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avers or； perhaps； with her ignorance of them。 In her retreat； the window is sealed off with plywood； and the light of dawn doesn't penetrate。
Vess is a superb driver； and he makes excellent time； even in bad weather。 We do best those things that we enjoy doing； which is why Mr。 Vess is such a success at killing and why he bines that enthusiasm with his love of driving rather than restrict himself to prey within a reasonable radius of his home。
Being on the open road with landscapes ever changing； Edgler Vess is the recipient of a constant influx of fresh visual sensation。 And of course； to one with his exquisitely refined senses and his ability to use them in a hologrammatic manner； a beautiful sight can also be a musical sound。 A scent caught through the open window can be not solely an olfactory experience but tactile too； the sweet fragrance of lilac like a woman's warm breath against his skin。 Ensconced in the driver's seat of his motor home； he travels through a rich sea of sensation that washes him the way water ceaselessly washes the hull of a deeply submerged submarine。
Now he crosses into Oregon。 The mountains e to him and pull him up into their fastnesses。
The thickening stands of trees on the steep slopes are more gray than green in the stubborn rain； and the sight of them is like biting on a piece of ice； hard between his teeth； a slight but pleasant metallic taste； and a shattering coldness against his lips。
He seldom glances at the rearview mirror any more。 The woman is a mystery； and mysteries of this nature can't be resolved by the sheer desire to resolve them。 Ultimately she will reveal herself； and the intensity of the experience will depend upon whatever purpose she has and what secrets she possesses。
The waiting is delicious。 Throughout the last few hours of the journey； Vess leaves the radio off； although not because he is afraid that music will mask the sounds of the woman stalking forward through the motor home。 In fact； he rarely listens to the radio while driving。 In his memory is a vast library of recordings of the music that he likes best： the cries and squeals； the prayerful whispers； the shrieks as thin as paper cuts； the pulsatory sobbings for mercy； and the erotic inducements of final desperations。
As he leaves the state highway for the county route； he recalls specifically Sarah Templeton in her shower stall； her screams and her frantic gagging muffled by the green dishwashing sponge that he'd stuffed into her mouth and by the two strips of strapping tape that sealed her lips。 Nothing on the radio； from Elton John to Garth Brooks to Pearl Jam to Sheryl Crow…to Mozart or Beethoven； for that matter…can pare to this interior entertainment。
He follows the rain…swept； two…lane county route to his private driveway。 The entrance is securely gated and flanked by thickets of pines and brambly underbrush。
The gate is made of tubular steel and barbed wire； set between stainless…steel posts in concrete footings。 It features an electric motor with remote operation； and when Mr。 Vess pushes a button on the hand…held control that he fishes from the console box； the barrier swings inward to the left； in a satisfying stately manner。
After driving the motor home onto his property； he brakes to a stop once more； rolls down his window； holds out the control unit； with the signal…transmission window reversed in his grip。 In his sideview mirror； he watches as the gate closes。
The driveway is nearly as long as that at the Templeton family's vineyards； as his property enpasses fifty…four acres that back up to a government…owned wilderness； which measures many miles on a side。 He is not as well…to…do as the Templetons； land here is far cheaper than in the Napa Valley。
In spite of the lack of paving； there is little mud and no real danger of the motor home bogging down。 The topsoil is shallow； the lane was graded down to the underlying shale。 The way is a bit rough； but this is not； after all； New York City； New York。
Vess drives up a modest incline； between looming ranks of tall pines； spruces； scattered firs； and then the trees recede a little； and he crosses the bald hilltop。 The road descends easily； in a graceful curve； into a small vale； with the house at the end and the hills rising behind in the sheeting rain and morning fog。
His heart swells at the sight of home。 Home is where his Ariel patiently awaits。
The two…story house is small but solidly built of logs mortared with cement。 The old lovs are nearly black with layers of pitch； and time has darkened the cement to a tobacco brown； except for the tan and gray mottling of recent repairs。
The house was constructed in the late 192os by the owner of a family logging business； long before small operators were regulated out of such work and before the government declared the surrounding public lands off…limits to timber harvesters。 Electricity was brought in sometime during the forties。
Edgler Vess has owned the house for six years。 Upon purchasing the place； he rewired it； improved the plumbing； enlarged the secondfloor bathroom。 And； entirely on his own； of course； he undertook extensive and secret remodeling work in the basement。
To some； the property may seem isolated； inconveniently far from a 7…Eleven or a multiplex cinema。 But for Mr。 Vess； whose pleasures would never be understood by most neighbors； relative isolation is the faildamental requirement when he is shopping for real estate。
On a summer afternoon or evening； however； sitting in a bentwood rocker on the front porch； gazing out at the deep yard and the acres of wildflowers in the fields cleared by the logger and his sons； or staring at the great spread of stars； even the most meek and citified man would agree that isolation has its appeal。
In good weather； Mr。 Vess likes to take his dinner and a couple of beers on the porch。 When the mountain silences bee boring； he allows himself to hear the voices of those who are buried in the field： their groveling and lamentations； the music that he prefers to any on the radio。
In addition to the house； there is a small barn； not because the original owner of the property farmed any of the land that he cleared of trees but because he kept horses。 This second building is of traditional wood…frame construction on a concrete footing and fieldstone stem wall； wind； rain； and sun long ago laid down a silver patina on the durable cedar siding； which Vess finds lovely。
Since he owns no horses； he uses the barn as a garage。 Now； however； he pulls to a stop beside the house； rather than continuing to the barn。 The woman is in the motor home； and he will soon need to deal with her。 He prefers to park here； where he can watch her from the house and wait for developments。
He glances at the rearview mirror。 Still no sign of her。 Switching off the engine but not the windshield wipers； Vess waits for his guards to appear。 The late…March morning is animate with slanting rain and wind…shaken things； but nothing moves of its own deliberation。
They have been trained not to charge willy…nilly at approaching vehicles and even to bide their time with intruders who are on foot； the better to lure them into a zone from which escape is impossible。 These guards know that stealth is as important as savage fury； that the most successful assaults are preceded by calculated stillnesses to lull the quarry into a false confidence。
Finally the first black head appears； bullet sleek but for its pricked ears； low to the ground at the rear corner of the house。 The dog hesitates to reveal more of himself； surveying the scene to make sure that he understands what is happening。 〃Good fella；〃 Vess whispers。
At the nearest er of the barn； between the cedar siding and the trunk of a winter…bare maple； another dog appears。 It is little more than a shadow of a shadow in the rain。
Vess wouldn't have noticed these sentries if he hadn't known to look for them。 Their self…control is remarkable； a testament to his abilities as a trainer。
Two more dogs lurk somewhere； perhaps behind the motor home or belly crawling through shrubbery where he can't see them。 They are all Dobermans； five and six years old； in their prime。
Vess has not cropped their ears or bobbed their tails； as is usually done with Dobermans； for he has an affinity for nature's predators。 He is able to perceive the world to a degree as he believes that animals perceive it…the elemental nature of their view； their needs； the importance of raw sensation。 They have a kinship。
The dog by the corner of the house slinks into the open； and the dog at the barn emerges from beneath the black…limbed maple。 A third Doberman rises from behind the massive and half…petrified stump of a long…vanquished cedar in the side yard； around which has grown a tangled mass of holly。
The motor home is familiar to them。 Their vision； while not their strongest suit； is probably sufficient to allow them to recognize him through the windshield。 With a sense of smell twenty thousand times more acute than that of the average human being； they no doubt detect his scent even through the rain and even though he is inside the motor home。 Yet they don't wag their tails or in any way exhibit pleasure； because they are still on duty。
The fourth dog remains hidden； but these three drift warily toward him through the rain and the mist。 Their heads are lifted； pointy cars flicked up and forward。
In their disciplined silence and indifference to the storm； they remind him of the herd of elk in the redwood grove the previous night； eerily intent。 The big difference； of course； is that these creatures； if confronted by anyone other than their beloved master； would not respond with the timidity of elk but would tear the throat out of that luckless person。
Although she would not have believed it possible； Chyna had been lulled into sleep by the hum of the tires and the motion of the motor home。 Her dreams were of strange houses in which the geometry of the rooms was ever changing and bizarre； something eager and hungry lived within the walls； and at night it spoke to her through vent grilles and electrical outlets； whispering its needs。
The brakes woke her。 Immediately she realized that the motor home had e to a full halt once before and then had started up again； only moments ago； she had dozed through that first stop； disturbed in her sleep but not fully awakened。 Now； although they were on the move again and the killer was obviously still behind the steering wheel； Chyna grabbed the revolver from the floor beside her； scrambled to her feet； and stood with her back to the wall； tense and alert。
From the tilt of the floor and the laboring sound of the engine； she knew that they were climbing a hill。 Then they reached the top and headed downward。 Soon they stopped again； and at last the engine cut out。
The rain was the only sound。 She waited for footsteps。 Although she knew that she was awake； she seemed to be in a dream； rigid in darkness； with the susurrant rain like whispering in the walls。
Mr。 Vess takes the time to put on his raincoat and to slip his Heckler & Koch P7 into one pocket。 He removes the Mossberg shotgun from the cabinet in the kitchenette； in case the woman searches the place after he leaves。 He switches off the lights。
When he descends from the motor home； heedless of the cold rain； the three big dogs e to him； and then the fourth from behind the vehicle。 All are quivering with excitement at his return but still holding themselves in check； not wanting to be thought derelict in their duty。
Just before departing on this expedition； Mr。 Vess had placed the Dobermans on attack status by speaking the name Nietzsche。 They will remain primed to kill anyone who walks onto the property until he speaks the name Seuss； whereupon they will be as affable as any other group of sociable mutts…except； of course； if anyone unwisely threatens their master。
After propping his shotgun against the side of the motor home； he holds his hands out to the dogs。 They eagerly crowd around to sniff his fingers。 Sniffing； panting； licking； licking； yes； yes； they have missed him so very much。
He squats on his haunches； ing down to their level； and now their delight is uncontainable。 Their ears twitch；