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Somewhere he had a house； and under the house was a basement； and in the basement was a sixteen…year…old girl named Ariel； held prisoner for a year； untouched but soon to be violated； alive but not for long。 〃She's real；〃 Chyna whispered to the wind。
The taillights receded into the night。 She frantically surveyed the lonely stretch of countryside。 She was unable to see help in any direction。 No house lights in the immediate vicinity。 Just trees and darkness。 Something glowed faintly to the north； beyond a hill or two； but she didn't know the source； and anyway she couldn't get that far quickly on foot。
On the highway； a truck appeared from the south behind a blaze of headlights； but it didn't pull off to tank up at the shuttered service station。 It shrieked past； the driver oblivious of Chyna。
The lumbering motor home was almost to the far end of the connecting road。
Sobbing with frustration； with anger； with fear for the girl whom she had never met； and with despair for her own culpability if that girl died； Chyna turned away from the motor home。 Hurried past the gasoline pumps。 Around the building； back the way she had e。
Throughout her own childhood； no one had ever held out a hand to her。 No one had ever cared that she was trapped； frightened； and helpless。
Now； when she thought of the Polaroid snapshot； the image was like one of those holograms that changed depending on the angle at which it was viewed。 Sometimes it was Ariel's face； but sometimes it was Chyna's own。
As she ran； she prayed that she wouldn't have to go inside again。 And search the bodies。
Distant lightning flickered； and faraway thunder clattered like boot heels on hollow basement stairs。 On the steep hills behind the building； black trees thrashed in the escalating wind。
The first car was a white Chevrolet。 Ten years old。 Unlocked。 When she scrambled in behind the steering wheel； the wom…out seat springs creaked； and a candy…bar wrapper or something crackled underfoot。 The interior stank of stale cigarette smoke。
The keys were not in the ignition。 She checked behind the sun visor。 Under the driver's seat。 Nothing。
The second car was a Honda； newer than the Chevy。 It smelled of a lemon…scented air freshener； and the keys were in a coin tray on the console。
She placed the revolver on the passenger seat； within easy reach； reluctant to let it out of her hand。 As an adult； she had always relied on prudence and caution to stay out of harm's way。 She hadn't held a gun since she'd walked out on her mother at the age of sixteen。 Now she could not imagine living without a weapon at her side； and she doubted that she ever would do so again…which was a development that dismayed her。
The engine turned over at once。 The tires shrieked； and she peeled rubber getting started。 Smoke bloomed from the spinning wheels； but then she shot out from behind the building and rocketed past the service islands。
The connecting road to the freeway was deserted。 The motor home was out of sight。
At this point； ioi was a four…lane divided highway； so the motor home couldn't have gotten across the median to turn south。 The killer had to have gone north； and he couldn't have traveled far in the little lead time that he had。
Chyna went after him。
At four o'clock in the morning； oning traffic is sparse； but each set of headlights purls through the fine hairs in Edgler Vess's ears。 This is a pleasant sound； separate from the passing roar of engines and the Doppler…shift whine of other vehicles' tires on the pavement。
As he drives； he eats one of the Hershey bars。 The silkiness of melting chocolate on his tongue reminds him of the music of Angelo Badalamenti； and the music of Badalamenti brings to mind the waxy surface of a scarlet anthurium； and the anthurium sparks an intensely sensual recollection of the cool taste and crispness of cornichons； which for several seconds pletely overwhelms the actual taste of the chocolate。
Listening to the murmur of oning headlights； engaged in this free association of sensory input and memory； Vess is a happy man。 He experiences life far more intensely than do other people； he is a singularity。 Because his mind is not cluttered with foolishness and false emotions； he is able to perceive what others cannot。 He understands the nature of the world； the purpose of existence； and the truth behind the Big Lie； because of these insights； he is free； and because he is free； he is always happy。
The nature of the world is sensation。 We drift in an ocean of sensory stimuli： motion； color； texture； shape； heat； cold； natural symphonies of sound； an infinite number of scents； tastes beyond the human ability to catalogue。 Nothing but sensation endures。 Living things all die。 Great cities do not last。 Metal corrodes and stone crumbles。 Over eons； continents are reshaped； whole mountain ranges vanish； and seas run dry。 The planet itself will be vaporized when the sun self…destructs。 But even in the void of deep space； between solar systems； in that profound vacuum that will not transmit soiind； there is nevertheless light and darkness； cold； motion； shape； and the awful panorama of eternity。
The sole purpose of existence is to open oneself to sensation and to satisfy all appetites as they arise。 Edgler Vess knows that there is no such thing as a good or bad sensation…only raw sensation itself…and that every sensory experience is worthwhile。 Negative and positive values are merely human interpretations of value…neutral stimuli and； therefore； are only as enduring…which is to say； as meaningless…as human beings themselves。 He enjoys the most bitter taste as much as he relishes the sweetness of a ripe peach； in fact； he occasionally chews a few aspirin not to relieve a headache but to savor the inparable flavor of the medication。 When he accidentally cuts himself； he is never afraid； because he finds pain fascinating and weles it as merely another form of pleasure； even the taste of his own blood intrigues him。
Mr。 Vess is not sure if there is such a thing as the immortal soul； but he is unshakably certain that if souls exist； we are not born with them in the same way that we are born with eyes and ears。 He believes that the soul； if real； accretes in the same manner as a coral reef grows from the deposit of countless millions of calcareous skeletons secreted by marine polyps。 We build the reef of the soul； however； not from dead polyps but from steadily accreted sensations through the course of a lifetime。 In Vess's considered opinion； if one wishes to have a formidable soul…or any soul at all…one must open oneself to every possible sensation； plunge into the bottomless ocean of sensory stimuli that is our world； and experience with no consideration of good or bad； right or wrong； with no fear but only fortitude。 If his belief is correct； then he himself is building what may be the most intricate； elaborated … if not to say baroque…and important soul that has ever transcended this level of existence。
The Big Lie is that such concepts as love； guilt； and hate are real。 Put Mr。 Vess into a room with any priest； show them a pencil； and they will agree on its color； size； and shape。 Blindfold them； hold cinnamon under their noses； and they will both identify it from the smell。 But bring before them a mother cuddling her baby； and the priest will see love where Mr。 Vess will see only a woman who enjoys the sensations provided by the infant…the scrubbed smell of it； the softness of its pink skin； the undeniably pleasing roundness of its simply…formed face； the musicality of its giggle； its apparent helplessness and dependence deeply satisfy her。 The greatest curse of humanity's high intelligence is that； in most members of the species； it leads to a yearning to be more than they are。 All men and women； in Vess's view； are fimdamentally nothing other than animals…smart animals； indeed； but animals nonetheless； reptiles； in fact； evolved from whatever fish with legs first crawled out of the primordial sea。 They are； he knows； motivated and formed solely by sensory stimuli； yet unable to admit to the primacy of physical sensation over intellect and emotion。 They are even frightened of the reptile consciousness within； its needs and hungers； and they attempt to restrict its sensation seeking by using lies such as love； guilt； hate； courage； loyalty； and honor。
This is the philosophy of Mr。 Edgler Vess。 He embraces his reptilian nature。 The glory of him is to be found in his unmatched accretion of sensations。 This is a finictional philosophy； requiring its adherent to endorse neither the black…and…white values that so hamper religious persons nor the embarrassing contradictions of the situational ethics that characterize both the modern atheist and those whose religion is politics。
Driving north on Highway 101； finishing the second of his two Hershey bars； Vess considers； not for the first time； that there is a similarity between the texture of melting chocolate and that of thickening blood。
He recalls the restful silence of the blood pooled around Mrs。 Templeton in the shower stall before he disturbed it by turning on the cold water。
The memory of the hollow drumming in that shower makes him aware of the coldness of all the rain as yet unleashed by the pending storm toward which he is driving。
He sees a quick blush of lightning along the face of the clouds； and he knows that it tastes like ozone。
Above the monotonous rumble of the motor…home engine； he hears a peal of thunder； and that sound is also a vivid image in his mind： the young Asian's eyes opening wide； wide； wide with the first crash of the shotgun。
Even in the airless void between galaxies： the light and the darkness； color； texture； motion； shape； and pain。
The highway rose； and the forests crowded close。 On a wide curve； the headlights of the Honda swept across the flanking hills； revealing that some of the looming trees were immense spruces and pines。 Soon； perhaps； redwoods。
Chyna kept her foot down hard on the accelerator。 To the best of her recollection； this was the first time she had ever broken a speed limit。 She'd never been fined for a traffic violation； but she would be grateful now if a cop pulled her over。
Her unblemished driving record resulted ftom her preference for moderation in all things； including the pace at which she ordinarily drove。 judging by the catastrophes that she had seen befall others； survival was closely related to moderation； and her whole life was about survival； as any nun's life might be defined by the word faith or any politician's by power She seldom drank more than one glass of wine； never used drugs； engaged in no dangerous sports； ate a diet low in fat and salt and sugar； stayed out of neighborhoods reputed to be dangerous； never expressed strong opinions； and in general was safely inconspicuous…all in the interest of getting by； hanging on； surviving。
Against the odds； she had already survived the events of the past few hours。 The killer didn't even know that she existed。 She had made it。 She was free。 It was over。 The smart thing； the wise thing； the sane thing…the Chyna thing…to do was to let him go； just let him get away； pull off to the side of the road； stop； surrender to the shakes that she was strenuously repressing； and thank God that she was untouched and alive。
As she drove； Chyna argued against her previous conviction； insisting that the teenage girl in the cellar； Ariel of the angelic face； wasn't real。 The photo might be of a girl whom he had already killed。 The story of her incarceration might be only a sick fantasy； a psychotic's version of a Brothers Grimm tale； Rapunzel underground； merely a mind game that he'd been playing with the two clerks。 〃Liar；〃 she called herself。
The girl in the photo was alive somewhere； imprisoned。 Ariel was no fantasy。 Indeed； she was Chyna； they were one and the same； because all lost girls are the same girl； united by their suffering。
She kept her foot pressed firmly on the accelerator； and the Honda crested a hill； and the aged motor home was on the long gradual downslope ahead； five hundred feet away。 Her breath caught in her throat； and then she exhaled with a whispered； 〃Ob； Yesus。〃
She was approaching him at too great a speed。 She eased