Dean Koontz - Intensity

“But I’m not a psychopath,” he said.

“Then what are you?”

“Oh…call me a homicidal adventurer. Or perhaps the only clear-thinking person you’ve ever met.”

“‘Maggot’ works better for me.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “Here’s the thing — either you tell me all about yourself, everything I want to know, or I’ll work on your face with a knife while you sit there. For every question you refuse to answer, I’ll take off a piece — the lobe of an ear, the tip of your pretty nose. Carve you like scrimshaw.”

He said this not threateningly but matter-of-factly, and she knew that he had the stomach for it.

“I’ll take all day,” he said, “and you’ll be insane long before you’re dead.”

“All right.”

“All right what — conversation or scrimshaw?”

“Conversation.”

“Good girl.”

She was prepared to die if it came to that, but she saw no point in suffering needlessly.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Shepherd. Chyna Shepherd. C-h-y-n-a.”

“Ah, not a cryptic chant, after all.”

“What?”

“Odd name.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t spar with me, Chyna. Go on.”

“All right. But first, may I have something to drink? I’m dehydrated.”

At the sink, he drew a glass of water. He put three ice cubes in it. He started to bring it to her, then halted and said, “I could add a slice of lemon.”

She knew he wasn’t joking. Home from the hunt, he was working now to recast himself from the role of savage stalker into that of accountant or clerk or real estate agent or car mechanic or whatever it was that he did when he was passing for normal. Some sociopaths could put on a false persona that was more convincing than the best performances of the finest actors who had ever lived, and this man was probably one of those, although after immersion in wanton slaughter, he needed this period of adjustment to remind himself of the manners and courtesies of civilized society.

“No, thanks,” she said to the offer of lemon.

“It’s no trouble,” he graciously assured her.

“Just the water.”

When he put the glass down, he slipped a cork-lined ceramic coaster under it. Then he sat across the table from her again.

Chyna was repelled by the prospect of drinking from a glass that he had handled, but she really was dehydrated. Her mouth was dry, and her throat was vaguely sore.

Because of the cuffs, she picked up the glass in both hands.

She knew that he was watching her for signs of fear.

The water didn’t slop around in the tumbler. The rim of the glass didn’t chatter against her teeth.

She truly wasn’t afraid of him any more, at least not for the moment, although maybe later. Certainly later. Now her interior landscape was a desert under sullen skies: numbing desolation, with the angry flicker of lightning toward a far horizon.

She drank half of the water before she put the glass down.

“When I entered the room a moment ago,” the killer said, “you were sitting with your hands folded, your head bowed against your hands. Were you praying?”

She thought about it. “No.”

“There’s no point in lying to me.”

“I’m not lying. I wasn’t praying just then.”

“But you do pray?”

“Sometimes.”

“God fears me.”

She waited.

He said, “God fears me — those are words that can be made from the letters of my name.”

“I see.”

“Dragon seed.”

“From the letters of your name,” she said.

“Yes. And…forge of rage.”

“It’s an interesting game.”

“Names are interesting. Yours is passive. A place name for a first name. And Shepherd — bucolic, fuzzily Christian. When I think of your name, I see an Asian peasant on a hillside with sheep…or a slant-eyed Christ making converts among the heathens.” He smiled, amused by his banter. “But clearly, your name doesn’t define you well. You’re not a passive person.”

“I have been,” she said, “most of my life.”

“Really? Well, you weren’t passive last night.”

“Not last night,” she agreed. “But until then.”

“My name, on the other hand, is a power name. Edgler Foreman Vess.” He spelled it for her. “Not Edgar. Edgeler. Like ‘on the edge.’ And Vess…if you draw it out, it’s like a serpent hissing.”

“Demon.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s there in my name — demon. ”

“Anger.”

He seemed pleased by her willingness to play. “You’re good at this, especially considering that you don’t have pen and paper.”

“Vessel,” she said. “That’s in your name too.”

“An easy one. But also semen. Vessel and semen, female and male. Would you like to craft an insult out of that, Chyna?”

Instead of replying, she picked up the glass and drank half of the remaining water. The ice cubes were cold against her teeth.

“Now that you’ve wet your whistle,” Vess said, “I want to know all about you. Remember — scrimshaw.”

Chyna told him everything, beginning with the moment that she had heard a scream while sitting at the guest-bedroom window in the Templeton house. She delivered her account in a monotone, not by calculation but because suddenly she could speak no other way. She tried to vary her inflection, put life into her words — but failed.

The sound of her voice, droning through the events of the night, scared her as Edgler Vess no longer did. Her account came to her as if she were listening to someone else speak, and it was the voice of a lost and defeated person.

She told herself that she was not defeated, that she still had hope, that she would get the best of this murderous bastard one way or another. But her inner voice lacked all conviction.

In spite of Chyna’s spiritless recitation of events, Vess was a rapt listener. He began in a relaxed slouch, lounging back in his chair, but by the time Chyna finished, he was leaning forward with his arms on the table, hunched toward her.

He interrupted her several times to ask questions. At the end, he sat for a while in contemplative silence.

She could not bear to look at him. She folded her hands on the table, closed her eyes, and put her forehead against the backs of her church-door thumbs, as she had been when Vess had come out of the laundry room.

She wasn’t praying this time either. She lacked the hope needed for prayer.

After a few minutes, she heard Vess’s chair slide back from the table. He got up. She heard him moving around, and then the familiar clatter of any cook being busy in any kitchen.

She smelled butter heating in a pan, then browning onions.

In the telling of her story, Chyna had lost her appetite, and it didn’t return with the aroma of the onions.

Finally Vess said, “Funny that I didn’t smell you right away at the Templetons’.”

“You can do that?” she asked, without raising her head from her hands. “You can just smell people out, as if you were a damn dog?”

“Usually,” he said, taking no offense, and with what seemed to be utmost seriousness. “And you must have made a sound more than once through the night. You surely can’t be that stealthy. Even your breathing I should have heard.”

Then came the sound of a wire whisk vigorously beating eggs in a bowl.

She smelled bread toasting.

“In a still house, with everyone dead, your movement should have made currents in the air, like a cool breath on the back of my neck, shivering the fine hairs on my hands. Your every movement should have been a different texture against my eyes. And when I walked through a space where you’d just been, I should have sensed the displacement of air caused by your passage.”