pzb.drawingblood-第23章

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nds　could　in　and　of　themselves　have　been　fatal。
　　Had　Momma　died　quietly？　This　was　something　Trevor　had　wondered　about　for　a　long　time。　She　might　have　wrestled　with　Bobby　in　a　desperate　silence　at　first；　not　wanting　to　wake　the　boys　and　scare　them　with　another　fight。　But　once　she　realized　that　Bobby　meant　them　harm；　Trevor　thought；　she　would　have　started　screaming。　She　would　have　tried　to　hold　Bobby　off　long　enough　to　let　them　get　out　of　the　house。
　　And　the　injuries　she　had　taken　before　her　death：　seven　broken　fingers；　a　splintered　collarbone　and　a　shattered　tibia；　three　cracked　ribs；　a　blow　sunk　so　deeply　into　her　chest　that　it　penetrated　the　breastbone。　Could　she　have　remained　silent　through　those？
　　Trevor　didn't　think　so。　He　probably　could　have　slept　through　anything　that　night。　He　remembered　the　bitter…tasting　grapefruit　juice　Bobby　had　given　him　before　bed；　the　dull　loginess　of　his　head　the　next　morning　when　he　woke。　And　a　notation　in　his　file　at　the　Home　said　there　had　been　Seconal　in　his　blood　when　he　was　brought　in。
　　Bobby　had　drugged　him；　which　meant　he　had　planned　the　murders。　But　had　he　planned　to　leave　Trevor　alive；　and　drugged　him　so　he　would　sleep　through　it　all？　Or　had　he　drugged　both　boys；　planning　to　kill　both；　and　changed　his　mind　about　Trevor　for　some　reason？
　　And　what　about　Didi？　Trevor　wondered　if　his　brother　had　seen　his　death　ing。　He　had　found　Didi　curled　on　his　belly；　ruined　head　burrowed　deep　into　the　pillow；　as　if　Bobby　had　killed　him　in　his　sleep。　But　unless　Bobby　had　given　him　Seconal　too；　Trevor　didn't　think　Didi　could　have　slept　through　the　sounds　of　his　mother　dying。　Bobby　could　have　killed　him　sitting　up　in　bed…or　cowering…　and　then　arranged　him　back　into　the　peaceful　sleeping　position　as　if　trying　to　absolve　himself。
　　Fredric　D。　McGee；　Box　17；　Violin　Road；　male　Caucasian；　3　yrs；　2…6；　25　pounds；　blond　hair；　brown　eyes。　Occupation：　None。　Cause　of　death：　blunt　trauma。　Victim　had　approximately　twenty…two　separate　wounds；　all　in　head/neck　area。　Cranium　and　brain　were　pletely　destroyed　。　。　。
　　Trevor　imagined　Didi's　eyes　as　the　hammer　descended。　He　squeezed　his　own　eyes　shut　and　slammed　the　heel　of　his　hand　against　the　door　frame。　A　rain　of　dust　sifted　down。　The　pain　in　his　hand…his　left　hand；　of　course；　he　didn't　hit　things　with　his　drawing　hand…made　the　image　of　Didi　fade。　And；　in　a　far　corner　of　the　living　room；　a　crumpled　sheet　of　newspaper　suddenly　rustled；　then　tore。　The　sound　was　nearly　heart…stopping　in　the　silent　room。
　　Trevor　turned　away　from　the　doorway；　walked　over　to　the　corner　and　nudged　the　paper　with　his　toe。　He　could　see　no　mouse　or　insect；　nothing　that　could　have　made　it　move；　let　alone　tear。　He　picked　it　up　and　smoothed　it；　and　the　headline　screamed　off　the　page　at　him。　〃I　HAD　TO　DO　IT；〃　SAYS　KILLER。　The　word　killer　was　ripped　neatly　in　half。
　　Trevor　examined　the　paper　more　closely　and　saw　that　it　was　a　Raleigh　News　and　Observer　dated　October　1986；　years　after　he　had　left　Missing　Mile。　The　headline　story　was　about　a　man　in　Corinth　who　had　given　his　pregnant　wife　an　abortion　with　a　30。06；　firing　sixteen　shells　into　her　belly。　Even　in　the　womb　children　were　not　safe　from　their　fathers。　Trevor　imagined　the　sizzle　of　hot　lead　tunneling　into　unformed　fetal　flesh；　the　raw；　bloody　reek　edged　with　the　firework　smell　of　cordite。　But　Bobby　hadn't　been　giving　any　interviews　after　murdering　his　family；　not　hi　this　world　anyway。
　　Trevor　pictured　the　front　page　of　hell's　daily；　printed　on　asbestos　but　still　singed　at　the　edges；　Bobby's　huge…eyed；　shell…shocked　face　in　grainy　black　and　white　on　the　front　page。　And　the　headline　would　say…what？　…　ANOTHER　FUCKED…UP　GUY　KILLS　FAMILY；　THEN　SELF。　ONE　KID　LEFT　ALIVE；　〃WE'LL　GET　HIM　LATER〃　SAYS　DEVIL。　Minor　demons　yawning　over　steaming　mugs　of　bitter　black　coffee　and　brimstone；　blearily　scanning　the　news　but　not　thinking　much　about　it；　this　was　business　as　usual　in　hell。
　　He　felt　the　house　drawing　him　in；　filling　his　mind　with　images　and　icons　till　he　overflowed　like　a　pitcher　of　dark　liquid。　Caffeine　sang　in　his　veins。　He　dropped　the　newspaper；　walked　through　the　doorway　stained　with　his　mother's　blood；　past　the　kitchen　on　his　left；　and　slowly　down　the　hall；　cocking　his　head　and　listening　as　he　passed　each　room；　trying　to　see　through　the　half…closed　doors。
　　On　the　right　side　of　the　hall　was　his　parents'　bedroom；　then　Bobby's　studio。　On　the　left　was　Didi's　room；　then　Trevor's；　then　the　tiny　bathroom　where　Bobby　had　died。　He　remembered　standing　here　before；　looking　at　the　afternoon　light　filtering　in　through　the　rooms；　falling　in　golden　slants　across　the　hall　floor；　and　wondering　if　he　would　ever　be　able　to　draw　well　enough　to　capture　it。
　　He　could　do　it　now。　But　the　light　was　subtly　different；　murkier；　with　a　greener　tinge　to　it。　After　a　moment　Trevor　realized　it　must　be　because　of　the　kudzu　growing　over　the　windows　of　the　rooms；　catching　the　sunlight　and　staining　it。
　　He　continued　to　the　end　of　the　hall；　trailing　his　hand　along　the　water…stained　wall。　On　his　right　was　the　studio；　on　his　left　the　bathroom。　Bobby's　hell　and　purgatory。　Or　was　it　the　other　way　around？　Trevor　guessed　that　was　one　of　the　things　he　had　e　to　find　out。
　　He　looked　to　his　left　and　saw　the　faint　gleam　of　light　on　dirty　porcelain；　the　buckled　shower　curtain　rod　above　the　black　chasm　of　the　tub。　How　many　hours　was　it　now　until　the　exact　moment　when　Bobby　had　fastened　the　rope　and　stepped　off　the　edge　of　the　tub？　How　many　hours　until　the　twentieth　anniversary　of　his　neck　snapping？
　　Trevor's　eyes　moved　over　the　peeling　walls；　over　the　dark　rectangle　of　the　mirror；　found　the　space　between　sink　and　toilet　where　he　had　curled　his　five…year…old　body　into　the　tightest　possible　ball。　He　wondered　if　he　could　fit　there　now。　He　wondered　what　he　would　see　if　he　did。
　　Instead　he　turned　and　went　into　the　studio。　The　two　large　windows　were　intact；　and　the　room　was　dusty　but　otherwise　clean。　Trevor　brushed　off　the　tilted　surface　of　Bobby's　drawing　table。　He　preferred　to　draw　on　a　flat　surface；　having　gotten　used　to　his　desk　at　the　Home；　but　the　folding　table　was　one　of　the　few　things　Bobby　hadn't　sold　or　thrown　out　when　they　left　Austin。　It　had　his　stains　and　gouges；　his　razor　slits　and　scars；　his　sweat　grimed　into　its　grain；　maybe　his　tears　too。　Maybe　his　secrets。　And　maybe　his　nightmares。
　　Trevor　sat　on　the　sawed…off　bar　stool　that　Bobby　had　used　as　his　drawing　chair。　It　wobbled　as　it　always　had；　but　held。　The　light　in　here　was　good；　even　with　the　vines　and　tall　grass　covering　the　window；　but　some　drawings　tacked　up　on　the　wall　were　in　shadow。　He　didn't　want　to　see　them　now　anyway；　he　had　enough　of　Bobby　here　to　suit　him　for　a　while。
　　Trevor　got　his　own　pencils　and　sketchbook　out　of　his　bag；　arranged　them　on　the　table；　and　flipped　to　the　story　he　had　been　working　on　at　the　graveyard。　The　story　of　how　Bird　and　Walter　Brown　went　to　jail　in　Jackson；　Mississippi；　for　talking　on　a　screened　porch　one　fine　summer　night。
　　Left　arm　curled　around　his　sketchbook；　head　bent　down　far　over　the　page；　hair　hanging　like　a　pale　curtain　around　his　thin；　determined　face；　Trevor　drew　for　three　hours。　When　he　looked　up；　the　room　was　veiled　in　blue　shadows　and　he　realized　he　had　barely　been　able　to　see　the　page　for　ten　minutes　or　more。　He　saw　Bobby's　old　gooseneck　lamp　still　clamped　to　the　edge　of　the　table；　and　without　thinking　he　reached　out　and　pushed　the　button　that　turned　it　on。
　　Stark　electric　light　flooded　the　room；　threw　the　spidery　shadow　of　his　fingers　clutching　the　pencil　onto　the　pitted　tabletop。
　　Trevor's　drawing　trance　broke。　He　shoved　himself　back　from　the　table；　nearly　tipped　the　stool　over。　Only　his　fear　made　him　keep　his　balance。　He　did　not　want　to　be　on　his　back　on　the　floor　of　this　room　just　now。　His　gaze　swept　the　corners；　the　ceiling；　the　darkening　windows；　came　to　rest　on　the　brown　cord　snaking　from　the　base　of　the　lamp　to　the　wall　socket　below。　The　thing　was　plugged　in。　But　how　could　the　wiring；　the　bulb；　last　twenty　years？　And　as　long　as　he　was　asking　stupid　questions；　how　could　the　fucking　electricity　be　on？
　　He　wondered　if　it　might　never　have　been　turned　off；　if　their　delinquent　bill　might　have　been　passed　over　by　an　idling　puter　or　some　such。　He　distrusted　all　engines　and　mechanical　systems　but　especially　puters；　whose　insides　he　pictured　as　like　some　silver；　sinister；　impossibly　intricate　painting　by　Giger。
　　But　Trevor　didn't　think　the　power　could　have　stayed　on　for　two　decades　without　someone　at　the　switches　noticing　or　the　house　catching　fire。　When　you　subtract　the　impossible；　what's　left？　The　improbable；　the　strange　but　true。　The　supernatural；　or　if　you　liked；　the　supernatural：　outside　the　boundaries　of　most　experience；　but　possible　in　a　place　where　no　boundaries　are　drawn。
　　Trevor　settled　back　on　the　stool　and　glanced　up　at　the　wall；　at　the　drawings　tacked　there；　done　on　sketchbook　paper　now　yellowed　and　curling　at　the　edges。　Most　had　sifted　away　to　faint　scratchings　of　ink　or　graphite；　impossible　to　make　out。　But　the　one　his　eyes　came　to　rest　on　was　still　clear　enough。
　　It　was　Bobby's　last　drawing　of　Rosena；　of　whom　he　had　done　so　many：　facial　studies　framed　in　cascading　hair；　with　tender　mouth　and　large　lustrous　eyes；　sinuous　nude　fantasies　made　flesh；　long　graceful　hands　like　rapid　sketches　of　birds　in　flight。　But　in　this　one　Rosena　sprawled　in　the　hall　doorway；　head　thrown　back；　face　battered　in。　Except　for　slight　differences　in　style…Bobby　had　a　heavier　hand　with　the　shading；　and　a　way　of　capturing　the　fall　of　light　on　hair　that　made　it　look　nearly　wet…it　was　identical　to　the　drawing　Trevor　had　done　in　his　sketchbook　on　the　Greyhound；　on　his　way　to　Missing　Mile。
　　Trevor　stared　at　the　faded　picture；　nodding　ever　so　slightly；　not　even　surprised　anymore。　Either　Bobby　had　known　how　she　would　look　in　death　before　he　killed　her；　as　if　he'd　had　some　vision；　or　he　had　gotten　out　his　sketchbook　and　drawn　her　broken　body　before　he　had　gone　into　the　bathroom　to　hang　himself。　Maybe　somewhere　around　here　was　a　sketch　of　Didi　dead　too。　Trevor　had　done　one　this　morning；　barely　awake；　ing　out　of　his　dream　of　not…drawing。
　　But　now　he　was　here；　on　the　very　spot　where　he　sat　in　the　dream；　and　he　could　still　draw。
　　His　jaw　was　set；　his　eyes　wary；　a　shade　darker　than　before。　Though　he　did　not　know　it；　he　looked　like　a　man　who　has　taken　blows　but　is　now　ready　to　deal　some　of　his　own。
　　He　glanced　down　at　his　own　sketchbook　and　for　the　first　time　really　saw　what　he　had　just　drawn；　and　all　the　hardness　drained　out　of　his　face。　His　mouth　fell　open；　his　throat　slammed　shut；　tears　started　in　his　eyes。　Caffeine　and　adrenaline　sizzled　through　his　veins；　made　his　heart　carom　against　the　walls　of　his　chest。　He　could　barely　remember　drawing　this。　It　wasn't　even　how　the　story　was　supposed　to　go。
　　The　cops　were　meant　to　show　up　with　their　nightsticks　drawn；　bash　Bird　and　Brown　around　some；　then　haul　them　off　to　jail　with　bruises　and　bleeding　scalps。　That　was　what　had　really　happened。
　　But　in　this　version；　the　cops　never　stopped　bashing。
　　There　were　closeups　of　hard　wood　connecting　with　skulls；　skin　splitting　and　curling　back　from　the　edges　of　wounds；　a　freshet　of　blood　coursing　from　a　nostril；　an　eye　gone　to