Koontz, Dean R. - Intensity (v2.0)

by Intensity (V2. 0)(Lit)

  She doesn't acknowledge him, and although he has entered her line of sight, her gaze has somehow shifted above and to one side of him without his being aware of the moment when it happened.

  She is magically evasive.

  "Maybe I could get a word or two out of you if I set you on fire. What do you think? Hmmm? A little lighter fluid on that golden hair—and whoosh!"

  She does not blink.

  "Or I'll give you to the dogs, see if that unties your tongue."

  No flinch, no tic, no shudder. What a girl.

  Mr. Vess stoops, lowering his face toward Ariel's, until they are nose-to-nose.

  Her eyes are now directly aligned with his—yet she is still not looking at him. She seems to peer through him, as if he is not a man of flesh and blood but a haunting spirit that she can't quite detect. This isn't merely the old trick of letting her eyes swim out of focus; it's a ruse infinitely more clever than that, which he can't understand at all.

  Nose-to-nose with her, Vess whispers, "We'll go to the meadow after midnight. I'll bury Laura and the hitchhiker. Maybe I'll put you into the ground with them and cover you up, three in one grave. Them dead and you alive. Would you speak then, Ariel? Would you say please? "

  No answer.

  He waits.

  Her breathing is low and even. He is so close to her that her exhalations are warm and steady against his lips, like promises of kisses to come.

  She must feel his breath too.

  She may be frightened of him and even repulsed by him, but she also finds him alluring. He has no doubt about this. Everyone is fascinated by bad boys.

  He says, "Maybe there'll be stars."

  Such a blueness in her eyes, such sparkling depths.

  "Or even moonlight," he whispers.

  *

  The steel cuffs on Chyna's ankles were linked by a sturdy chain. A second and far longer chain, connected by a carabiner to the first, wound around the thick legs of the chair and around the stretcher bars between the legs, returned between her feet, encircled the big barrel that supported the round table, and connected again to the carabiner. The chains didn't contain enough play to allow her to stand. Even if she'd been able to stand, she would have had to carry the chair on her back, and the restricting shape and the weight of it would have forced her to bend forward like a hunchbacked troll. And once standing, she could not have moved from the table to which she was tethered.

  Her hands were cuffed in front of her. A chain was hooked into the shackle that encircled her right wrist. From there it led around her, wound between the back rails of the chair behind the tie-on pad, then to the shackle on her left wrist. This chain contained enough slack to allow her to rest her arms on the table if she wished.

  She sat with her hands folded, leaning forward, staring at the red and swollen index finger on her right hand, waiting.

  Her finger throbbed, and she had a headache, but her neck pain had subsided. She knew that it would return worse than ever in another twenty-four hours, like the delayed agony of severe whiplash.

  Of course, if she was still alive in another twenty-four hours, neck pain would be the least of her worries.

  The Doberman was no longer at the window. She had seen two at once on the lawn, padding back and forth, sniffing the grass and the air, pausing occasionally to prick their ears and listen intently, then padding away again, obviously on guard duty.

  During the previous night, Chyna had used rage to overcome her terror before it had incapacitated her, but now she discovered that humiliation was even more effective at quelling fear. Having been unable to protect herself, having wound up in bondage—that was not the source of her humiliation; what mortified worse was her failure to fulfill her promise to the girl in the cellar.

  I am your guardian. I'll keep you safe.

  She kept returning, in memory, to the upholstered vestibule and the view port on the inner door. The girl among the dolls had given no indication that she had heard the promise. But Chyna was sick with the certainty that she had raised false hopes, that the girl would feel betrayed and more abandoned than ever, and that she would withdraw even further into her private Elsewhere.

  I am your guardian.

  In retrospect, Chyna found her arrogance not merely astonishing but perverse, delusional. In twenty-six years of living, she'd never saved anyone, in any sense whatsoever. She was no heroine, no mystery-novel-series character with just a colorful dash of angst and a soupçon of endearing character flaws and, otherwise, the competence of Sherlock Holmes and James Bond combined. Keeping herself alive, mentally stable, and emotionally intact had been enough of a struggle for her. She was still a lost girl herself, fumbling blindly through the years for some insight or resolution that probably wasn't even out there to be found, yet she'd stood at that view port and promised deliverance.

  I am your guardian.

  She opened her folded hands. She flattened her hands on the table and slid them across the wood as if smoothing away wrinkles in a tablecloth, and as she moved, her chains rattled.

  She wasn't a fighter, after all, no one's paladin; she worked as a waitress. She was good at it, piling up tips, because sixteen years in her mother's bent world had taught her that one way to ensure survival was to be ingratiating. With her customers, she was indefatigably charming, relentlessly agreeable, and always eager to please. The relationship between a diner and a waitress was, to her way of thinking, the ideal relationship, because it was brief, formal, generally conducted with a high degree of politeness, and required no baring of the heart.

  I am your guardian.

  In her obsessive determination to protect herself at all costs, she was always friendly with the other waitresses where she worked, but she never made friends with any of them. Friendships involved commitment, risks. She had learned not to make herself vulnerable to the hurt and betrayal that ensued from commitments.

  Over the years, she'd had affairs with only two men. She had liked both and had loved the second, but the first relationship had lasted eleven months and the second only thirteen. Lovers, if they were worthwhile, required more than simple commitment; they needed revelation, sharing, the bond of emotional intimacy. She found it difficult to reveal much about her childhood or her mother, in part because her utter helplessness during those years embarrassed her. More to the point, she had come to the hard realization that her mother had never really loved her, perhaps had never been capable of loving her or anyone. And how could she expect to be cherished by any man who knew that she'd been unloved even by her mother?

  She was aware that this attitude was irrational, but awareness didn't free her. She understood that she was not responsible for what her mother had done to her, but regardless of what so many therapists claimed in their books and on their radio talk shows, understanding alone didn't lead to healing. Even after a decade beyond her mother's control, Chyna was at times convinced that all the dark events of all those troubled years could have been avoided if only she, Chyna, had been a better girl, more worthy.

  I am your guardian.

  She folded her hands on the table again. She leaned forward until her forehead was pressed to the backs of her thumbs, and she closed her eyes.

  The only close friend she'd ever had was Laura Templeton. Their relationship was something that she had wanted badly but had never sought, desperately needed but did little to nurture; it was purely a testament to Laura's vivaciousness, perseverance, and selflessness in the face of Chyna's caution and reserve, a result of Laura's dear heart and her singular capacity to love. And now Laura was dead.

  I am your guardian.

  In Laura's room, under the dead gaze of Freud, Chyna had knelt beside the bed and whispered to her shackled friend, I'll get you out of here. God, how it hurt to think of it. I'll get you out of here. Her stomach knotted excruciatingly with self-disgust. I'll find a weapon, she had promised. Laura, selfless to the end, had urged her to run, to get out. Don't die for me, Laura had said. But Chyna had answe
red, I'll be back.

  Now here came grief again, swooping like a great dark bird into her heart, and she almost let its wings enfold her, too eager for the strange solace of those battering pinions—until she realized that she was using grief to knock humiliation from its perch. Grieving, she would have no room for self-loathing.

  I am your guardian.

  Although the clerk had never fired the revolver, she should have checked it. She should have known. Somehow. Some way. Though she could not possibly have known what Vess had done with the bullets, she should have known.

  Laura had always told her that she was too hard on herself, that she would never heal if she kept inflicting new bruises on the old in endless self-flagellation.

  But Laura was dead.

  I am your guardian.

  Chyna's humiliation festered into shame.

  And if humiliation was a good tool for repressing terror, shame was even better. Steeping in shame, she knew no fear at all, even though she was in shackles in the house of a sadistic murderer, with no one in the world looking for her. Justice seemed served by her being there.

  Then she heard footsteps approaching.

  She raised her head and opened her eyes.

  The killer entered from the laundry room, evidently returning from the girl in the cellar.

  Without speaking to Chyna, without glancing at her, as if she didn't exist, he went to the refrigerator, removed a carton of eggs, and put it on the counter beside the sink. He deftly broke eight eggs into a bowl and threw the shells in the trash. He set the bowl in the refrigerator and proceeded to peel and chop a Bermuda onion.

  Chyna hadn't eaten in more than twelve hours; nonetheless, she was dismayed to discover that she was suddenly ravenous. The onion was the sweetest scent that she had ever known, and her mouth began to water. After so much blood, after losing the only close friend she'd ever had, it seemed heartless to have an appetite so soon.

  The killer put the chopped onion into a Tupperware container, snapped the lid tight, and placed it in the refrigerator beside the bowl of eggs. Next he grated half a wedge of cheddar cheese into another Tupperware container.

  He was brisk and efficient in the kitchen, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. He kept his work area neat. He also washed his hands thoroughly between each task and dried them on a hand towel, not on the dish towel.

  Finally the killer came to the dinette table. He sat across from Chyna, relaxed and self-confident and college-boy casual in his Dockers, braided belt, and soft chambray shirt.

  Shame, which had seemed on the verge of consuming her, instead had burned itself out for the time being. A strange combination of smoldering anger and bitter despondency had replaced it.

  "Now," he said, "I'm sure you're hungry, and as soon as we have a little chat, I'll make cheese omelets with stacks of toast. But to earn your breakfast, you have to tell me who you are, where you were hiding at that service station, and why you're here."

  She glared at him.

  With a smile, he said, "Don't think you can hold out on me."

  She would be damned rather than tell him anything.

  "Here's how it is," he said. "I'll kill you anyway. I'm not sure how yet. Probably in front of Ariel. She's seen bodies before, but she's never been there at the moment itself, to hear that last scream, in the sudden wetness of it all."

  Chyna tried to keep her eyes on him, show no weakness.

  He said, "However I choose to do you, I'll make it a lot harder for you if you don't talk to me willingly. There are things I enjoy that can be done before or after you're dead. Cooperate, and I'll do them after."

  Chyna tried unsuccessfully to see some sign of madness in his eyes. Such a merry shade of blue.

  "Well?"

  "You're a sick sonofabitch."

  Smiling again, he said, "The last thing I expected you to be was tedious."

  "I know why you sewed shut his eyes and mouth," she said.

  "Ah, so you found him in the closet."

  "You raped him before you killed him or while you killed him. You sewed his eyes shut because he'd seen, sewed his mouth shut because you're ashamed of what you did and you're afraid that, even dead, he might tell someone."

  Unfazed, he said, "Actually, I didn't have sex with him."

  "Liar."

  "But if I had, I wouldn't have been embarrassed. You think I'm that unsophisticated? We're all bisexual, don't you think? I have the urge for a man, sometimes, and with some of them I've indulged it. It's all sensation. Just sensation."

  "Maggot."

  "I know what you're trying to do," he said amiably, clearly amused by her, "but it just won't work. You're hoping one insult or another will set me off. As if I'm some hair-trigger psychopath who'll just explode if you call me the right name, push the right button, maybe insult my mother or say nasty things about the Lord. Then you hope I'll kill you fast, in a wild rage, and get it over with."

  Chyna realized that he was right, although she had not been consciously aware of her own intentions. Failure, shame, and the helplessness of being shackled had reduced her to a despair that she had preferred not to consider. Now she was sickened less by him than by herself, wondering if she was a quitter and a loser, after all, just like her mother.

  "But I'm not a psychopath," he said.

  "Then what are you?"

  "Oh… call me a homicidal adventurer. Or perhaps the only clear thinking person you've ever met."

  "'Maggot' works better for me."

  He leaned forward in his chair. "Here's the thing—either you tell me all about yourself, everything I want to know, or I'll work on your face with a knife while you sit there. For every question you refuse to answer, I'll take off a piece—the lobe of an ear, the tip of your pretty nose. Carve you like scrimshaw."

  He said this not threateningly but matter-of-factly, and she knew that he had the stomach for it.

  "I'll take all day," he said, "and you'll be insane long before you're dead."

  "All right."

  "All right what—conversation or scrimshaw?"

  "Conversation."

  "Good girl."

  She was prepared to die if it came to that, but she saw no point in suffering needlessly.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Shepherd. Chyna Shepherd. C-h-y-n-a."

  "Ah, not a cryptic chant, after all."

  "What?"

  "Odd name."

  "Is it?"

  "Don't spar with me, Chyna. Go on."

  "All right. But first, may I have something to drink? I'm dehydrated."

  At the sink, he drew a glass of water. He put three ice cubes in it. He started to bring it to her, then halted and said, "I could add a slice of lemon."

  She knew he wasn't joking. Home from the hunt, he was working now to recast himself from the role of savage stalker into that of accountant or clerk or real estate agent or car mechanic or whatever it was that he did when he was passing for normal. Some sociopaths could put on a false persona that was more convincing than the best performances of the finest actors who had ever lived, and this man was probably one of those, although after immersion in wanton slaughter, he needed this period of adjustment to remind himself of the manners and courtesies of civilized society.

  "No, thanks," she said to the offer of lemon.

  "It's no trouble," he graciously assured her.

  "Just the water."

  When he put the glass down, he slipped a cork-lined ceramic coaster under it. Then he sat across the table from her again.

  Chyna was repelled by the prospect of drinking from a glass that he had handled, but she really was dehydrated. Her mouth was dry, and her throat was vaguely sore.

  Because of the cuffs, she picked up the glass in both hands.

  She knew that he was watching her for signs of fear.

  The water didn't slop around in the tumbler. The rim of the glass didn't chatter against her teeth.

  She truly wasn't afraid of him any more, at le
ast not for the moment, although maybe later. Certainly later. Now her interior landscape was a desert under sullen skies: numbing desolation, with the angry flicker of lightning toward a far horizon.

  She drank half of the water before she put the glass down.

  "When I entered the room a moment ago," the killer said, "you were sitting with your hands folded, your head bowed against your hands. Were you praying?"

  She thought about it. "No."

  "There's no point in lying to me."

  "I'm not lying. I wasn't praying just then."

  "But you do pray?"

  "Sometimes."

  "God fears me."

  She waited.

  He said, "God fears me—those are words that can be made from the letters of my name."

  "I see."

  "Dragon seed."

  "From the letters of your name," she said.

  "Yes. And… forge of rage."

  "It's an interesting game."

  "Names are interesting. Yours is passive. A place name for a first name. And Shepherd—bucolic, fuzzily Christian. When I think of your name, I see an Asian peasant on a hillside with sheep… or a slant-eyed Christ making converts among the heathens." He smiled, amused by his banter. "But clearly, your name doesn't define you well. You're not a passive person."

  "I have been," she said, "most of my life."

  "Really? Well, you weren't passive last night."

  "Not last night," she agreed. "But until then."

  "My name, on the other hand, is a power name. Edgler Foreman Vess." He spelled it for her. "Not Edgar. Edge-ler. Like 'on the edge.' And Vess… if you draw it out, it's like a serpent hissing."

  "Demon."

  "Yes, that's right. It's there in my name—demon."

  "Anger."

  He seemed pleased by her willingness to play. "You're good at this, especially considering that you don't have pen and paper."

  "Vessel," she said. "That's in your name too."

  "An easy one. But also semen. Vessel and semen, female and male. Would you like to craft an insult out of that, Chyna?"

  Instead of replying, she picked up the glass and drank half of the remaining water. The ice cubes were cold against her teeth.