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cially sore spot just to the left of the third cervical vertebra； and he presses on it until the pain causes faint sprays of twinkly white and gray lights in the blackness behind his eyelids； like distant fireworks in a world without color。
Very nice。 Pain is merely a part of life。 By embracing it； one can find surprising satisfaction in suffering。 More important； getting in touch with his 01％M pain makes it easier for him to take pleasure in the pain of others。
Two vertebrae farther down； he locates an even more sensitive point of inflamed tendon or muscle； a wonderful little button buried in the flesh which； when pressed； causes pain to shoot all the way across his shoulder and down his trapezius。 At first he works the spot with a lover's tender touch； groaning softly； then he attacks it vigorously until the sweet agony makes him suck air between his clenched teeth。
Intensity。 He does not expect to live forever。 His time in this body is finite and precious…and therefore must not be wasted。
He does not believe in reincarnation or in any of the standard promises of an afterlife that are sold by the world's great religionsalthough at times he senses that he is approaching a revelation of tremendous importance。 He is willing to contemplate the possibility that the immortal soul exists； and that his own spirit may one day be exalted。 But if he is to undergo an apotheosis； it will be brought about by his own bold actions； not by divine grace； if he； in fact； bees a god； the transformation will occur because he has already chosen to live like a god…without fear； without remorse； without limits； with all his senses fiercely sharpened。
Anyone can smell a rose and enjoy the scent。 But he has long been training himself to feel the destruction of its beauty when he crushes the flower in his fist。 If he were to have a rose； now； and if he were to chew the petals； he would be able to taste not merely the rose itself but the redness of it； likewise； he could taste the yellowness of buttercups； the blue of hyacinths。 He could taste the bee that had crawled across the blossom on its eternal buzzing task of pollination； the soil out of which the flower had grown； and the wind that had caressed it through the summer of its growing。
He has never met anyone who can understand the intensity with which he experiences the world or the greater intensity for which he strives。 With his help； perhaps Ariel will understand one day。 Now； of course； she is too immature to achieve the insight。
One last squeeze of his neck。 The pain。 He sighs。 From the copilot's seat； he picks up a folded raincoat。 No rain is yet falling； but he needs to cover his blood…spattered clothing before going inside。
He could have changed into clean clothes prior to leaving the Templeton house； but he enjoys wearing these。 The patina excites him。
He gets out of the driver's seat； stands behind it； and pulls on the coat。
He washed his hands in the kitchen sink at the Templeton house； although he would have preferred to leave them stained too。 He can conceal his clothes under a raincoat； hiding his hands is not as easy。
He never wears gloves。 To do so would be to concede that he fears apprehension； which he does not。
Although his fingerprints are on file with federal and state agencies； the prints he leaves at the scene will never match those that bear his name in the records。 Like the rest of the world； police organizations are hell…bent on puterization； by now most fingerprintimage reference banks are in the form of digitized data； to facilitate high…speed scanning and processing。 Even more easily than hard files； electronic files can be manipulated； because the work can be done at a great distance； there is no need to burglarize highly secure facilities； when instead he can be a ghost haunting their machines from across a continent。 Because of his intelligence； talents； and connections； he has been able to meddle with the data。
Wearing gloves； even thin surgical latex gloves； would be an intolerable barrier to sensation。 He likes to let his hand glide lightly over the fine golden hairs on a woman's thigh； take time to appreciate the texture of pebbled gooseflesh against his palm； to relish the fierce heat of skin and then； after； the warmth all fading； fading。 When he kills； he finds it absolutely essential to feel the wetness。
The prints under his name in the various files are； in fact； those of a young marine named Bernard Petain； who died tragically during training maneuvers at Camp Pendleton many years ago。 And the prints that he leaves at the scene； often etched in blood； cannot be matched to any on file with the military； the FBI； the Department of Motor Vehicles； or anywhere else。
He finishes buttoning the raincoat； turns up the collar； and looks at his hands。 Stains under three fingernails。 It might be grease or soil。 No one will be suspicious of it。
He himself can smell the blood on his clothes even through the black nylon raincoat and insulated liner； but others are not sufficiently sensitive to detect it。
Staring at the residue under his nails； however； he can hear the screams again； that lovely music in the night； the Templeton house as reverberant as a concert hall； and no one to hear except him and the deaf vineyards。
If he is ever caught in the act； the authorities will print him again； discover his deception with the puters； and eventually link him to a long list of unsolved murders。 But he isn't concerned about that。 He'll never be taken alive； never be put on trial。 Whatever they learn about his activities after his death will only add to the glory of his name。
He is Edgler Foreman Vess。 From the letters of his name； one can extract a long list of power words： GOD； FEAR； DEMON； SAVE； RAGE； ANGER； DRAGON； FORGE； SEED； SEMEN； FREE； and others。 Also words with a mystical quality： DREAM； VESSEL； LORE； FOREVER； MARVEL。 Sometimes the last thing that he whispers to a victim is a sentence posed from this list of words。 One that he especially likes and uses often is GOD FEARS ME。
Anyway； all questions of fingerprints and other evidence are moot； because he will never be caught。 He is thirty…three years old。 He has been enjoying himself in this fashion for a long time； and he has never had a close call。
Now he takes the pistol out of the open console between the pilot's and copilot's chairs。 A Heckler & Koch P7…Earlier； he had reloaded the thirteen…round magazine。 Now he unscrews the sound suppressor； because he has no plans to visit other houses this night。 Besides； the baffles are probably damaged from the shots that he has fired； diminishing both the effect of the silencer and the accuracy of the weapon。
Occasionally he daydreams about what it would be like if the impossible happened； if he were interrupted at play and surrounded by a SWAT team。 With his experience and knowledge； the ensuing showdown would be thrillingly intense。
If there is a single secret behind the success of Edgler Vess； it is his belief that no twist of fate is either good or bad； that no experience is qualitatively better than another。 Winning twenty million dollars in the lottery is no more to be desired than being trapped by a SWAT