Intensity

yard to the east of the house.
        The uninjured Doberman trotted around the front of the motor home and spotted her at once. It stood directly under her, gazing up, teeth bared. It seemed unfazed by the suffering of its three comrades.
        Chyna moved away from the edge and got to her feet. The metal surface was somewhat slippery with dew, and she was thankful for the rubber tread on her Rockports. If she lost her footing and fell off into the yard, with no weapons and no protective clothing, the one remaining Doberman would overwhelm her and tear out her throat in ten seconds flat.
        The motor home was only a few inches below the edge of the porch roof. She had parked so close that the distance between the vehicle and the house was less than a foot.
        She stepped up and across that gap, onto the sloped roof of the porch. The asphalt shingles had a sandy texture and weren't nearly as treacherous as the top of the motor home.
        The slope wasn't steep either, and she climbed easily to the front wall of the house. The recent rain had liberated a tarry scent from the numerous coats of creosote with which the logs had been treated over the years.
        The double-hung window of Vess's second-story bedroom was open three inches, as she had left it before departing the house. She slipped her aching hands through the opening and, groaning, shoved up on the bottom panel. In this wet weather, the wood had swollen, but although it stuck a couple of times, she got it all the way open.
        She climbed through the window into Vess's bedroom, where she had left a lamp burning.
        In the upstairs hall, she glanced at the open door across from the bedroom. The dark study lay beyond, and she was still troubled by the feeling that there was something in it that she had missed, something vital she should know about Edgler Vess.
        But she had no time for additional detective work. She hurried downstairs to the living room.
        Ariel was huddled in the armchair where she had been left. She was still hugging herself and rocking, lost.
        According to the mantel clock, the time was four minutes past eleven. "You stay right there," Chyna instructed. "Just a minute more, honey."
        She went through the kitchen to the laundry room, in search of a broom. She found both a broom and a sponge mop. The mop had the longer handle of the two, so she took it instead of the broom.
        As she entered the living room again, she heard a familiar and dreaded sound. Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak-squeak .
        She glanced at the nearest window and saw the uninjured Doberman clawing the glass. Its pointy ears were pricked, but they flattened against its skull when Chyna made eye contact with the creature. The Doberman issued the now-familiar needful keening that caused the fine hairs to stiffen on the nape of Chyna's neck.
         Squeak-squeak-squeak.
        Turning away from the dog, Chyna started toward Ariel-and then had her attention drawn to the other living-room window. A Doberman stood with its forepaws at the base of that pane too.
        This had to be the first one she had encountered when she'd gone out of the house, the same animal that she had sprayed in the muzzle. It had recovered quickly and had bitten her foot when she'd been pinned on the ground by the third dog.
        She was sure that she'd blinded the second dog, which had shot at her like a mortar round from out of the darkness, and the third as well. Until now she had assumed that her second chance at this animal had also resulted in a disabling eye shot.
        She'd been wrong.
        At the time, of course, she herself had been all but blinded by her fogged visor-and frantic, because the third dog had been holding her down and chewing through the padding at her throat, licking at her chin. All she had known was that this animal had shrieked when she'd squirted it and that it had stopped biting her foot.
        The stream of ammonia must have splashed the dog's muzzle the second time, just as it had during their first encounter.
        "Lucky bastard," she whispered.
        The twice-injured Doberman didn't scratch at the window glass. It just watched her. Intently. Ears standing straight up. Missing nothing.
        Or perhaps it wasn't the same dog at all. Perhaps there were five of them. Or six.
        At the other window: Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak .
        Crouching in front of