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can disable her and get her into the motor home before another motorist es along； all will be well。 What fim he will have when he wraps her in chains again。 Ariel won't lift a hand to help this woman； and if she tries； he'll pistol…whip the little bitch into submission； that will spoil the plans he has for her； but he's been looking at her beautiful face for a year； wanting to smash it； and the smashing will b；* enormously satisfying even in these circumstances。
Although Vess is quick getting out of the car； Chyna is faster。 By the time he raises the revolver； she is behind the wheel of the motor home； drawing the door shut。
He can't take any chances now； can't risk merely wounding her to have fan with her later。 She has to be wasted。 He pumps six rounds through the windshield。
When Chyna saw the gun ing up； she shouted； 〃Get down！〃
She pushed Ariel's head below the windshield； throwing herself sideways； half out of her seat； across the open console。 She covered the girl as best she could； squeezing her eyes tightly shut and shouting at the girl to close hers too。
Gunshots cracked； one right after the other； as fast as Vess could squeeze them off； and the windshield imploded。 Sheets of gummy safety glass crashed into the front seats； spilling over Chyna and the girl； and things split and shattered farther back in the motor home as the slugs found stopping points。
She tried to count the shots。 She thought she heard six。 Maybe only five。 She wasn't sure。 Damn。 Then she realized that it didn't matter how many rounds he'd fired； because she hadn't gotten a good look at the weapon。 She didn't know for sure that it was a revolver。 A pistol wouldn't have just six rounds； it could have ten or more； a lot more if it had an expanded magazine。
Risking a bullet in the face； Chyna sat up； shaking off cascades of gummy…prickly glass； and looked out through the empty windshield〃 frame。 She saw Edgler Vess by the patrol car； thirty feet away。 He was tipping the expended cartridges out of his piece； so it had to be a revolver。
Already she had released the emergency brake。 Now she shifted the motor home out of park。
Standing tall； appearing cool and unhurried but nevertheless nimble…fingered； Vess plucked a speedloader from the dump pouch on his gun belt。
Thanks to her mother's criminal friends； Chyna knew all about speedloaders。 Before Vess could reload； she took her foot off the brake pedal and stomped the accelerator。
Move； move； move。
Slipping the speedloader into the revolver and twisting it； Vess looked up almost casually when he heard the roar of the motor…home engine。
Chyna drove onto the pavement as though she intended to sweep past the patrol car and away； but she was going to run the freak into the ground。
Vess dropped the speedloader； snapped the cylinder shut。 Afraid that Ariel might look up； Chyna shouted； 〃Stay down； stay down！〃 She ducked her own head just as a slug smacked off the window frame and ricocheted back through the vehicle。
She raised her head at once； because the motor home was on the move； and she needed to see what she was doing。 She swung the wheel to the right； heading for Vess at the open door of the patrol car。
He fired again； and she seemed to be looking straight down the bore of the barrel when the quick flame flared。 She heard a strange hissing…throbbing…buzzing； not unlike the lightning…quick passage of a fat bumblebee on a summer afternoon； and she smelled something hot；like singed hair。
Vess dived into the car to get out of her way。 The motor home smashed into the open door； ripping it away； maybe taking off one or both of the hateful bastard's legs as well。
The fragrance of gunfire always reminds Sheriff Vess of the stink of sex； maybe because it smells hot or maybe because there's a trace of the same ammonia odor in gunpowder that is stronger in semen； but no matter what the reason； gunfire excites him and gives him an instant erection； and when he leaps into the car； he lets out an exuberant whoop。 The roar of the motor home is all around him； bearing down on him； the headlights blazing； as much tumult as if he were in the middle of a close encounter of the third kind。 As he dives for safety； he yanks his legs in after himself； knowing that this is going to be close； damn close； which is what makes itfun。 Something raps hard against his right foot； cold wind rushes in around him； the driver's door tears off and clatters end over end along the blacktop as the motor home shrieks past。
The sheriffs right foot is numb； and although he feels no pain yet； he believes that i4might have been crushed or even torn off。 When he sits up in the driver's seat； holsters his revolver； and reaches down with one hand to feel for the expected stump and the warm gush of blood； he discovers that he is intact。 The heel was torn off his boot。 just that。 No worse。 The rubber heel。
His foot is numb； and his calf tingles all the way to the knee； but the sheriff laughs。
〃You'll pay for the shoe repair； you bitch。〃
The motor home is two hundred feet from him； heading south。 Because he never switched off the engine when he pulled onto the shoulder of the highway； he needs only to release the hand brake and shift into drive。 The tires kick up a storm of gravel that thunders against the undercarriage。 The black…and…white lurches forward。 Hot rubber shrieks like babies in pain； bites into the blacktop； and Vess rockets after the motor home。
Too late； distracted by his numb foot and recklessly eager to get his hands on the woman； he realizes that the big vehicle is no longer heading south。 It's reversing toward him at maybe thirty iles an hour； even faster。
He slams his foot down on the brake pedal； but before he can pull the wheel to the left to get out of the way； the motor home crashes into him with a horrendous sound； and it's like hitting a rock wall。 His head snaps back； and then he pitches forward against the steering wheel so hard that all the breath is knocked out of him； while a dizzying darkness swirls at the edges of his vision。
The hood buckles and pops open； and he can't see a damn thing through the windshield。 But he hears his tires spinning and smells burning rubber。 The patrol car is being pushed backward； and though the collision dramatically slowed the motor home for a moment； it's picking up speed again。
He tries to shift the black…and…white into reverse； figuring that he can back away from the motor home even as it's pushing at him； but the stick first stutters stubbornly in his hand； clunks into neutral； and then freezes。 The transmission is shot。
As bad： He suspects that the smashed front end of the car is hung up on the back of the motor home。
She's going to push him off the highway。 In some places the drop…off from the shoulder is eight or ten feet and steep enough virtually to ensure that the patrol car will tumble ass…over…teakettle if it goes over the edge。 Worse； if they are hung up on each other； and if the woman doesn't have full control of the motor home； she'll most likely roll it off the road on top of the black…and…white； crushing him。
Hell； maybe that's what she's trying to do。 She's a damn singularity； all right； in