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
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 come 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, and if she could get help for him-police and paramedics-she would partially redeem herself.
She had been unable to do anything to stop the blood-loving bastard; she had only cowered out of his sight, praying frantically for invisibility. Now nausea rolled like a slop of chilled oysters in her stomach-and at the same time she was lifted by a sickening exhilaration that she had lived when so many others had died. Understandable though it was, the exhilaration shamed her, and for herself as well as for the two clerks, she hoped that she could still save them.
She pushed through the gate in the counter, and the piercing creak of a hinge scraped the hollows of her bones.
A gooseneck lamp provided some light.
The two men were on the floor.
'Ah,' she said. And then: 'God.'
They were beyond her help, and immediately she turned away from them, her vision blurring.
On the counter, directly under the lamp, lay a revolver. She stared at it in disbelief, blinking back tears.
Evidently it had belonged to one of the clerks. She'd overheard the conversation between the killer and the two men; and she vaguely recalled a harsh admonition that might have been a warning to drop a gun. This gun.
She grabbed it, held it in both hands-a weight that buoyed her.
If the killer returned, she was ready, no longer helpless, for she knew how to use guns. Some of her mother's craziest friends had been expert with weaponry, hate-filled people with a queer brightness in the eyes that was a sign of drug use in some cases but that was visible in others only when they spoke passionately about their deep commitment to truth and justice. On an isolated farm in Montana, when Chyna was only twelve, a woman named Doreen and a man named Kirk had instructed her in the use of a pistol, although her slender arms had jumped wildly with the recoil. Patiently teaching her control, they had said that someday she would be a true soldier and a credit to the movement.
Chyna had wanted to learn about firearms not to use them in one noble cause or another but to protect herself from those people in her mother's strange circles who succumbed to drug-enhanced rages-or who stared at her with a sick desire. She had been too young to want their attention, too self-respecting to encourage them-but thanks to her mother, she had not been too innocent to understand what some of them wanted to do with her.
Now, with the dead clerk's revolver in hand, she turned and saw the shattered telephone.
'Shit.'
She hurried back through the gate, into the public part of the store, directly to the front door.
The motor home was still parked on this side of the farther of the two service islands. The headlights were off.
The killer was not in sight at first-but then he walked into view around the back of the motor home, his unbuttoned coat flaring like a cape in the wind.
Although the man was about sixty feet away, surely he couldn't see her at the door. He wasn't even looking in her direction, but Chyna took a step backward.
Apparently he had been racking the hose at the gasoline pump and capping the fuel tank. He walked alongside the vehicle toward the driver's door.
She had planned to telephone the police and tell them that the killer was headed north on Highway 101. Now, by the time she got to a phone, called the cops, and made them understand the situation, he might have as much as an hour's lead. Within an hour, he would have several choices of other routes that branched off 101. He might continue north toward Oregon, turn east toward Nevada-or even angle west to the coast, thereafter turning south again along the Pacific and into San Francisco, vanishing in the urban maze. The more miles he traveled before an all-points bulletin went out for him, the harder he would be to find. He would soon be in another police agency's jurisdiction, first a different county and perhaps eventually a different state, complicating the search for him.
And now that she thought about it, Chyna realized that she had precious little information that would be helpful to the cops. The motor home might be blue or green; she wasn't sure which-or even if it was either-because she'd seen it only in the darkness and then in the color-distorting yellow glow of the service station's sodium-vapor lights. She didn't know the make of it either, and she hadn't seen the license plate.
He was getting away.
Unhurried, clearly confident that he was in no imminent danger of discovery, he climbed into the motor home and pulled shut the driver's door.
She stepped close to the door again. It could be unlocked only with a key. She didn't have a key.
She heard the motor-home engine turn over.
If she shot out the glass, he would hear. Even over the roar of the engine and from a distance, he would hear.
Once through the door, she would be too far away to shoot him. Fifty or sixty feet, at night, with a handgun, the gasoline pumps intervening. No way. She had to get close, right up against the motor home, put the muzzle to the window.
