chest but was tipped to one side, and his left temple rested against the biceps of his 
raised left arm. He had thick curly black hair. His eyelids had been sewn tightly shut 
with green thread. With yellow thread, two buttons above his upper lip were secured to a 
pair of matching buttons just under his lower lip.
  Chyna heard herself talking to God. An incoherent, beseeching babble. She clenched her 
teeth and choked on the words, though it was unlikely that her voice could have carried 
to the front of the motor home over the rumble of the engine and the droning of the big 
tires.
  She pulled shut the pleated-vinyl panel. Though flimsy, it moved as ponderously as a 
vault door. The magnetic latch clicked into place with a sound like snapping bone.
  In all the textbooks she had ever read, no case study of sociopathic violence had ever 
contained a description of a crime sufficiently vivid to make her want to retreat to a 
comer and sit on the floor and pull her knees against her chest and hug herself. That was 
precisely what she did now choosing the corner farthest from the closet.
  She had to get control of herself, quickly, starting with her manic breathing. She was 
gasping, sucking in great hingfuls, yet she couldn't seem to get enough air. The deeper 
and faster she inhaled, the dizzier she became. Her peripheral vision surrendered to an 
encroaching darkness until she seemed to be peering down a long black tunnel toward the 
dingy motor-home bedroom at the far end.
  She told herself that the young man in the closet had been dead when the killer had 
gone to work with the sewing kit. And if he'd not been dead, at least he'd been 
mercifully unconscious. Then she told herself not to think about it at all, because 
thinking about it only made the tunnel longer and narrower, made the bedroom more distant 
and the lights dimmer than ever.
  She put her face in her hands, and her hands were cold but her face seemed colder. For 
no reason that Chyna could understand, she thought of her mother's face, as clear as a 
photograph in her mind's eye. And then she did understand.
  To Chyna's mother, the prospect of violence had been romantic, even glamorous. For a 
while they had lived in a commune in Oakland, where everyone talked of making a better 
world and where, more nights than not, the adults gathered around the kitchen table, 
drinking wine and smoking pot, discussing how best to tear down the hated system, 
sometimes also playing pinochle or Trivial Pursuit as they discussed the strategies that 
might bring utopia at last, sometimes far too enraptured by revolution to be interested 
in any lesser games. There were bridges and tunnels that could all be blown up with 
absurd ease, disrupting transportation; telephone-company installations could be targeted 
to throw communications into chaos; meat-packing plants must be burned to put an end to 
the brutal exploitation or animals. They planned intricate bank robberies and bold 
assaults on armored cars to finance their operations. The route they would have taken 
to peace, freedom, and justice was always cratered by explosions, littered with 
uncountable bodies. After Oakland, Chyna and her mother had hit the road for a few weeks 
and had wound up again in Key West with their old friend Jim Woltz, the enthusiastic 
nihilist who was deep in the drug trade, with a sideline in illegal weapons. Under his 
ocean-front cottage, he had carved out a bunker in which he stored a personal collection 
of two hundred firearms. Chyna's mother was a beautiful woman, even on bad days when 
depression plagued her, when her green eyes were gray and sad with miseries that she 
could not explain. But at that kitchen table in Oakland and in that cool bunker beneath 
the cottage in Key West-in fact, whenever she was at the side of a man like Woltz-her 
porcelain skin was even clearer than usual, almost translucent; excitement enlivened her 
exquisite features; she became magically more graceful, appeared more lithe and supple, 
was quicker to smile. The prospect of violence, playing at being Bonnie to any man's 
Clyde, filled her stunning face with a light as glorious as a Florida sunset, and her 
jewel-green eyes were, at those times, as compelling and mysterious as the Gulf of Mexico 
darkening toward twilight.
  Although the prospect of violence might be romantic, the reality was blood, bone, 
decomposition, dust. The reality was Laura on the bed and the unknown young man sewn into 
silence behind the pleated vinyl door.
  Chyna sat with her cold hands covering her colder face, aware that she would never be 
as strangely beautiful as her mother.
  Eventually she regained control of her breathing. The motor home rolled on, and she was 
reminded of nights when, as a child, she had dozed on trains, on buses, in the backseats 
of cars, lulled by the motion and the hum of wheels, unsure where her mother was taking 
her, dreaming of being part of a family like one of those on television-with befuddled 
but loving parents, an amusing next-door neighbor who might be frustrating but never 
malicious, and a dog that knew a few tricks. But good dreams never lasted, and she woke 
repeatedly from nightmares, gazing out windows at strange landscapes, wishing that she 
could travel forever without stopping. The road was a promise of peace, but destinations 
were always hell.
  Chyna didn't want to go there. She intended to get off between destinations and hoped 
to find her way back to the better life that she had struggled so hard to build these 
past ten years.
  She left the comer of the bedroom to retrieve the butcher knife, which she had dropped 
when she'd been rocked backward by the sight of the dead man in the closet. Then she went 
around the bed to the nightstand and switched off the pharmacy lamp.
  Being in the dark with dead people didn't frighten her. Only the living were a danger.
  The motor home slowed again and then turned left. Chyna leaned against the tilt of the 
vehicle to keep her balance.
  They must be on State Highway 29. A right turn would have taken them down the Napa 
Valley, south into the town of Napa. She wasn't sure what communities lay to the north, 
other than St. Helena and Calistoga.
  Even between the towns, however, there would be vineyards, farms, houses, and rural 
businesses. Wherever she got out of the motor home, she should be able to find help 
within a reasonable distance.
  She sidled blindly to the door and stood with one hand on the knob, waiting for 
instinct to guide her once more. Much of her life had been lived like a balancing act on 
a spearpoint fence, and on a particularly difficult night when she was twelve, she had 
decided that instinct was, in fact, the quiet voice of God. Prayers did receive replies, 
but you had to listen closely and believe in the answer. At twelve, she wrote in her 
diary: “God doesn't shout; He whispers, and in the whisper is the way."
  Waiting for the whisper, she thought about the battered body in the closet, which 
appeared to have been dead for less than a day, and about Laura, still warm on the 
sagging bed. Sarah, Paul, Laura's brother Jack, Jack's wife, Nina: six people murdered in 
twenty-four hours. The eater of spiders was not an ordinary homicidal sociopath. In the 
language of the cops and the criminologists who specialized in searching for and stopping 
men like this, he was hot, going through a hot phase, burning up with desire, need. But 
Chyna, who intended to follow her master's in psychology with a doctorate in criminology, 
even if she had to work six years waiting tables to get there, sensed that this guy was 
not just hot. He was a singularity, conforming only in part to standard profiles in 
aberrant psychology, as purely alien as some-thing from the stars, a runaway killing 
machine, merciless and irresistible. She had no hope of eluding him if she didn't wait 
for the murmunng voice of instinct.