pzb.drawingblood-第24章

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　　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　pulp　and　swollen　tissue；　a　spray　of　broken　teeth　on　the　ground　like　splinters　of　ivory　scattered　on　dark　velvet。　Bird　and　Brown　lay　crumpled　at　the　bottom　of　the　final　page　like　animals　hunted　down　and　killed　for　their　pelts；　adrift　in　a　spreading　pool　of　gore。
　　The　gore　was　darkly　shaded　and　looked　slick；　nearly　wet。　Trevor　could　not　remember　drawing　it。
　　The　house　and　whatever　lived　here　had　cast　some　nightmarish　pall　across　his　vision；　hypnotized　his　hand；　ruined　his　story。
　　Or　had　it？
　　The　true　story　as　Trevor　had　intended　to　tell　it　would　have　been　strong　and　affecting　in　an　understated　way。　Maybe　this　could　be　something　splashier；　stranger；　and　ultimately　more　memorable。　He　envisioned　an　ending　for　this　version。　The　cops　realize　they've　killed　the　musicians　and　sneak　off；　figuring　they　can　blame　the　murders　on　niggers　killing　other　niggers。　But；　as　white　men　have　failed　to　realize　for　too　long；　people　aren't　stupid　just　because　they're　poor。　The　black　people　of　Jackson　can　read　the　death　of　their　heroes　like　a　bitter　book　whose　pages　are　bound　in　dusky　skin；　writ　large　with　blood　spilled　in　hatred。
　　Jackson　is　not　so　far　from　New　Orleans；　cradle　of　dark　religion　and　herbal　wisdom　from　Africa；　from　Haiti；　from　the　heart　of　the　Louisiana　swamp。　And　hoodoo　knowledge　has　a　way　of　traveling　。　。　。
　　Trevor　imagined　the　bodies　of　Bird　and　Brown　rising　back　up；　seeing　dimly　through　smashed　eyes；　thinking　dimly　with　smashed　brains。　They　would　be　only　shells；　drained　of　music；　of　life。　But　like　all　good　zombies　they　would　be　able　to　hone　in　on　their　killers。　And　they　would　have　help　。　。　。
　　In　his　mind　he　saw　a　full…page　final　frame。　The　cops　crucified　and　burning　on　their　own　front　lawns；　nailed　to　crosses　of　blazing　agony；　their　blackening；　yawning　forms　silhouetted　against　the　rich　texture　of　the　flames。　It　would　have　a　crudely　moralistic；　E。G。　ics　feel　to　it。　But　he　wouldn't　ink　it　or　color　it；　he　would　do　it　entirely　in　pencil；　meticulously　shaded　and　hatched　and　stippled；　and　it　would　be　beautiful。
　　And　he　would　sell　this　fucker；　sell　it　to　a　market　that　could　afford　to　print　it　right。　Raw　maybe；　or　Taboo。　He　loved　Taboo；　an　irregularly　published　anthology　of　beautifully　rendered；　lovingly　produced；　weird　and　twisted　ics　printed　mostly　in　stark　blacks　and　whites；　shot　through　here　and　there　with　a　few　pages　of　color　alternately　subtle；　vivid；　and　disturbing。　Everything　from　Joe　Coleman's　mutilation　paintings　to　the　numerous　intricate　collaborations　of　Alan　Moore　had　appeared　in　its　pages；　all　printed　on　fine　heavy　paper。
　　Trevor's　jaw　was　set　again　as　he　bent　back　over　his　sketchbook。　But　now　the　emotion　in　his　face　looked　more　like　strength　than　hardness。　If　he　did　this　right；　it　would　be　the　best　thing　he　had　ever　drawn。
　　He　drew　for　four　more　hours　in　the　harsh　electric　light；　until　his　eyelids　grew　heavy　and　sandy；　until　his　fingers　could　barely　uncurl　from　the　pencil。　Then　he　folded　his　arms　on　the　tabletop　and　cradled　his　head　and　went　effortlessly　to　sleep。
　　Sometime　later　the　gooseneck　lamp　clicked　off；　leaving　him　in　darkness　broken　only　by　the　trembling；　shifting　moonlight　that　came　in　the　windows；　filtered　through　kudzu　and　twenty　years　of　dust。
　　Trevor　did　not　dream　that　night。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Ten
　　
　　Kinsey　Hummingbird　woke　on　Monday　morning　hoping　Trevor　might　have　e　back　in　the　night；　though　he　had　not　seen　him　all　day　Sunday。　Kinsey　couldn't　imagine　anyone　sleeping　in　that　house。　But　apparently　Trevor　had；　at　any　rate；　he　wasn't　here。
　　There　were　so　many　things　Kinsey　wanted　to　say　to　the　boy…but　he　had　to　stop　thinking　of　him　as　a　boy。　Trevor　was　twenty…five　after　all；　even　if　he　had　had　reason　to　lie；　the　chronology　was　right。　Kinsey　remembered　the　date　of　the　McGee　deaths　well　enough。
　　It　was　just　that　Trevor　looked　so　young。　That　scared　five…year…old　was　still　a　big　part　of　him；　Kinsey　thought　as　he　got　up　and　went　to　the　kitchen；　though　some　flintier　core　must　have　kept　Trevor　alive　and　sane。　There　was　an　undeniable　strength　there；　many　people　in　Trevor's　situation　would　have　retreated　into　the　numb　fog　of　catatonia　or　blown　their　brains　out　as　soon　as　they　were　able　to　lay　hands　on　a　gun。
　　But　even　for　a　soul　of　enormous　strength；　what　would　a　night　in　that　house　have　been　like？
　　After　the　investigation　of　the　McGee　deaths　was　over…　and　of　course　there　had　been　little　investigating　to　do；　the　bodies　told　their　own　mute　tale…the　cops　had　locked　the　door　behind　them　and　the　family's　things　had　sat　in　the　house；　gathering　dust　in　the　silent；　bloodstained　rooms。　A　FOR　SALE　sign　went　up　in　the　scrubby　yard；　but　no　one　saw　it　as　anything　other　than　a　ghoulish　joke　on　the　realtor's　part。　That　house　would　never　be　rented　again；　let　alone　sold。
　　Browsing　the　aisles　of　Potter's　Store　one　day　deep　in　the　summer　of　1972；　the　FOR　SALE　sign　outside　the　murder　house　already　niggling　at　his　mind；　Kinsey　found　himself　wondering　what　had　happened　to　the　McGees'　things。　Potter's　was　a　cavernous　thrift　establishment　downtown；　huge　and　dim　and　cool；　its　rickety　rows　of　metal　shelves　crammed　with　chipped　plates　and　battered　silverware　and　obsolete　（though　usually　functional）　kitchen　appliances；　its　cracked　glass　display　case　filled　with　strange　knickknacks　and　costume　jewelry；　its　bins　heaped　high　with　musty　clothing。　Kinsey；　with　his　love　of　junk；　often　spent　long　afternoons　browsing　here。
　　But　he　didn't　think　the　McGees'　belongings　had　ended　up　at　Potter's　Store。　He　wasn't　sure　what　he　thought　he　should　have　seen：　bloodstained　mattresses；　maybe；　or　splattered　shirts　and　dresses　woven　through　the　pile　marked　MISC　WOMENS　CLOTHS　25　CENTS。　But　there　hadn't　been　any　jazz　records　or　underground　ics　either；　and　there　sure　as　hell　hadn't　been　a　drawing　table。　He　supposed　everything　was　still　out　there；　moldering　in　the　silent　rooms。
　　The　house　on　Violin　Road　never　sold。　The　FOR　SALE　sign　was　stolen；　replaced　by　the　realtor；　whose　optimism　apparently　knew　no　bounds。　The　paint　on　the　new　sign　faded　throughout　the　long　dry　summer。　Tall　weeds　grew　up　around　it；　and　it　began　to　list。　At　last　it　fell　face　forward　and　was　soon　hidden　in　the　long　grass。
　　By　that　time　kudzu　had　begun　to　climb　the　walls　of　the　house。　Where　the　children　of　Violin　Road　had　thrown　rocks　through　the　windows；　the　insidious　vine　snaked　in。　Kinsey　imagined　it　twining　through　the　rooms；　sucking　nourishment　from　blood　long　dry。　He　did　not　doubt　that　this　was　possible。　As　a　child；　he　had　seen　a　kudzu　root　unearthed　from　the　Civil　War　graveyard　where　his　own　great…great…great…uncle　Miles　was　buried。　The　root；　fully　six　feet　long；　had　eaten　its　way　through　a　grave　and　taken　on　the　shape　of　the　man　buried　there。　Its　offshoots　formed　four　twisted　limbs；　the　root…tips　bursting　from　them　at　the　ends　like　a　multitude　of　fingers　and　toes。　At　the　top　had　been　a　skull…sized　tangle　of　delicate　fibers　in　which　the　planes　and　hollows　of　a　face　could　almost　be　made　out。
　　Twenty　years　later　the　house　was　nearly　hidden　under　its　twining　green　blanket。　Driving　past　it；　you　could　barely　tell　that　there　was　a　house　on　the　overgrown　lot　at　all。　Only　the　wooden　porch　and　the　peak　of　the　roof　showed　forlornly　through　the　vines。　A　stand　of　oaks　shaded　the　house；　their　heavy　canopy　of　foliage　turning　the　yard　into　a　deep　green　cave　of　light　and　shadow。　The　fronds　of　a　willow　brushed　the　roof；　fingering　the　jagged　edges　of　glass　in　the　rotting　window　frames；　strumming　the　kudzu　like　the　strings　of　a　lyre。
　　Kinsey　wondered　again　how　much　of　the　family's　stuff　was　still　in　there。　He　knew　kids　had　broken　in　over　the　years；　daring　each　other；　showing　off。　Terry；　Steve；　and　R。J。　had　been　in　years　ago；　though　Ghost　would　not　even　go　as　far　as　the　porch。
　　So　most　of　the　things　in　the　front　room　would　be　long　spirited　away。　But　not　many　kids　would　have　gotten　past　the　gouged　and　bloodied　doorway　to　the　hall；　and　Kinsey　doubted　that　any　would　have　made　it　farther　than　the　first　bedroom；　where　the　little　boy　had　died。　The　back　rooms　would　be　dusty　but　intact。　He　wondered　what　Trevor　would　find　in　them。
　　Kinsey　measured　coffee；　poured　cold　tapwater　into　the　machine；　and；　as　the　old　percolator　began　to　bubble　and　steam；　fell　to　gazing　out　his　kitchen　window　at　his　own　backyard。　He　had　a　little　vegetable　garden；　but　otherwise　the　grasses　and　trees　grew　wild。　Kinsey　liked　it　that　way；　home　to　any　flying；　slithering；　or　crawling　thing　that　cared　to　take　up　residence。　But　it　was　not　as　snarled　and　shadow…stained；　not　as　forbidding　a　landscape　as　the　house　on　Violin　Road。
　　The　house　where　Trevor　must　be　now；　even　as　Kinsey　sipped　his　first　milky　cup　of　morning　coffee。
　　Kinsey's　mother　had　cured　him　of　Christian　prayer　long　ago。　He　tried　to　think　of　a　Zen　koan　that　might　be　of　use　to　Trevor；　but　the　only　one　he　could　remember　was　〃Why　has　Bodhidharma　no　beard？〃　which　didn't　seem　to　apply。　But　then　koans　weren't　supposed　to　apply。
　　His　head　full　of　ghosts；　little　smirking　Buddhas；　and　secondhand　treasures；　Kinsey　stood　woolgathering　for　the　better　part　of　an　hour　in　his　own　clean　forting　kitchen。
　　
　　Hank　Williams's　nasal　twang　poured　out　of　the　car　speakers　as　raw　and　potent　as　moonshine　spiked　with　honey。　Zach　pondered　it　as　he　drove。　It　should　not　have　been　a　remarkable　voice；　it　was　nothing　but　a　po'bucker　whine　straight　from　the　backwoods　of　Alabama。　But　there　was　something　golden　and　tragic　in　it；　some　lost　soul　that　fell　to　its　knees　and　sobbed　every　time　Hank　opened　his　mouth。
　　He'd　been　meandering　north　on　1…40　and　surrounding　roads　when　he　saw　the　turnoff　for　Highway　42。　Zach　loved　the　Hitchhiker's　Guide　to　the　Galaxy　series；　and　the　sign　reminded　him　that　the　number　forty…two　was　the　answer　to　life；　the　universe；　and　everything。　It　pulled　him　as　inexorably　as　the　lights　of　South　of　the　Border　had　done。　Soon　he　was　driving　down　a　two…lane　blacktop　shrouded　in　rags　and　tatters　of　predawn　mist；　and　several　times　he　caught　himself　singing　lustily　along　with　Hank。
　　The　little　town　only　caught　his　attention　because　of　its　curious　name　and　weird　architecture；　to　his　road…weary　eyes　it　seemed　that　the　entire　downtown　was　decorated　with　wagon　wheels　and　spinning　barbers'　poles。　He　almost　drove　on　through；　but　caught　himself　drifting　across　the　center　line　and　decided　to　stop　for　a　quick　nap。
　　Zach　pulled　into　an　alley　and　came　upon　a　small　lot　where　several　other　cars　were　already　parked。　The　friendly　local　deputy…dawg　wouldn't　bother　him　here；　at　any　rate　he　was　only　going　to　stretch　his　tired　bones　across　the　seat；　close　his　eyes　for　a　few　minutes；　then　get　moving　again　。　。　。
　　He　slept　for　six　hours　in　the　parking　lot　behind　the　Whirling　Disc　record　store。　The　lot　was　also　used　for　storage　by　an　adjacent　auto　parts　store；　and　the　Mustang　was　not　noticed　among　the　other　junkers　for　some　time。　When　he　finally　woke；　the　sun　had　risen　high　and　hot；　his　body　was　bathed　in　sweat；　and　Terry　Buckett　was　peering　into　the　car；　tapping　worriedly　on　the　window。
　　
　　〃Man！　I　thought　you　were　dead　for　sure！〃　Terry　took