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onvinced her that they were dead。 But she must be sure。 If one of them clung miraculously to life； and if she could get help for himpolice and paramedics…she would partially redeem herself。
She had been unable to do anything to stop the blood…loving bastard； she had only cowered out of his sight； praying frantically for invisibility。 Now nausea rolled like a slop of chilled oysters in her stomach…and at the same time she was lifted by a sickening exhilaration that she had lived when so many others had died。 Understandable though it was； the exhilaration shamed her； and for herself as well as for the two clerks； she hoped that she could still save them。
She pushed through the gate in the counter； and the piercing creak of a hinge scraped the hollows of her bones。
A gooseneck lamp provided some light。 The two men were on the floor。
〃Ah；〃 she said。 And then： 〃God。〃
They were beyond her help； and immediately she turned awayy from them； her vision blurring。
On the counter； directly under the lamp； lay a revolver。 She stared at it in disbelief； blinking back tears。
Evidently it had belonged to one of the clerks。 She'd overheard the conversation between the killer and the two men； and she vaguely recalled a harsh admonition that might have been a warning to drop a gun。 This gun。
She grabbed it； held it in both hands…a weight that buoyed her。 If the killer returned； she was ready； no longer helpless； for she knew how to use guns。 Some of her mother's craziest friends had been expert with weaponry； hate…filled people with a queer brightness in the eyes that was a sign of drug use in some cases but that was visible in others only when they spoke passionately about their deep mitment to truth and justice。 On an isolated farm in Montana； when Chyna was only twelve； a woman named Doreen and a man named Kirk had instructed her in the use of a pistol； although her slender arms had jumped wildly with the recoil。 Patiently teaching her control； they had said that someday she would be a true soldier and a credit to the movement。
Chyna had wanted to learn about firearms not to use them in one noble cause or another but to protect herself from those people in her mother's strange circles who succumbed to drug…enhanced rages…or who stared at her with a sick desire。 She had been too young to want their attention； too self…respecting to encourage them…but thanks to her mother； she had not been too innocent to understand what some of them wanted to do with her。
Now； with the dead clerk's revolver in hand； she turned and saw the shattered telephone。 〃Shit。〃
She hurried back through the gate； into the public part of the store； directly to the front door。
The motor home was still parked on this side of the farther of the two service islands。 The headlights were off。
The killer was not in sight at first…but then he walked into view around the back of the motor home； his unbuttoned coat flaring like a cape in the wind。
Although the man was about sixty feet away； surely he couldn't see her at the door。 He wasn't even looking in her direction； but Chyna took a step backward。
Apparently he had been racking the hose at the gasoline pump and capping the fuel tank。 He walked alongside the vehicle toward the driver's door。
She had planned to telephone the police and tell them that the killer was headed north on Highway i o i。 Now； by the time she got to a phone； called the cops； and made them understand the situation； he might have as much as an hour's lead。 Within an hour； he would have several choices of other routes that branched off ioi。 He might continue north toward Oregon； turn east toward Nevada…or even angle West to the coast； thereafter turning south again along the Pacific and into San Francisco； vanishing in the urban maze。 The more miles he traveled before an all…points bulletin went out for him； the harder he would be to find。 He would soon be in another police agency's jurisdiction； first a different county and perhaps eventually a different state； plicating the search for him。
And now that she thought about it； Chyna realized that she had precious little information that would be helpful to the cops。 The motor home might be blue or green； she wasn't sure which…or even if it was either…because she'd seen it only in the darkness and then in the color…distorting yellow glow of the service station's sodium…vapour lights。 She didn't know the make of it either； and she hadn't seen the license plate。
He was getting away。 Unhurried； clearly confident that he was in no imminent danger of discovery； he climbed into the motor home and pulled shut the driver's door。
He is going to get away。 Yesus。 No； intolerable； unthinkable。 He can't be allowed to get away； neverpayfor what he did to Laura； to all of them worse； have a chance to do it again。 No； God； please； let me drop the hateful rotten fucking bastard with a shot in the head。
She stepped close to the door again。 It could be unlocked only with a key。 She didn't have a key。
She heard the motor…home engine turn over。
If she shot out the glass； he would hear。 Even over the roar of the engine and from a distance； he would hear。
Once through the door； she would be too far away to shoot him。 Fifty or sixty feet； at night； with a handgun； the gasoline pumps intervening。 No way。 She had to get close； right up against the motor home； put the muzzle to the window。
But if he heard her shoot her way through the locked door and saw her ing out of the store； she wouldn't have a chance to get close to him； not in a million years； and then he would be stalking her again； across the service…station property； wherever she went； and his shotgun was better armament than her revolver。
Out at the motor home； he switched on the headlights。 〃No。〃 She ran to the gate in the counter； shoved through it； stepped around the dead men； and went to the door in the back wall。
There had to be a rear entrance。 Both practical function and fire codes would require it。
The door opened onto blackness。 As far as she could tell； there were no windows ahead of her。 Maybe it was only a supply closet or a bathroom。 She stepped across the threshold； closed the door behind her to prevent light from leaking into the store； felt along the wall to her left； found a switch； and risked turning on the lights。
She was in a cramped office。 On the Jesk was another shattered telephone。
Directly across the room from the door that she had just used was another door。 No obvious lock。 That would be a bathroom。
To her left； in the back wall of the building； a metal door featured a pair of over…and…under deadbolts with thumb…tums。 She disengaged the locks and opened the door； and a flood tide of cold wind washed into the office。
Behind the store spread a twenty…foot…wide paved area； and then a steep hillside rose with serried trees that were black in the night and restless in the wind。 A security light in a wire cage revealed two parked cars； which probably belonged to the clerks。
I Cursing the killer； Chyna turned to the right and sprinted along the shorter length of the building； around the er； past public rest rooms。 She had never caused anyone physical harm； not once in her life； but she was ready to kill now； and she knew that she could do it without hesitation； with no thought of mercy； with a vengeance； because be had empowered her to do it。 This was what he had reduced her to…this blind； animal fury…and the worst thing was that it felt good； this rage； so good in parison to the fear and helplessness she had endured； a sweet singing of rushing blood in the veins and an exhilarating sense of savage strength。 She should have been appalled at the lust for blood that seized her； but she liked it； and she knew that she would like it even more when she caught up with the motor home and shot him through the driver's…side window； pulled open the door and shot him again where he sat bleeding； dragged him out and let him sprawl on the pavement and emptied the revolver into him until he could never again go hunting。
She rounded the second corner and reached the front of the building。
The motor home was pulling away from the pumps。 She raced after it； faster than she had ever run in her life； cleaving a resistant wind that stung new tears from her eyes； shoes pounding noisily on the blacktop。
Now it was Dear Lord； let me catch him instead of Dear Lord； let me get awayfrom him； and now it was Dear Lord； let me kill him instead of Dear Lord； don't let him kill me。
The motor home picked up speed。 It was already out of the service area； entering the eighth…of…a…mile lane that would take it back onto the highway。
She would never be able to catch it。
He was getting away。 She halted and planted her feet wide apart。 The revolver was in her right hand。 She raised it； gripped it with both hands； arms extended； elbows locked。 Shooter's stance。 Every good girl should know it； e the revolution。
Her heart didn't merely beat； it crashed； and every explosive pump shook her arms； so she couldn't hold the revolver on target。 The motor home was too distant anyway。 She'd miss it by yards。 And even if she got lucky and put one round in the back wall； it would be nowhere near the driver