Intensity

might never find her. Besides, the creep probably had a gun on him, and if this turned into a shooting match, he would win, because he was far more practiced than she was-and bolder.
        She had no one to whom she could turn. As in childhood.
        So now get out of sight quickly. Don't be rash. Wait for the ideal situation. Pick the moment of the confrontation and control the showdown when it comes.
        Fierce lightning again, and a long hard crash of thunder like vast structures collapsing high in the night.
        She reached the motor home.
         Oh, God.
        The driver's door stood open.
         Oh Jesus. Oh, God.
        She couldn't do it.
        She had to do it.
        Downhill, on the shoulder, with a rattle of twisted steel, the Honda was coasting to a stop.
        She had the revolver. That made all the difference. She was safe with the gun.
         Who will save this girl hidden in a cellar, this girl ripening for this sonofabitch bastard freak, this girl like me? Who is ever there for frightened girls hiding in the backs of closets or under beds, who is ever there but twitching palmetto beetles? Who will be there if not me, where will I be if not there, why is this the only choice-and when the answer is so obvious, why even ask why?
        Down slope, the Honda came to a full stop.
        With the revolver heavy in her hand, Chyna climbed into the cockpit and behind the steering wheel. She swung around in the driver's seat, got up, and hurried back through the motor home, murmuring, "Jesus, Jesus," telling herself that it was all right, this crazy thing she was doing, all right because this time she had the revolver.
        But she wondered if even the gun would give her enough of an edge when the time arrived to go face-to-face with this man.
        Of course a direct confrontation might never have to take place. Chyna intended to hide until they arrived at his house and then find out where the girl was being held. With that information, she would be able to go to the police, and they could nail this creep and free Ariel and-
        And what?
        And in saving the girl, she would save herself. From what, she was not sure. From a life of merely surviving? From the endless and fruitless struggle to understand?
        Crazy, crazy, but there was no turning back now. And in her heart she knew that risking all was less crazy than living a life that had no higher goal than survival.
        As if thrown forward by the hard knocking of her heart, Chyna reached the rear of the motor home. The closed door to the only bedroom.
         Jesus .
        She didn't want to go in there. With Laura dead. The man in the closet. The sewing kit waiting to be used again.
         Jesus.
        But it was the best place to hide, so she opened the door and went in and closed the door behind her and eased to the left through the palpable darkness and put her back against the wall.
        Maybe he wouldn't drive straight home. He might stop at some point between here and there to come to the back of the motor home and have a look at his trophies.
        Then she would kill him the instant that he stepped through the door. Empty the revolver into him. Take no chances.
        With him dead, they might never find Ariel. Or they might find her only after she had perished of starvation, an excruciatingly painful way to die.
        Nevertheless, if the killer entered this bedroom, Chyna wouldn't rely on half measures. She would not attempt to wound him and keep him alive for police interrogation, not in this tight space with him looming over her and with so many ways that things could go wrong.

    
        Lights off, windshield wipers off, Edgler Vess sits in the dead car by the side of the road. Thinking.
        There are numerous ways that he can proceed from here. Life is always a laden buffet of treats, a vast smorgasbord groaning with infinite choices of sensations and experiences to thrill the heart-but never more so than now. He wishes to exploit the opportunity to the fullest possible extent, to extract from it the greatest possible excitement and the most poignant sensations, and he must, therefore, not act precipitously.
        Luck had given him a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror: as fleet as a deer across the blacktop, hesitating at the open door of the motor home, and then up and inside and out of sight.
        She must be the woman