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g。
〃Hold on；〃 she said； touched Laura's damp forehead to reassure her； and then crossed the room to the door； leaving her friend under the smug and somber gaze of Sigmund Freud。
The hallway was deserted。 Chyna hurried to the head of the curved stairs； hesitated to mit herself to the tenebrous lair below； but then realized that she had nowhere else to go。 She went down as fast as she dared without the support of the handrail。 Staying clear of the balustrade。 Too exposed there。 Close to the wall was better。
She quickly passed a series of large landscape paintings in ornate frames； which seemed almost to be windows on actual pastoral vistas。 Earlier； they had been bright and cheerful scenes。 Now they were ominous： goblin forests； black rivers； killing fields。
The foyer。 An oval area rug on polished oak。 Through a closed door to the right was Paul Templeton's study。 Through the archway on the left was the dark living room。
The killer could be anywhere。 Outside； the roar of the truck grew louder。 It was almost to the house。 The driver would be shot through the windshield the moment that he braked to a stop。 Or gunned down when he stepped out from behind the steering wheel。
Chyna had to warn him； not solely for his sake but for her own； for Laura's。 He was their only hope。
Certain that the spider…eating intruder was nearby； she expected a savage attack and； abandoning caution；flew at the front door。 The oval rug rucked beneath her feet； twisted； and nearly spun out from under her。 She stumbled； reached out to break her fall； and slammed both palms flat against the front door。
Such a noise； hellacious noise； booming through the house； had surely drawn the killer's attention away from the approaching truck。
Chyna fumbled； found the knob； and twisted it。 The door was unlocked。 Gasping； she pulled it open。
A cool breeze out of the northwest； faintly scented by freshly turned vineyard earth and fungicide； whistled through the bare limbs of the maple trees that flanked the front walkway。 Snuffling like a pack of hounds； it rushed past her into the foyer as she stepped out onto the front porch。
The truck had already passed the house and was heading away from her。 It would e around for a second approach on the end…loop of the driveway； which was wide enough to acmodate produce haulers in the harvest season； and park facing out toward the county road。 But it wasn't a truck after all。 A motor home。 An older model with rounded lines； well kept； forty feet long； either blue or green。 Its chrome glimmered like quicksilver under the late…winter moon。
Amazed that she had not yet been stabbed or shot or struck from behind； glancing back at the open front door where the killer hadn't yet appeared； Chyna headed for the porch steps。
The motor home rounded the end of the loop； beginning to turn toward her。 Its twin beams swept across the Templetons' barn and other outbuildings。
Larch and maple and evergreen shadows fled before the arcing headlights。 They flickered darkly through the trellis at the end of the porch； along the white balustrade； across the lawn and the stone walkway； stretching impossibly； swooping into the night as if trying frantically to tear free of the trees that cast them。
The deep quiet in the house； the lack of lights downstairs； the killer's failure to attack her as she escaped； the timely arrival of the motor home…suddenly all of those things made chilling sense。 The killer was driving the motor home。 〃No。〃
Chyna swiftly retreated from the porch steps and scrambled back into the foyer。
At her heels； the headlights came all the way around the end of the driveway loop。 They pierced the trellis grid； projecting geometric patterns across the porch floor and the front wall of the house。
She closed the door and fumbled for the big lock above the knob。 Found the thumb…turn。 Engaged the heavy deadbolt。
Then she realized her mistake。 The front door had been unlocked because the killer had gone out that way。 If he found it locked now； he would know that Laura wasn't the only person alive in the house； and the hunt would begin。
Her sweaty fingers slipped on the brass thumb…turn； but the bolt snapped open with a hard clack。
Earlier； he must have parked the vehicle near the end of the halfmile…long driveway； out toward the county road； and must have walked to the house。
Now tires crunched through gravel。 Air brakes issued a soft whoosh and a softer whine； and the motor home came to a full stop in front of the house。
Remembering the oval rug that had turned under her feet and had nearly sent her sprawling； Chyna dropped to her knees。 She crawled across the wool； smoothing the rumples with her hands。 If the killer tripped over the disarranged rug； he would know that it hadn't been in that condition when he'd left。
Footsteps arose outside： boot heels ringing off the flagstone walkway。
Chyna came to her feet and turned toward the study。 No good。 She couldn't know for sure where he would go when he reentered the house； and if he stepped into the study； she would be trapped in there with him。
His tread echoed hollowly from the wooden porch steps。 Chyna lunged across the foyer； through the archway； into the dark living room…and immediately came to a halt； afraid of stumbling into furniture and knocking it over。 She edged forward； feeling her way with both hands； vision hampered by the muddy…red ghost images of the motor…home headlights； which still floated faintly across her retinas。
The front door opened。 Less than halfway across the living room； Chyna squatted beside an armchair。 If the killer entered and switched on the lights； he would see her。
Without closing the door behind him； the man appeared in the foyer； beyond the arch。 He was dimly linmed by the glow from the second…floor hallway。 He passed the living room and went directly to the stairs。
Laura。 Chyna still had no weapon。 She thought of the fireplace poker。 Not good enough。 Unless she caved in his skull on the first blow or broke his arm； he would wrest the poker away from her。 She had the strength of terror； but maybe that wouldn't be enough。
Rather than rise to her feet and blunder blindly across the living room； she stayed down and crawled because it was safer and quicker。 She reached the dining…room archway and angled toward where she thought she'd find the kitchen door。
She thumped into a chair。 It rattled against a table leg。 On the table； something shifted with a clink…clink； and she remembered seeing carefully arranged ceramic fruit in a copper bowl。
She didn't think that he could have heard these sounds all the way upstairs； so she kept going。 There was nothing to do but keep going anyway； whether he had heard or not。
When she reached the swinging door sooner than she had expected； she got to her feet。
Though the infiltrating moonlight was already dim； it suddenly faded away； causing the flesh on the nape of her neck to crawl with a dire expectation。 She turned； pressing her back against the doorframe； certain that the killer was close behind her； silhouetted in front of a window； blocking the lunar glow； but he wasn't there。 The silver radiance no longer painted the glass。 Evidently the storm clouds； rolling out of the northwest since before midnight； had finally shrouded the moon。
Pushing on the swinging door； she went into the kitchen。 She wouldn't need to switch on the overhead fluorescent panels。 The upper of the double ovens featured a digital clock with green numerals that emitted a surprising amount of light； enough to allow her to find her way around the room。
She recalled having seen a section of butcher…block countertop to one side of the stainless…steel sinks。 The sinks were in front of the wider of the two windows。 She slid her hand along the cold granite counters until she located the remembered wooden surface。
The house above her seemed filled with a higher order of silence than ever before。
What the bastard doing up there in all that silence； up there in all that silence with Laura？
Under the butcher block was a drawer where she expected to find knives。 Found them。 Neatly slotted in a holder。
She withdrew one。 Too short。 Another。 This one was a bread knife with a blunt round end。 The third that she selected proved to be a butcher knife。 She carefully tested the cutting edge against the ball of her thumb and found it satisfyingly sharp。
Upstairs； Laura screamed。 Chyna started toward the dining…room door but sensed intuitively that she dared not go that way。 She rushed instead to the back stairs； even though they couldn't be climbed without making noise。
She switched on the light in the stairwell。 The killer could not see her here。
From the second floor； Laura cried out again…a terrible wail of despair； pain； horror； like a cry that might have been heard in the poisongas chambers at Dachau or in the windowless interrogation rooms of Siberian prisons during the era of the gulags。 It was not a scream for help or even a begging for mercy； but a plea for release at any cost； even death。
Chyna clambered up the stairs into that scream； which presented her with real resistance； as if she were a swimmer struggling toward the surface of a sea； against a