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en depression plagued her； when her green eyes were gray and sad with miseries that she could not explain。 But at that kitchen table in Oakland and in that cool bunker beneath the cottage in Key West…in fact； whenever she was at the side of a man like Woltz…her porcelain skin was even clearer than usual； almost translucent； excitement enlivened her exquisite features； she became magically more graceful； appeared more lithe and supple； was quicker to smile。 The prospect of violence； playing at being Bonnie to any man's Clyde； filled her stunning face with a light as glorious as a Florida sunset； and her jewel…green eyes were； at those times； as pelling and mysterious as the Gulf of Mexico darkening toward twilight。
Although the prospect of violence might be romantic； the reality was blood； bone； deposition； dust。 The reality was Laura on the bed and the unknown young man sewn into silence behind the pleated vinyl door。
Chyna sat with her cold hands covering her colder face； aware that she would never be as strangely beautiful as her mother。
Eventually she regained control of her breathing。 The motor home rolled on； and she was reminded of nights when； as a child； she had dozed on trains； on buses； in the backseats of cars； lulled by the motion and the hum of wheels； unsure where her mother was taking her； dreaming of being part of a family like one of those on television…with befuddled but loving parents； an amusing next…door neighbor who might be frustrating but never malicious； and a dog that knew a few tricks。 But good dreams never lasted； and she woke repeatedly from nightmares； gazing out windows at strange landscapes； wishing that she could travel forever without stopping。 The road was a promise of peace； but destinations were always hell。
Chyna didn't want to go there。 She intended to get off between destinations and hoped to find her way back to the better life that she had struggled so hard to build these past ten years。
She left the er of the bedroom to retrieve the butcher knife； which she had dropped when she'd been rocked backward by the sight of the dead man in the closet。 Then she went around the bed to the nightstand and switched off the pharmacy lamp。
Being in the dark with dead people didn't frighten her。 Only the living were a danger。
The motor home slowed again and then turned left。 Chyna leaned against the tilt of the vehicle to keep her balance。
They must be on State Highway 29。 A right turn would have taken them down the Napa Valley； south into the town of Napa。 She wasn't sure what munities lay to the north； other than St。 Helena and Calistoga。
Even between the towns； however； there would be vineyards； farms； houses； and rural businesses。 Wherever she got out of the motor home； she should be able to find help within a reasonable distance。
She sidled blindly to the door and stood with one hand on the knob； waiting for instinct to guide her once more。 Much of her life had been lived like a balancing act on a spearpoint fence； and on a particularly difficult night when she was twelve； she had decided that instinct was； in fact； the quiet voice of God。 Prayers did receive replies； but you had to listen closely and believe in the answer。 At twelve； she wrote in her diary： 〃God doesn't shout； He whispers； and in the whisper is the way。〃
Waiting for the whisper； she thought about the battered body in the closet； which appeared to have been dead for less than a day； and about Laura； still warm on the sagging bed。 Sarah； Paul； Laura's brother Jack； Jack's wife； Nina： six people murdered in twenty…four hours。 The eater of spiders was not an ordinary homicidal sociopath。 In the language of the cops and the criminologists who specialized in searching for and stopping men like this； he was hot； going through a hot phase； burning up with desire； need。 But Chyna； who intended to follow her master's in psychology with a doctorate in criminology； even if she had to work six years waiting tables to get there； sensed that this guy was not just hot。 He was a singularity； conforming only in part to standard profiles in aberrant psychology； as purely alien as some…thing from the stars； a runaway killing machine； merciless and irresistible。 She had no hope of eluding him if she didn't wait for the murmunng voice of instinct。
She remembered seeing a large rearview mirror when she'd briefly occupied the driver's seat earlier。 The vehicle had no rear window； so the mirror was there to provide the driver with a view of the lounge and the dining area behind him。 He would be able to see all the way into the end hall that served the bath and bedroom； and if the devil's luck was with him； he would glance up just when Chyna opened the door； stepped out； and was exposed。
When the moment felt right； Chyna opened the door。 A small blessing； a good omen： The ceiling light in the hall was out。 Standing in gloom； she quietly pulled shut the bedroom door。 The lamp above the dining table was on as before。 At the front of the vehicle was the green glow of the instrument panel…and beyond the windshield； the headlights were silver swords。
After moving forward past the bathroom and out of the wele shadows； she crouched behind the paneled side of the dining nook。 She peered across the crescent booth to the back of the driver's head； about twenty feet away。
He seemed so close…and； for the first time； vulnerable。 Nevertheless； Chyna wasn't foolish enough to creep forward and attack him while he was driving。 If he heard her ing or glanced at the rearview mirror and spotted her； he could wrench the steering wheel or slam on the brakes； sending her sprawling。 Then he might be able to stop the vehicle and get to her before she could reach the rear door…or he might swivel in his chair and shoot her down。
The entrance through which he had carried Laura was immediately to Chyna's left。 She sat on the floor with her feet in the step well； facing this door； concealed from the driver by the dining nook。
She put the butcher knife aside。 When she leaped out； she would probably fall and roll…and she might easily stab herself with the knife if she tried to take it with her。
She didn't intend to jump until the driver either stopped at an intersection or entered a turn sharp enough to require him to cut his speed dramatically。 She couldn't risk breaking a leg or being knocked unconscious in a fall； because then she wouldn't be able to get away from the road and safely into hiding。
。jne alan't ciouut that he would be aware of her escape even as it began。 He would hear the door open or the wind whistling at it； and he would see her either in his rearview or in his side…mounted mirror as she made her break for freedom。 Even in the unlikely event that she was not seen； the wind would slam the door hard behind her the instant she was gone； the killer would suspect that he hadn't been alone with his collection of corpses； and he'd pull off the highway and e back along the pavement； panicky； to have a look。
Or perhaps not panicky。 Not panicky at all。 More likely； he would search with grim； methodical； machine efficiency。 This guy was all about control and power； and Chyna found it difficult to imagine him ever succumbing to panic。
The motor home slowed； and Chyna's heart quickened。 As the driver reduced speed further； Chyna rose into a crouch in the step well and put a hand on the lever…action door handle。
They came to a full stop； and she pressed down on the handle； but the door was locked。 Quietly but insistently she pressed up； down； up…to no avail。
She couldn't find any latch button。 just a keyhole。 She remembered the rattling that she'd heard when she'd been in the bedroom and the spider eater had e back inside and closed this door。 Rattle； rattle。 The rattle of a key； perhaps。
Maybe this was a safety feature to prevent kids from tumbling out into traffic。 Or maybe the crazy bastard had modified the door lock to enhance security； to make it more difficult for a burglar or casual intruder to stumble upon any lip…sewn or shackled cadavers that might just happen to be aboard。 Can't be too careful when you have dead bodies stacked in the bedroom。 Prudence requires certain security measures。
The motor home pulled forward through the intersection and began to pick up speed again。
She should have known that escape wouldn't be easy。 Notbing was easy。 Ever。
She sat down； leaning against the breakfast…nook paneling； still facing the door； thinking furiously。
Earlier； on her way back through the vehicle from the driver's seat； she'd seen a door on the other side； toward the front； behind the co…pilot's chair。 Most motor homes had two doors； but this was a rare older model with three。 She was reluctant to go forward to escape； however； and for the same reason that she didn't want to attack him： He might see her ing； rock her off her feet； and shoot her before she could get up。
All right； she had one advantage。 He didn't know that she was aboard。
If she couldn't just open a door and jump out； if she was going to have to kill him； she could lie in wait here past the dining nook； surprise the bastard； gut him； step over him； and leave by the front。 Just minutes ago she had been ready to kill him； and she c