Now she closed her eyes。 Opened them at once。 She didn't want to see him； looming and handsome with his nice smile； dry bloodstains on his clothes and nothing disturbing in his eyes。 But she didn't dare look away。
Chyna Shepberd； untoucbed and alive。
〃I put four bullets in；〃 he said； 〃but then they started popping back out。 A little postmortem gas release。 It was ridiculous； quite funny； really； but I was pressed for time； as you might understand； and finally it was just too much trouble to do the fifth。〃
Maybe this was best。 Maybe one more round of Russian roulette； and then peace at long last； no more trying to understand why there was so much cruelty in the world when kindness was the easier choice。
He said； 〃This is a five…shot weapon。〃
The empty socket of the muzzle stared blindly at her； and she wondered if she would see the flash and hear the roar or whether the blackness in the barrel would bee her own blackness； without any awareness of the exchange。
Then the killer turned the revolver away from her and pulled the trigger。 The blast rattled windows； and the slug tore through a cabinet door along the nearest wall； spraying splinters of pine and shattering dishes inside。
Bits of wood were still flying when Chyna grabbed a drawer and yanked it out of the cabinet。 It was so heavy that it almost pulled out of her hand； but she was suddenly strong with desperation； and she slung it upward at the killer's head； the contents spilling from it as it arced high toward his brow。
Spoons； forks； butter knives dueling in the air； flashing with cold fluorescent reflections； ringing down on him and across the tile floor； startled him backward into the dinette table。
Even as the killer stumbled away in surprise； Chyna was moving toward the sink。 An instant after she heard the empty drawer crash against something； she put her hand on the grip of the pistol。 She saw a red dot on the steel frame； which was probably exposed when the safety was off； as on other pistols with which she was familiar； and she didn't have to worry about empty chambers； as with the revolver； because if there was even one bullet in the magazine； just one； it would be in the breech； please； and at this close range one round might be all that she needed。
But her trigger finger was already stiffening and swelling； and when she tried to hook it through the guard； the flare of pain rocked her。 She bobbled on a black tide of nausea； swayed； fumbling at the trigger guard with her middle finger。
Skating across the littered floor with an ice…brittle clatter…clink of scattering tableware； the killer reached Chyna before she could bring the gun up and turn。 He slammed his arm down on hers and trapped her hand against the countertop。
Reflexively her finger pulled the trigger。 A bullet smashed the backsplash。 Chips of yellow ceramic tile sprayed in her face； and she might have been blinded if she hadn't squeezed her eyes shut in time。
He slammed the heel of his hand against the side of her head； sending a spray of darkness across the backs of her eyes； like shards of exploding black glass； and then he clubbed his fist against the nape of her neck。
With no memory of having fallen； Chyna was lying on the kitchen floor； with a bug's…eye view across the vinyl tile； gazing through a cata…clysmic tumble of eating utensils。 Interesting。 Spoons were the size of shovels。 Forks as big as pitchforks。 Knives were lances。
The killer's boots。 Black boots。 Moving around。 For a moment she became confused； thinking that she was back in the Templeton house in the Napa Valley； hiding under the bed in the guest room。 But there hadn't been flatware scattered across that bedroom floor； and when she focused on the stainless…steel utensils again； her thoughts cleared。 〃Now I'm going to have to wash all these；〃 the killer said； 〃before I put them away。〃
He was circling through the kitchen； picking up the flatware and being methodical about it； keeping spoons with spoons； knives with knives。
Chyna was surprised that she could move her arm； which was as heavy as a great tree limb； a petrified tree once wood but now stone。 Nevertheless； she managed to point at the killer and even curl her throbbing trigger finger； swallowing her pain and the bitter taste that came with it。
The gun didn't fire。 She squeezed the trigger again； and still there was no boom； and then she realized that her hand was empty。 She wasn't holding the pistol。
Strange。 One of the knives was near her hand。 It was a table knife with a finely serrated edge； suitable for spreading butter or for slicing wellcooked chicken or for cutting green beans into bite…size pieces； but not ideal for stabbing someone to death。 A knife was a knife； however； better than no weapon at all； and she quietly closed her hand around it。
Now all she had to do was find the strength to get off the floor。 Curiously； she couldn't even lift her head。 She had never before felt so tired。
She had been hit hard on the back of the neck。 She wondered about spinal injury。
She refused to weep。 She had the knife。 The killer came to her； stooped； and extracted the knife from her hand。 She was amazed at how easily it slipped from her fingers； even though she clutched it ferociously； as if it hadn't been a knife at all but a sliver of melting ice。
〃Bad girl；〃 he said； and rapped the flat of the blade against the top of her skull。
He continued with the cleanup。 While trying not to think about spinal injuries； Chyna managed to get her hand around a fork。
He returned and took that away from her too。 〃No；〃 he said； as though he were training a recalcitrant puppy。 〃No。〃
〃Bastard；〃 she said； dismayed to hear a slur in her voice。
〃Sticks and stones。〃
〃Fucking bastard。〃
〃Oh； very pretty；〃 he said scornfully。
〃Shithead。〃
〃I should wash your mouth out with soap。〃
〃Asshole。〃
〃Your mother never taught you words like that。〃
〃You don't know my mother；〃 she said thickly。
He hit her again； a hard chop to the side of the neck this time。 Then Chyna lay in darkness； listening worriedly to her mother's distant gay laughter and strange men's voices。 Shattering glass。 Cursing。 Thunder and wind。 Palm trees thrashing in the night over Key West。 The quality of the laughter changed。 Mocking now。 Crashes that weren't thunder。 And the skittery palmetto beetle over her bare legs and across her back。 Other times。 Other places。 In the vapory realm of dreams； the iron fist of memory。
Shortly after nine o'clock in the morning； after dealing with the woman and washing the flatware； Mr。 Vess sets loose the dogs。
At the back door； at the front door； and in his bedroom； there are call buttons that； when pushed； sound a soft buzzer in the kennel behind the barn。 When the Dobermans have been sent there with the word crib； as they were sent earlier； the buzzer is a mand that at once returns them to active patrol。
He uses the call button by the kitchen door and then steps to the large window by the dinette to watch the backyard。
The sky is low and gray； still shrouding the Siskiyou Mountains； but rain is no longer falling。 The drooping boughs of the evergreens drip steadily。 The bark on the deciduous trees is a sodden black； their limbs…some with the first fragile green buds of spring； others still barren…are so coaly that they appear to have been stripped by fire。
Some people might think that the scene is passive now； with the thunder spent and the lightning extinguished； but Mr。 Vess knows that a storm is as powerful in its aftermath as in its raging。 He is in harmony with this new kind of power； the quiescent power of growth that water bestows on the land。
From the back of the barn e the Dobermans。 They pad side by side for a distance； but then split up and proceed each in his own direction。
They are not on attack status at this time。 They will chase down and detain any intruder； but they will not kill him。 To prime them for blood； Mr。 Vess must speak the name Nietzscbe。
One of the dogs…Liederkranz…es onto the back porch； where he stares at the window； adoring his master。 His tail wags once； and then once again； but he is on duty； and this brief and measured display of affection is all that h