Intensity

have no more fun , and all he would see available to him was one last, apocalyptic celebration of madness.
        Chyna couldn't bear to lose this imperiled girl so soon after losing Laura, failing Laura. Intolerable. She couldn't keep failing people as, all her life, others had failed her. Meaning wasn't to be found in psychology classes and textbooks but in caring, in hard sacrifice, in faith, in action . She didn't want to take these risks. She wanted to live-but for someone other than herself.
        At least now she had a gun.
        And the advantage of surprise.
        Earlier, at the Templeton house and in the motor home and then at the service station, she'd also had the advantage of surprise, but she hadn't been in possession of the revolver.
        She realized that she was arguing herself into taking the most dangerous course of action open to her, making excuses for going into the house. Going into the house was obviously crazy, Jesus, a totally crazy move, Jesus, but she was striving hard to rationalize it, because she had already made up her mind that this was what she was going to do.

    
        Coming out of the motor home, the woman has a gun in her right hand. It looks as if it might be a.38-perhaps a Chief's Special.
        This is a popular weapon with some cops. But this woman doesn't move like a cop, doesn't handle the weapon as a cop would-although clearly she is somewhat comfortable with a gun.
        No, she's definitely not an officer of the law. Something else. Something weird.
        Mr. Vess has never been so intrigued by anyone as he is by this spunky little lady, this mysterious adventurer. She's a real treat.
        The moment she sprints from the motor home to the house and out of sight, Vess moves from the window on the south wall of his bedroom to the window on the east wall. It is also covered by a blue drape, which he parts.
        No sign of her.
        He waits, holding his breath, but she doesn't head east along the lane. After half a minute or so, he knows that she isn't going to run.
        If she had taken off, she would have sorely disappointed him. He doesn't think of her as a person who would run. She is bold. He wants her to be bold.
        Had she run, he would have sent the dogs after her, not with instructions to kill but merely to detain. Then he would have retrieved her to question her at his leisure.
        But she is coming to him . For whatever unimaginable reason, she will follow him into the house. With her revolver.
        He will need to be cautious. But oh, what fun he is having. Her gun only makes the game more intense.
        The front porch is immediately below this window, but he isn't able to see it because of the overhanging roof. The mystery woman is somewhere on the porch. He can feel her close, perhaps directly under him.
        He retrieves his pistol from the nightstand and glides quietly across the wall-to-wall carpet into the open doorway. He steps into the hall and quickly to the head of the enclosed stairs, where he stops. He can see only the landing below, not the living room, but he listens.
        If she opens the front door, he will know, because one of the hinges makes a dry ratcheting sound. It's not a loud noise, but it is distinctive. Because he's listening specifically for that corroded hinge, not even the drumming of the rain on the roof, the pounding of the shower into the bathtub, and "In the Mood" on the radio can entirely mask the sound.

    
        Crazy. But she was going to do it. For Ariel. For Laura. But also for herself. Maybe most of all for herself.
        After all these years under beds, in closets, in attic shadows-no more hiding. After all these years of getting by, keeping her head down, drawing no attention to herself-suddenly she had to do something or explode. She'd been living in a prison since the day she'd been born, even after leaving her mother, a prison of fear and shame and lowered expectations, and she'd been so accustomed to her circumscribed life that she had not recognized the bars. Now righteous rage released her, and she was crazy with freedom.
        The chilly wind kicked up, and shatters of rain blasted under the porch roof.
        Seashell wind chimes clattered, an irritation of flat notes.
        Chyna eased past the window, trying to avoid several snails on the porch floor. The drapes remained tightly shut.
        The front door was