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…vapour 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。
He is going to get away。 Yesus。 No； intolerable； unthinkable。 He can't be allowed to get away； neverpayfor what he did to Laura； to all of them worse； have a chance to do it again。 No； God； please； let me drop the hateful rotten fucking bastard with a shot in the head。
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。
But if he heard her shoot her way through the locked door and saw her ing out of the store； she wouldn't have a chance to get close to him； not in a million years； and then he would be stalking her again； across the service…station property； wherever she went； and his shotgun was better armament than her revolver。
Out at the motor home； he switched on the headlights。 〃No。〃 She ran to the gate in the counter； shoved through it； stepped around the dead men； and went to the door in the back wall。
There had to be a rear entrance。 Both practical function and fire codes would require it。
The door opened onto blackness。 As far as she could tell； there were no windows ahead of her。 Maybe it was only a supply closet or a bathroom。 She stepped across the threshold； closed the door behind her to prevent light from leaking into the store； felt along the wall to her left； found a switch； and risked turning on the lights。
She was in a cramped office。 On the Jesk was another shattered telephone。
Directly across the room from the door that she had just used was another door。 No obvious lock。 That would be a bathroom。
To her left； in the back wall of the building； a metal door featured a pair of over…and…under deadbolts with thumb…tums。 She disengaged the locks and opened the door； and a flood tide of cold wind washed into the office。
Behind the store spread a twenty…foot…wide paved area； and then a steep hillside rose with serried trees that were black in the night and restless in the wind。 A security light in a wire cage revealed two parked cars； which probably belonged to the clerks。
I Cursing the killer； Chyna turned to the right and sprinted along the shorter length of the building； around the er； past public rest rooms。 She had never caused anyone physical harm； not once in her life； but she was ready to kill now； and she knew that she could do it without hesitation； with no thought of mercy； with a vengeance； because be had empowered her to do it。 This was what he had reduced her to…this blind； animal fury…and the worst thing was that it felt good； this rage； so good in parison to the fear and helplessness she had endured； a sweet singing of rushing blood in the veins and an exhilarating sense of savage strength。 She should have been appalled at the lust for blood that seized her； but she liked it； and she knew that she would like it even more when she caught up with the motor home and shot him through the driver's…side window； pulled open the door and shot him again where he sat bleeding； dragged him out and let him sprawl on the pavement and emptied the revolver into him until he could never again go hunting。
She rounded the second corner and reached the front of the building。
The motor home was pulling away from the pumps。 She raced after it； faster than she had ever run in her life； cleaving a resistant wind that stung new tears from her eyes； shoes pounding noisily on the blacktop。
Now it was Dear Lord； let me catch him instead of Dear Lord； let me get awayfrom him； and now it was Dear Lord； let me kill him instead of Dear Lord； don't let him kill me。
The motor home picked up speed。 It was already out of the service area； entering the eighth…of…a…mile lane that would take it back onto the highway。
She would never be able to catch it。
He was getting away。 She halted and planted her feet wide apart。 The revolver was in her right hand。 She raised it； gripped it with both hands； arms extended； elbows locked。 Shooter's stance。 Every good girl should know it； e the revolution。
Her heart didn't merely beat； it crashed； and every explosive pump shook her arms； so she couldn't hold the revolver on target。 The motor home was too distant anyway。 She'd miss it by yards。 And even if she got lucky and put one round in the back wall； it would be nowhere near the driver。 He was out of her reach； beyond harm； cruising away。
It was over。 She could go for help； find the nearest working phone； call the local police； and try to cut his lead time as short as possiblebut for now and here； it was over。
Except that it wasn't over； and she knew it wasn't； no matter how much she wanted to be finished with it； because she said aloud； 〃Ariel。〃
Sixteen。 Prettiest thing this side ofparadise。 Pure angel。 Porcelain skin。 Breathtaking。 Locked in the basement for a year Never touched her that way。 Waiting for her to ripen； get just a little sweeter In Chyna's mind's eye； the Polaroid photograph of Ariel was as clear and detailed as it had been when she'd held it in her hand。 That bland expression； maintained with obvious effort。 Those eyes； brimming with anguish。
Earlier； listening to the conversation between the killer and the two clerks； Chyna had known that he was not merely playing games with them； that he was telling the truth。 The creep was letting them in on his secrets； admitting his perverse crimes； getting a kick out of revealing his guilt because he knew that they were going to die and that they would never have a chance to repeat his admissions to anyone。 Even if she'd never seen the photograph； she would have known。
Ariel。 Those eyes。 The anguish。 While she had been concentrating on her own survival； Chyna had blocked all thoughts of the captive girl from her mind。 And when she had found the revolver； she had at once convinced herself that all she wanted was to kill this son of a bitch； blow his brains out； because the truth was something that she hadn't quite been able to face。
The truth had been that she didn't dare kill him； because when he was dead； they might never find Ariel…or find her days too late； after she had died of starvation or thirst in her basement cell。 He might have the girl locked under his house； which they would probably be able to locate from whatever identification he was carrying； but he might have stashed her elsewhere； in a place remote； to which he and only he could lead them。 Chyna had pursued the killer to disable him； so the cops would be able to wrench from him the location at which Ariel was being held。 If she could have caught up with the motor home； she would have tried to yank open the driver's door； shoot the vicious bastard in the leg as she ran alongside； wound him badly enough that he would have to stop the vehicle。 But she'd had to hide that truth from herself because trying to wound him was a lot riskier than going for a head shot through the window； and she might not have had the courage to run so fast and try so hard if she had admitted to herself what； in fact； had needed to be done。
With its burden of corpses； with its driver whose name might well be Legion； the big motor home dwindled down the service road toward Highway 101； quite literally Hell on wheels。
Somewhere he had a house； and under the house was a basement； and in the basement was a sixteen…year…old girl named Ariel； held prisoner for a year； u