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t from which she'd started。 Gingerly she put the empty Bic lighter package on the floor between her feet； in the same place from which she had retrieved it less than a minute before。
She listened。 No footsteps。 Other than the noise made by the coolers； only silence。
Thumb poised； she clutched the lighter in her fist； prepared to strike the flame。
Vess stuffs two snack packages of cheese…and…peanut…butter crackers； one Planters peanut bar； and two Hershey bars with almonds into his raincoat pockets； in which he's already carrying the pistol； the Polaroid； and the videotape。
He totals the cost in his head。 Because he doesn't want to waste time going behind the register to make change； he rounds the figure to the nearest dollar and leaves the payment on the counter。
After picking up the fallen photograph of Ariel； he hesitates； soaking up the atmosphere of aftermath。 There is a special quality to a room in which people have recently perished： like the hush in a theater during that instant between when the final curtain falls on a perfect performance and when the wild applause begins； a sense of triumph but also a solemn awareness of eternity suspended like a cold droplet at the point of a melting icicle。 With the screaming done and the blood pooled in stillness； Edgler Vess is better able to appreciate the effects of his bold actions and to relish the quiet intensity of death。
Finally he leaves the store。 Using the tagged key that he took from the pegboard； he locks the door。
At the corner of the building is one public telephone。 With its armored cord； the handset isn't easily tom loose； so he hammers it against the phone box five； ten； twenty times； until the plastic cracks； revealing the microphone。 He tears the mike out of the broken mouthpiece； drops it on the pavement； and methodically crushes it under his boot heel。 Then he hangs the useless handset on the switch hook again。
His work here is done。 Although satisfying； this interlude was unexpected； it has put him behind schedule。
He has much driving to do。 He is not tired。 He had slept all the previous afternoon and well into the evening； before visiting the Templetons。 Nevertheless； he is loath to waste more time。 He longs to be home。
Far to the north； sheets of lightning flutter softly between dense layers of clouds； pulses rather than bolts。 Vess is pleased by the prospect of a big storm。 Here at ground level； where life is lived； tumult and turmoil are fundamental elements of the human climate； and for reasons that he cannot understand； he is unfailingly reassured by the sight of violence in higher realms as well。 Though he fears nothing； he is sometimes inexplicably disturbed by the sight of serene skies…whether blue or overcast…and often on a clear night when the sky is deep with stars； he prefers not to gaze into that immensity。
Now no stars are visible。 Above lie only sullen masses of clouds harried by a cold wind； briefly veined with lightning； pregnant with a deluge。
Vess hurries across the blacktop toward the motor home； eager to resume his journey northward； to meet the promised storm； to find that best place in the night where the lightning will e in great shattering bolts； where a harder wind will crack trees； where rain will fall in destructive floods。
Crouching at the end of the shelf row； Chyna had listened to the door open and close； not daring to believe that the killer had left at last and that her ordeal might be over。 Breath held； she'd waited for the sound of the door opening again and for his footsteps as he reentered。
When she had heard； instead； the key scraping…clicking in the lock and the deadbolt snapping into place； she had gone forward along the middle of the three aisles； staying low； cat…quiet because she expected； superstitiously； that he might hear the slightest sound even from outside。
A violent hammering； reverberating through the building walls； had brought her to a sudden halt at the head of the aisle。 He was pounding furiously on something； but she couldn't imagine what it might be。
When the hammering stopped； Chyna hesitated； then rose from her crouch and leaned around the end of the shelves。 She looked to the right； past the first aisle； toward the glass door and the windows at the front of the store。
With the outside lights off； the service islands lay in murk as deep as that on any river bottom。
She could not at first see the killer； who was at one with the night in his black raincoat。 But then he moved； wading through the darkness toward the motor home。
Even if he glanced back； he wouldn't be able to see her in the dimly lighted store。 Her heart thundered anyway as she stepped into the open area between the heads of the three aisles and the cashiers' counter。
The photograph of Ariel was no longer on the floor。 She wished that she could believe it had never existed。
At the moment； the two employees who had kept the secret of her presence were more important than Ariel or the killer。 The roar of the shotgun and the sudden cessation of the soul…shriveling screams had convinced 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 ca