dk.intensity-第20节
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e store？ In the center aisle immediately to her left？
No。 The third aisle。 To her right。 He was ing past the coolers。 Not fast。 Not as if he knew that she was here and intended to whack her。
Rising into a crouch but staying low； Chyna eased to the left； into the middle of the three passages。 Here the glow from the coolers； one row removed； bounced off the acoustic…tile ceiling but provided little illumination。 All the merchandise was shelved with shadows。
She started forward toward the cashiers' counter； thankful for her soft…soled shoes…and then she remembered the packaging from which she had extracted the Bic lighter。 She'd left it on the floor where she'd been squatting at the end of the shelf row。
He would see it； probably even step on it。 Maybe he would think that earlier in the night some shoplifter had slipped the lighter out of the packaging to conceal it more easily in a pocket。 Or maybe he would know。
Intuition might serve him as well as it sometimes served Chyna。 If intuition was the whisper of God； then perhaps another and less benevolent god spoke with equal subtleness to a man like this。
She turned back； leaned around the corner； and snatched up the empty package。 The stiff plastic crinkled in her shaky grip； but the sound was faint and； luckily； masked by his footsteps。
He was at least halfway down the third aisle by the time she started forward along the second。 But he was taking his time while she was scuttling as fast as she could； and she reached the head of her aisle before he arrived at the end of his。
At the terminus of the shelf row； instead of a flat panel like the one at the far end； there was a freestanding wire carousel rack holding paperback books； and Chyna nearly collided with it when she turned the corner。 She caught herself just in time； slipped around the rack； and sheltered against it； between aisles once more。
On the floor lay a Polaroid photograph： a close…up of a strikingly beautiful girl of about sixteen； with long platinum…blond hair。 The teenager's features were posed but not relaxed； frozen in a studied blandness； as though her true feelings were so explosive that she would self…destruct if she acknowledged them。 Her eyes subtly belied her calm demeanor； they were slightly wide； watchful； achingly expressive； windows on a soul in torment； full of anger and fear and desperation。
This must be the photograph that he had shown to the clerks。
Ariet。 The girl in the cellar。
Although she and Ariel bore no resemblance to each other； Chyna felt as though she were staring into a mirror rather than looking at a picture。 In Ariel； she recognized a terror akin to the fear that had suffused her own childhood； a familiar desperation； loneliness as deep as a cold polar ocean。
The killer's footsteps brought her back to the moment。 judging by the sound of them； he was no longer in the third aisle。 He had turned the corner at the back of the store and was now in the middle passage。
He was ing forward； leisurely covering the same territory over which Chyna had just scuttled。 〃What the hell is he doing？
She wanted to take the photograph but didn't dare。 She put it on the floor where she had found it。
She went around the paperback carousel into the third aisle； which the killer had just left； and she headed toward the end of the shelf row again。 She stayed close to the merchandise on the left； away from the glass doors of the lighted coolers on the right； to avoid throwing a shadow on the ceiling tiles； which he might see。
When she was moving； she could still hear his heavy footsteps； but unless she stopped to listen； she couldn't tell in which direction he was headed。 Yet she didn't dare stop to take a bearing on him； lest he circle again into this aisle and catch her in the open。 When she reached the end of the row and turned the er； she half expected to discover that he had changed directions； to collide with him； and to be caught。
But he wasn't there。 Sitting on her haunches； Chyna leaned back against the end panel of the shelf row； the very spot from which she'd started。 Gingerly she put the empty Bic lighter package on the floor between her feet； in the same place from which she had retrieved it less than a minute before。
She listened。 No footsteps。 Other than the noise made by the coolers； only silence。
Thumb poised； she clutched the lighter in her fist； prepared to strike the flame。
Vess stuffs two snack packages of cheese…and…peanut…butter crackers； one Planters peanut bar； and two Hershey bars with almonds into his raincoat pockets； in which he's already carrying the pistol； the Polaroid； and the videotape。
He totals the cost in his head。 Because he doesn't want to waste time going behind the register to make change； he rounds the figure to the nearest dollar and leaves the payment on the counter。
After picking up the fallen photograph of Ariel； he hesitates； soaking up the atmosphere of aftermath。 There is a special quality to a room in which people have recently perished： like the hush in a theater during that instant between when the final curtain falls on a perfect performance and when the wild applause begins； a sense of triumph but also a solemn awareness of eternity suspended like a cold droplet at the point of a melting icicle。 With the screaming done and the blood pooled in stillness； Edgler Vess is better able to appreciate the effects of his bold actions and to relish the quiet intensity of death。
Finally he leaves the store。 Using the tagged key that he took from the pegboard； he locks the door。
At the corner of the building is one public telephone。 With its armored cord； the handset isn't easily tom loose； so he hammers it against the phone box five； ten； twenty times； until the plastic cracks； revealing the microphone。 He tears the mike out of the broken mouthpiece； drops it on the pavement； and methodically crushes it under his boot heel。 Then he hangs the useless handset on the switch hook again。
His work here is done。 Although satisfying； this interlude was unexpected； it has put him behind schedule。
He has much driving to do。 He is not tired。 He had slept all the previous afternoon and well into the evening； before visiting the Templetons。 Nevertheless； he is loath to waste more time。 He longs to be home。
Far to the north； sheets of lightning flutter softly between dense layers of clouds； pulses rather than bolts。 Vess is pleased by the prospect of a big storm。 Here at ground level； where life is lived； tumult and turmoil are fundamental elements of the human climate； and for reasons that he cannot understand； he is unfailingly reassured by the sight of violence in higher realms as well。 Though he fears nothing； he is sometimes inexplicably disturbed by the sight of serene skies…whether blue or overcast…and often on a clear night when the sky is deep with stars； he prefers not to gaze into that immensity。
Now no stars are visible。 Above lie only sullen masses of clouds harried by a cold wind； briefly veined with lightning； pregnant with a deluge。
Vess hurries across the blacktop toward the motor home； eager to resume his journey northward； to meet the promised storm； to find that best place in the night where the lightning will e in great shattering bolts； where a harder wind will crack trees； where rain will fall in destructive floods。
Crouching at the end of the shelf row； Chyna had listened to the door open and close； not daring to believe that the killer had left at last and that her ordeal might be over。 Breath held； she'd waited for the sound of the door opening again and for his footsteps as he reentered。
When she had heard； instead； the key scraping…clicking in the lock and the deadbolt snapping into place； she had gone forward along the middle of the three aisles； staying low； cat…quiet because she expected； superstitiously； that he might hear the slightest sound even from outside。
A violent hammering； reverberating through the building walls； had brought her to a sudden halt at the head of the aisle。 He was pounding furiously on something； but she couldn't imagine what it might be。
When the hammering stopped； Chyna hesitated； then rose from her crouch and leaned around the end of the shelves。 She looked to the right； past the first aisle； toward the glass door and the windows at the front of the store。
With the outside lights off； the service islands lay in murk as deep as that on any river bottom。
She could not at first see the killer； who was at one with the night in his black raincoat。 But then he moved； wading through the darkness toward the motor home。
Even if he glanced back； he wouldn't be able to see her in the dimly lighted store。 Her heart thundered anyway as she stepped into the open area between the heads of the three aisles and the cashiers' counter。
The photograph of Ariel was no longer on the floor。 She wished that she could believe it had never existed。
At the moment； the two employees who had kept the secret of her presence were more important than Ariel or the killer。 The roar of the shotgun and the sudden cessation of the soul…shriveling screams had convinced her that they were dead。 But she must be sure。 If one of them clung miraculously to life； a
