*
Overhead, the killer seemed to be occupied in the dining area. The floor creaked under him as he shifted his weight.
Unless he had drawn open the curtains, he couldn’t see outside from where he was. With luck, Chyna could make a break for freedom.
She considered remaining under the vehicle, letting him tank up, and drive away, and only then going inside to call the police.
But he had found the butcher knife; he would be thinking about it. Though she could see no way that he could grasp the significance of the knife, by now she had an almost superstitious dread of him and was irrationally convinced that he would find her if she remained where she was.
She crawled out from under the motor home, rose into a crouch, glanced at the open door, and then looked back and up at the windows along the side. The curtains were closed.
Emboldened, she got to her feet, crossed to the inner service island, and stepped between the pumps. She glanced back, but the killer remained inside the vehicle.
She went out of the night into bright fluorescent light and the twang of country music. Two employees were behind the counter on the right, and she intended to say Call the police, but then she glanced through the glass door that had just closed behind her, and she saw the killer getting out of the motor home and coming toward the store, even though he hadn’t finished filling the fuel tank.
He was looking down. He hadn’t seen her.
She moved away from the door.
The two men stared at her expectantly.
If she told them to call the police, they would want to know why, and there was no time for a discussion, not even enough time for the telephone call. Instead, she said, “Please don’t let him know I’m here,” and before they could reply, she walked away from them, along an aisle with goods shelved six feet high on both sides, to the far end of the store.
As she stepped out of the aisle to hide at the end of a row of display cases, Chyna heard the door open and the killer enter. A growl of wind came with him, and then the door swung shut.
*
The redheaded cashier and the young Asian gentleman with the liquid-night eyes are staring at him strangely, as if they know something they shouldn’t, and he almost pulls the shotgun from under his coat the moment that he walks through the door, almost blows them away without preamble. But he tells himself that he is misreading them, that they are merely intrigued by him, because he is, after all, a striking figure. Often people sense his exceptional power and are aware that he lives a larger life than they do. He is a popular man at parties, and women are frequently attracted to him. These men are merely drawn to him as are so many others. Besides, if he whacks them immediately, without a word, he will be denying himself the pleasure of foreplay.
Alan Jackson is no longer singing on the radio, and cocking one ear appreciatively, Vess says, “Man, I like that Emmylou Harris, don’t you? Was there ever anyone could sing this stuff so it got to you that way?”
“She’s good,” says the redhead. Previously he was outgoing. Now he seems reserved.
The Asian says nothing, inscrutable in this Zen temple of Twinkies, Hershey bars, beer nuts, snack crackers, and Doritos.
“I love a song about home fires and family,” Vess says.
“You on vacation?” asks the redhead.
“Hell, friend, I’m always on vacation.”
“Too young to be retired.”
“I mean,” says Vess, “life itself is a vacation if you look at it the right way. Been doing some hunting.”
“Around these parts? What game’s in season?” the redhead asks.
The Asian remains silent but attentive. He takes a Slim Jim sausage off a display rack and skins open the plastic wrapper without letting his gaze flicker from Vess.
They don’t suspect for a second that they’re both going to be dead in a minute, and their cow-stupid lack of awareness delights Vess. It is quite funny, really. How dramatically their eyes will widen in the instant that the shotgun roars.