the　shotgun　would　be　able　to　wipe　out　only　two　before　the　remaining　pair　overwhelmed　him。　
　〃Crib；〃　says　Mr。　Vess。
　This　single　word　instructs　the　dogs　to　go　to　their　kennel；　and　they　take　off　as　one；　sprinting　toward　the　barn。　Still；　they　do　not　bark；　for　he　has　schooled　them　in　silence。
　Ordinarily　he　would　allow　them　to　stay　with　him　and　enjoy　his　pany　and　spend　the　day　in　his　house　with　him　and　even　pile　up　like　a　black　and　tan　quilt　with　him　as　he　sleeps　away　the　afternoon。　He　would　cuddle　them　and　coo　to　them；　for　they　have　been；　after　all；　such　good　dogs。　They　deserve　their　reward。
　iL；Lj。fz　woman　in　me　rect　sweater；　however；　prevents　Mr。　Vess　from　dealing　with　the　dogs　as　he　usually　would。　If　they　are　a　visible　presence；　they　will　inhibit　her；　and　she　may　cower　inside　the　motor　home；　afraid　to　exit。
　The　woman　must　be　given　enough　freedom　to　act。　Or　at　least　the　illusion　of　freedom。
　He　is　curious　to　see　what　she　will　do。　She　must　have　a　purpose；　some　motivation　for　the　strange　things　that　she　has　done　thus　far。　Everyone　has　a　purpose。
　Mr。　Vess's　purpose　is　to　satisfy　all　appetites　as　they　arise；　to　seek　ever　more　outrageous　experience；　to　immerse　himself　deeply　in　sensation。
　Whatever　the　woman　believes　her　purpose　to　be；　Vess　knows　that　in　the　end；　her　true　purpose　will　be　to　serve　his。　She　is　a　glorious　variety　of　powerful　and　exquisite　sensations　in　human　skin；　packaged　solely　for　his　enjoyment…rather　like　a　Hershey　bar　in　its　brown　and　silver　wrapper　or　a　Slim　Jim　sausage　snug　in　its　plastic　tube。
　The　last　of　the　racing　Dobermans　vanishes　behind　the　bam；　to　the　kennel。
　Mr。　Vess　walks　through　the　soggy　grass　to　the　old　log　house　and　climbs　a　set　of　fieldstone　steps　to　the　front　porch。　Although　he　carries　the　pistol…grip　i2…gauge　Mossberg；　he　makes　an　effort　to　appear　otherwise　nonchalant；　in　case　the　woman　has　e　forward　from　the　bedroom　at　the　rear　of　the　motor　home　to　watch　him　through　a　window。
　The　bentwood　rocker　has　been　stored　away　until　spring。　Trailing　silvery　slime　across　the　wet　floorboards　of　the　porch；　several　early…spring　snails　test　the　air　with　their　semitransparent；　gelatinous　feelers；　hauling　their　spiral　shells　on　strange　quests。　Mr。　Vess　is　careful　to　step　around　them。
　A　mobile　hangs　at　one　er　of　the　porch；　from　the　fascia　board　at　the　edge　of　the　shake…shingle　roof。　It　is　made　of　twenty…eight　white　seashells；　all　quite　small；　some　with　lovely　pink　interiors；　most　are　spiral　in　form；　and　all　are　relatively　exotic。
　The　mobile　does　not　make　a　good　wind　chime；　because　most　of　the　notes　that　it　strikes　are　flat。　It　greets　him　with　a　flurry　of　atonal　clinking；　but　he　smiles　because　it　has　。。。　well；　not　sentimental　but　at　least　nostalgic　value　to　him。
　This　fine　piece　of　folk　craft　once　belonged　to　a　young　woman　who　lived　in　a　suburb　of　Seattle；　Washington。　She　had　been　an　attorney；　about　thirty…two；　sufficiently　successful　to　live　alone　in　her　own　house　in　an　upscale　neighborhood。　For　a　person　tough　enough　to　thrive　in　the　bative　legal　profession；　this　woman　had　kept　a　surprisingly　frilly　in　fact；　downright　girlish…bedroom：　a　four…poster　bed　with　a　pink　canopy　trimmed　with　lace　and　fringe；　rose…pattemed　bedspread；　and　starched　dust　ruffles；　a　big　collection　of　teddy　bears；　paintings　of　English　cottages　hung　with　morning…glory　vines　and　surrounded　by　lush　primrose　gardens；　and　several　seashell　mobiles。
　He　had　done　exciting　things　to　her　in　that　bedroom。　Then　he　had　taken　her　away　in　the　motor　home　to　places　remote　enough　to　allow　him　to　perform　other　acts　even　more　exciting。　She　had　asked　wby？and　he　had　answered；　Because　this　is　wbat　I　do。　That　was　all　the　truth　and　all　the　reason　of　him。
　Mr。　Vess　can't　recall　her　name；　though　he　fondly　remembers　many　things　about　her。　Parts　of　her　were　as　pink　and　smooth　and　lovely　as　the　insides　of　some　of　these　dangling　seashells。　He　has　an　especially　vivid　mental　image　of　her　small　hands；　almost　as　slender　and　delicate　as　those　of　a　child。
　He　had　been　fascinated　by　her　hands。　Enchanted。　He　had　never　sensed　anyone's　vulnerability　so　intensely　as　he'd　sensed　hers　when　he　held　her　small；　trembling；　but　strong　hands　in　his。　Oh；　he　had　been　like　a　swooning　schoolboy　with　her　hands。
　When　he　had　hung　the　mobile　on　the　porch；　as　a　memento　of　the　attorney；　he　had　added　one　item。　It　dangles；　now；　on　a　piece　of　green　string：　her　slender　index　finger；　reduced　to　bare　bones　but　still　undeniably　elegant；　the　three　phalanges　from　tip　to　the　base　knuckle；　clinking　against　the　little　conch　shells　and　miniature　bivalve　fans　and　trumpet　shells　and　tiny　spirals　similar　to　the　whorled　homes　of　snails。
　Clink…clink。　Clink…clink。　He　unlocks　the　front　door　and　enters　the　house。　He　closes　but　does　not　lock　the　door　behind　him；　allowing　the　woman　to　have　access　if　she　chooses　to　take　it。
　Who　knows　what　she　will　choose　to　do？
　Already　her　behavior　is　as　astonishing　as　it　is　mysterious。　She　excites　him。　Vess　turns　from　the　shadowy　front　room　to　the　narrow　enclosed　stairs　immediately　to　his　left。　He　quickly　climbs　the　steps　two　at　a　time；　one　hand　on　the　oak　banister；　to　the　second　floor。　A　short　hallway　serves　two　bedrooms　and　a　bath。　His　room　is　to　the　left。
　In　his　private　chamber；　he　drops　the　Mossberg　on　the　bed　and　crosses　to　the　south…facing　window；　which　is　covered　by　a　blue　drape　with　blackout　lining。　He　doesn't　need　to　draw　the　drape　aside　to　see　the　motor　home　on　the　driveway　below。　The　two　pleated　panels　of　fabric　don't　quite　meet；　and　when　he　puts　his　eye　to　the　two…inch　gap；　he　has　a　clear　view　of　the　entire　vehicle。
　Unless　she　slipped　out　of　the　motor　home　immediately　behind　him；　which　is　highly　doubtfiil；　the　woman　is　still　inside。　He　can　see　down　through　the　windshield　at　an　angle　into　the　pilot's　and　copilot's　seats；　and　she　has　not　advanced　to　either。
　He　takes　the　pistol　from　his　pocket　and　puts　it　on　the　dresser。　He　shrugs　out　of　the　raincoat　and　tosses　it　atop　the　chenille　spread　on　the　neady　made　bed。
　When　he　checks　at　the　window　again；　there　is　as　yet　no　sign　of　the　mystery　woman　at　the　motor　home　below。
　He　hurries　into　the　hallway　to　the　bathroom。　White　tile；　white　paint；　white　tub；　white　sink；　white　toilet；　polished　brass　fixtures　with　white　ceramic　knobs。　Everything　gleams。　Not　a　single　smudge　mars　the　mirror。
　Mr。　Vess　likes　a　bright；　clean　bathroom。　For　a　while；　lifetimes　ago；　he　lived　with　his　grandmother　in　Chicago；　and　she　was　incapable　of　keeping　a　bathroom　clean　enough　to　meet　his　standards。　Finally；　exasperated　beyond　endurance；　he　had　killed　the　old　bitch。　He'd　been　eleven　when　he　put　the　knife　in　her。
　Now　he　reaches　behind　the　shower　curtain　and　cranks　the　COLD　faucet　all　the　way　open。　He　isn't　actually　going　to　take　a　shower；　so　there's　no　point　in　wasting　hot　water。
　He　quickly　adjusts　the　shower　head　until　the　spray　is　as　heavy　as　it　gets。　The　water　pounds　down　into　the　fiberglass　tub；　filling　the　bathroom　with　thunder。　He　knows　from　experience　that　the　sound　carries　throughout　the　small　house；　even　with　rain　on　the　roof；　this　is　much　louder　than　the　sound　of　the　shower　in　Sarah　Templeton's　bedroom；　and　it　will　be　heard　downstairs。
　On　a　wall　shelf　above　the　toilet　is　a　clock　radio。　He　switches　it　on　and　adjusts　the　volume。
　The　radio　is　set　to　a　Portland　station　featuring　twenty…four…houra…day　news。　Ordinarily；　when　bathing　and　attending　to　his　toilet；　Mr。　Vess　likes　to　listen　to　the　news；　not　because　he　has　any　interest　in　the　latest　political　or　cultural　developments　but　because　these　days　the　news　is　largely　about　people　maiming　and　killing　one　another…