pzb.drawingblood-第21章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


as　a　boxy；　plain；　yet　somehow　rakish　machine。　It　was　not　the　sort　of　car　in　which　you　expected　to　see　a　ghost；　it　was　not　the　sort　of　car　you　expected　to　be　a　ghost。
　　Trevor　raised　his　left　hand　and　wrapped　his　fingers　around　the　door　handle。　It　was　cold　to　the　touch；　beaded　with　rain。　He　pulled　the　heavy　door　open　and　slid　in；　across　the　dirty…white　vinyl　seat　his　butt　had　polished　in　cloth　diapers　and　Osh…Kosh　overalls；　the　seat　that　had　stuck　to　the　backs　of　his　legs　when　it　was　hot；　the　seat　that　Didi　had　peed　on　a　couple　of　times；　though　most　of　his　accidents　had　been　confined　to　the　back。
　　Terry　lounged　fortably　on　the　other　side　of　the　seat；　curly　hair　pulled　back　in　a　faded　blue　bandanna；　dark　amused　eyes　looking　Trevor　up　and　down。　Terry's　features　were　blunt；　not　quite　handsome；　his　bushy　eyebrows　nearly　met　over　the　bridge　of　his　nose；　and　he　needed　a　shave。　But　his　face　had　a　friendly；　squared　look；　a　face　that　wouldn't　take　any　bullshit　but　wouldn't　give　you　any　either。　Make　him　a　little　seedier…looking　and　he　could　have　been　a　character　drawn　by　Crumb。
　　Terry　put　the　car　in　gear；　eased　off　the　clutch；　and　started　rolling　down　Burnt　Church　Road　again。　He　seemed　to　be　in　no　great　hurry　to　get　anywhere。
　　〃Where　did　you　get　this　car？〃　Trevor　asked。
　　〃Aw；　I've　had　it　forever。　Kinsey　used　to　help　me　fix　it　whenever　it　broke　down；　but　I've　learned　to　do　most　of　the　work　myself。　I　love　these　old　engines。　No　damn　electronics　to　get　fucked　up；　just　a　bunch　of　metal　and　grease。　You　know　these　wipers　still　run　on　vacuum　tubes？〃　Terry　indicated　the　slushing　windshield　wipers　as　though　pointing　out　an　artifact　of　some　forgotten　civilization。　〃Something　else　Kinsey　told　me　about　this　car。　It　used　to　belong　to　a　famous　cartoonist　who　killed　himself　here　in　Missing　Mile。　Pretty　weird；　huh？〃
　　Trevor　sagged　back　in　the　seat　and　let　out　a　long　unsteady　breath。　Terry　glanced　over。　〃You　okay；　man？〃
　　〃Yeah。〃　He　sat　up；　swiped　water　out　of　his　eyes。　His　shirt　was　sticking　to　his　skin；　outlining　his　ribs。　His　jeans　were　sodden；　unpleasantly　heavy。　〃Just　wet。　And　cold。〃
　　〃Well；　look；　I　was　going　into　town　to　do　some　errands；　but　my　house　is　just　back　down　the　road。　You　want　to　stop　by　there　and　towel　off？　I'll　even　give　you　a　dry　T…shirt；　I've　got　a　million　of　'em。〃
　　〃No；　I'm　fine…〃
　　But　Terry　was　already　turning　the　car　around。　〃I　forgot　to　get　stoned　before　I　left　anyway。　Consider　it　done。〃
　　A　couple　of　minutes　later　the　Rambler　turned　into　a　long　gravel　driveway　and　stopped　in　front　of　a　small　wooden　house　whose　paint　was　not　so　much　peeling　as　fraying　at　the　edges。　A　couple　of　rocking　chairs　were　stationed　on　the　porch　among　various　whirligigs；　wagon　wheels；　pirated　street　signs；　and　crates　of　empty　beer　bottles。　Country　kitsch　gone　weird。
　　Terry　led　the　way　up　the　porch　steps；　through　the　towers　of　junk；　and　unlocked　the　front　door。　〃Watch　out　for　the　hex　sign。　It's　supposed　to　be　bad　luck　to　step　on　it　or　something。〃
　　Trevor　looked　down　as　he　crossed　the　threshold。　Someone　had　painted　two　interlocking　triangles；　one　red　and　one　blue；　with　a　silver　ankh　at　their　juncture。　〃What's　it　for？〃
　　〃Don't　ask　me。　This　house　belongs　to　my　friend　Ghost；　who's　even　spookier　than　you　might　guess　from　his　name。　His　grandmother　was　some　kind　of　witch。〃
　　〃He　isn't　here；　is　he？〃　Trevor　hoped　he　wasn't　about　to　meet　yet　another　of　Missing　Mile's　friendly　freaks。　He　had　only　wanted　a　ride；　not　an　impromptu　afternoon　party。
　　〃No；　his　band　is　on　tour。　Extended　tour。　I'm　minding　the　farm；　which　means　free　rent　and　a　lifetime　supply　of　good　karma。〃
　　〃How　e？〃
　　〃Oh；　I　don't　know。〃　Terry　shrugged。　〃Miz　Deliverance　was　a　good　witch。　What　color　shirt　do　you　want？〃
　　〃Black。〃
　　〃But　of　course。〃
　　Terry　tossed　him　a　cotton　T…shirt　printed　with　the　Whirling　Disc　logo…a　little　long…haired　man　who　looked　like　a　hippie　version　of　the　man　on　the　Monopoly　game；　twirling　a　record　on　the　end　of　his　candy…striped　cane…　and　pointed　him　down　the　hall　to　the　bathroom。　Trevor　placed　his　wet　feet　carefully　on　the　mellow　hardwood　floors。　He　was　intrigued　by　the　idea　of　a　house　with　good　karma；　a　house　that　held　memories　of　love　and　music。
　　He　pulled　the　heavy　wooden　door　of　the　bathroom　shut　behind　him；　tugged　his　wet　shirt　over　his　head　and　dropped　it　on　the　floor。　It　was　just　a　plain　black　tee　like　almost　every　other　shirt　Trevor　owned；　he　had　one　with　a　pocket；　but　that　was　getting　fancy。　The　little　Whirling　Disc　man　was　a　radical　departure　for　him。
　　Trevor　unbound　his　ponytail；　leaned　over　the　old　clawfoot　bathtub　and　wrung　a　stream　of　water　from　his　hair。　Then　he　rumpled　it　with　a　towel　and　let　it　hang　loose　to　dry。　It　rippled　halfway　down　his　back；　ginger　like　Bobby's；　shot　through　with　a　few　strands　of　pale　gold　like　Momma's。
　　The　mirror　in　the　bathroom　made　him　nervous；　he　had　a　strong　sense　of　someone　looking　back　at　him　from　its　depths。　He　put　his　lips　close　against　the　wavy　silver　surface；　whispered　〃Who　is　it？〃　But　nothing　answered。　There　was　only　his　own　high　pale　forehead　melding　with　its　own　reflection；　his　own　eyes　merging　into　one　misshapen　transparent　orb　that　stared　mercilessly　back　at　him；　his　own　long　somber　face　dissolving　to　mist　at　the　edges。　He　stood　back　from　the　mirror　and　watched　his　nipples　shiver　erect；　his　skin　prickle　into　goosebumps。
　　Trevor　pulled　the　Whirling　Disc　shirt　over　his　head　and　hurried　back　down　the　hall　to　the　living　room；　where　Terry　was　just　firing　up　a　fat；　pungent　joint。
　　〃I　don't　suppose　you　do　this？〃　Terry　asked　after　a　long　toke。　Blue　smoke　leaked　out　of　his　nostrils　and　the　corners　of　his　mouth；　narrowing　his　eyes　against　it；　he　looked　sybaritic　and　handsomer　than　before。　Trevor　hesitated。　Terry　held　out　the　joint；　waggled　it　enticingly。
　　What　the　hell；　Trevor　decided；　and　reached　out　to　take　it　with　his　left　hand。　He'd　smoked　pot　before；　but　not　for　a　long　time；　and　never　much。　It　had　been　one　of　Bobby's　drugs。　But　pot　had　never　made　Bobby　puke　and　sob　like　a　baby；　had　never　made　him　pick　up　the　hammer　or　whispered　in　his　ear　how　he　might　use　it。　And　Bobby　had　smoked　it　when　he　was　drawing。　Trevor　thought　it　might　be　good　to　try　some　right　before　he　went　in　the　house。
　　So　he　wrapped　his　lips　around　the　wrinkled　end　of　the　joint；　slightly　damp　with　Terry's　spit　but　not　unpleasantly　so；　and　took　a　deep　drag。
　　Big　mistake。
　　He　hadn't　eaten　anything　since　Kinsey's　dubious　noodle　soup　last　night　at　the　club；　hadn't　drunk　anything　but　a　few　Cokes　and　a　warm；　noxious　Jolt。　Suddenly　his　stomach　felt　like　a　small　pouch　of　cracked　and　shriveled　leather；　his　tissues　and　the　meat　of　his　brain　felt　scorched　by　the　fire　that　burned　inside　him。
　　The　joint　slipped　from　his　fingers　and　skittered　down　his　arm；　leaving　a　long　singed　trail　along　the　old　tracework　of　scars。　He　heard　Terry　say　something；　felt　his　knees　begin　to　buckle。
　　Big　round　bursts　of　light　appeared　in　front　of　his　eyes；　blue　and　red　and　sparkly　silver；　spinning　like　crazy　constellations。　Then　blackness　waltzed　in　and　wiped　them　all　away。
　　
　　Terry　couldn't　believe　it　when　the　kid　collapsed　on　his　living…room　floor。　He　had　seen　stoners　toked　to　the　point　of　zombification；　staring　at　a　TV　screen　as　if　it　might　bring　nirvana。　He　had　seen　drinkers　gone　to　drooling　stupor　in　every　sort　of　promising　position　and　location；　including　on　the　toilet。　He　had　even　seen　a　nodding　junkie　or　two。　But　never　in　his　twenty…eight　years　had　Terry　Buckett　watched　anyone　pass　out　from　one　toke　on　a　joint。
　　He　retrieved　the　burning　spliff　from　the　folds　of　Trevor's　shirt；　patted　down　the　kid's　scrawny　chest　to　make　sure　no　stray　embers　were　setting　him　aflame；　checked　out　the　glowing　end　of　the　joint　but　saw　nothing　amiss；　smelled　nothing　weird。　The　pot　couldn't　be　laced　with　anything：　Terry　had　already　rolled　three　or　four　joints　out　of　this　particular　bag；　which　came　from　a　trusted　source。　His　own　buzz　was　just　starting　to　tickle　the　edges　of　his　brain；　leafy　and　benign。　It　was　nothing　but　good　Carolina　homegrown。　This　pale　trembling　youth　must　be　in　pretty　sorry　shape。
　　He　checked　to　see　if　Trevor　was　breathing；　gently　pulled　up　one　of　his　eyelids　to　make　sure　he　hadn't　had　a　brain　embolism　or　something。　The　silvery…pale　eye　glared　at　Terry；　making　him　think　Trevor　was　in　there　somewhere；　not　too　far　away。　As　he　wedged　a　cushion　from　the　sofa　under　Trevor's　lolling　head；　the　kid　started　muttering；　〃。　。　。　m'okay　。　。　。　fine　。　。　。〃
　　〃Yeah；　you　look　great；〃　said　Terry。　He　went　to　the　kitchen；　found　a　dishrag　that　was　mostly　clean；　ran　it　under　cold　water；　went　back　and　draped　it　over　Trevor's　face。　Trevor　raised　a　limp　hand　to　swipe　at　it；　got　halfway；　then　let　the　hand　fall　like　a　dead　white　bird　by　his　side。
　　〃Hang　loose；〃　Terry　told　him。　〃Don't　go　away。〃　He　paused　beside　the　stereo　and　scanned　the　portion　of　his　vast　record　collection　he　had　already　managed　to　cart　over　here；　wondering　what　music　Trevor　might　like　to　surface　from　oblivion　with。　Jazz　was　one　of　the　few　categories　Terry's　collection　lacked；　he　liked　it　okay　but　had　never　accumulated　any　of　his　own；　had　always　vaguely　figured　it　was　the　sort　of　music　you　had　to　be　an　expert　on　to　really　appreciate。
　　Finally　he　selected　an　old　Tom　Waits　album；　dropped　the　needle　on　it；　and　returned　to　the　kitchen　to　be　a　gracious　host。
　　
　　Trevor　woke　with　a　damp　sour…smelling　membrane　over　his　face　and　a　strange　guttural　voice　groaning　in　his　ears。　He　clawed　frantically　at　the　membrane　and　it　came　away　in　his　hands；　cold　and　dank　and　foul。　How　long　had　he　been　gone？　It　felt　like　minutes　but　could　have　been　an　hour；　no　more；　the　light　hadn't　changed。
　　The　walls　seemed　to　tower　toward　an　infinitely　high　point　overhead。　They　were　decorated　with　vintage　acid　rock　posters　whose　lurid　colors　swirled　and　gyred；　the　bands'　names　taunting　him：　Jimi　Hendrix　Experience；　Captain　Beefheart；　Strawberry　Alarm　Clock。　All　had　been　in　his　parents'　record　collection。
　　The　room　was　furnished　much　like　his　childhood　home　in　Austin：　bookshelves　of　cinder　blocks　and　particleboard；　fortable　sofa　with　sagging　cushions　and　the　nap　on　the　arms　worn　thin；　table　that　looked　like　a　refugee　from　someone　else's　trash　pile。　Early　Starving　Artist；　or　Poverty　Deco。　Trevor　saw　parts　of　Terry's　drum　set　strewn　about　the　room；　a　cymbal　in　the　corner；　a　snare　propped　between　a　bookcase　and　the　doorway　that　led　to　the　hall。　There　was　only　one　difference　between　this　stranger's　house　and　the　one　he　remembered　living　in　with　his　family：　this　one　felt　somehow　safe。　His　parents'　home　had　felt　safe　once　too；　but　that　was　so　long　ago　Trevor　could　barely　remember。
　　He　tried　to　sit　up　and　felt　his　brain　starting　to　spiral　off　into　the　ether　again。　A　snippet　of　dialogue　from　Krazy　Kat　drifted　through　his　mind：　Just　imegine　having　your　〃ectospasm〃　running　around　william　&　nilliam　among　the　unlimitless　etha'…golla；　it's　imbillivibilImbillivibil　it　was。　Yet　it　would　seem　he'd　swooned　in　Terry's　living　room；　or　whoever's　living　room　this　was。　How　fucking　embarrassing。　Terry　didn't　seem　to　be　around；　and　Trevor　thought　that　when　he　felt　able　to　stand　he　might　just　slink　out　of　this　safe　place；　walk　the　rest　of　the　way　into　town；　then　out　to　Violin　Roa