Intensity

storm.
        He crouches beside the tracks and puts his fingers to the cold mud. He can feel the hardness and smoothness of the hooves that stamped the marks.
        A variety of deer thrive in the nearby foothills and mountains. They rarely venture onto Mr. Vess's property, however, because they are frightened of the Dobermans.
        This is the most peculiar thing about the deer tracks: that among them are no paw prints from the dogs.
        The Dobermans have been trained to focus on human intruders and, as much as possible, to ignore wildlife. Otherwise, they might be distracted at a moment crucial to their master's safety. They will never attack rabbits or squirrels or possums-or deer-unless severe hunger eventually drives them to it. They won't even give playful chase.
        Nevertheless, the dogs will take notice of other animals that cross their path. They indulge their curiosity within the limits of their training.
        They would have approached this deer and circled ever closer as it stood here, either paralyzing it with fright or spooking it off. And after it had gone, they would have padded back and forth across the driveway, sniffing its spoor.
        But not one paw print is visible among the hoof impressions.
        Rubbing his muddy fingertips together, Mr. Vess rises to his full height and slowly turns in a circle, studying the surrounding land. The meadows to the north and the distant piney woods beyond. The driveway leading east to the bald knoll. The yard to the south, more meadows beyond, and woods again. Finally the backyard, past the barn, to the foothills. The deer-if it was a deer-is gone.
        Edgler Vess stands motionless. Listening. Watchful. Breathing deeply, seeking scents. Then for a while he inhales through his open mouth, catching what he can upon his tongue. He feels the moist air like the clammy skin of a cadaver against his face. All his senses are open wide, irised to the max, and the freshly washed world drains into them.
        Finally he can detect no harm in the morning.
        As Vess is putting the license plate on the back of the motor home, Tilsiter pads to him. The dog nuzzles his master's neck.
        Vess encourages the Doberman to stay. When he is finished with the plate, he points Tilsiter to the nearby deer spoor.
        The dog seems not to see the tracks. Or, seeing them, he does not have any interest.
        Vess leads him to the spoor, right in among the prints. Once more he points to them.
        Because Tilsiter appears to be confused, Vess places his hand on the back of the dog's head and presses his muzzle into one of the tracks.
        The Doberman catches a scent at last, sniffs eagerly, whimpers with excitement-then decides that he doesn't like what he smells. He squirms out from under his master's hand and backs off, looking sheepish.
        "What?" says Vess.
        The dog licks his chops. He looks away from Vess, surveys the meadows, the lane, the yard. He glances at Vess again, but then he trots off to the south, returning to patrol.
        The trees still dripping. The mists rising. The spent clouds scudding fast toward the southeast.
        Mr. Vess decides to kill Chyna Shepherd immediately.
        He will haul her into the yard, make her lie facedown on the grass, and put a couple of bullets in the back of her skull. He has to go to work this evening, and before that he has to get some sleep, so he won't have time to enjoy a slow kill.
        Later, when he gets home, he can bury her in the meadow with the four dogs watching, insects singing and feeding on one another in the tall grass, and Ariel forced to kiss each of the corpses before it goes forever into the ground-all this in moonlight if there is any.
        Quickly now, finish her and sleep.
        As he hurries toward the house, he realizes that the screwdriver is still in his hand, which might be more interesting than using the pistol, yet just as quick.
        Up the flagstone steps, onto the front porch, where the finger of the Seattle attorney hangs silent among the seashells in the cool windless air.
        He doesn't bother to wipe his feet, a rare breach of compulsive procedure.
        The ratcheting hinge is matched by the sound of his own ragged breathing as he opens the door and steps into the house. When he closes the door, he is startled to hear his thudding heartbeats chasing one another.
        He is never