pzb.drawingblood-第4章

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　　But　he　was　too　tired；　his　eyes　were　already　closing。　Trevor　turned　off　his　bedside　lamp　and　crawled　under　the　blanket。　The　familiar　contours　of　his　mattress　cradled　him　like　a　weling　hand。　From　the　living　room　he　heard　Charlie　Parker　run　down　a　shimmering　scale。　Birdland；　he　thought　again。　That　was　the　place　where　you　could　work　magic；　the　place　where　no　one　else　could　touch　you。　It　might　be　an　actual　spot　in　the　world；　it　might　be　a　place　deep　down　inside　you。　Daddy　could　only　reach　his　Birdland　by　drinking　now。　Trevor　had　begun　to　believe　his　own　Birdland　might　be　the　pen　moving　over　the　paper；　the　weight　of　the　sketchbook　in　his　hands；　the　creation　of　worlds　out　of　ink　and　sweat　and　love。
　　He　slept；　and　the　music　wove　uneasily　in　and　out　of　his　dreams。　He　heard　Janis　Joplin　singing　〃Me　and　Bobby　McGee；〃　and　remembered　suddenly　that　she　had　died　last　year。　From　drugs；　Momma　had　told　him；　taking　care　to　explain　that　the　drugs　Janis　had　been　using　were　much　worse　than　the　pot　she　and　Daddy　sometimes　smoked。　An　image　came　to　him　of　Daddy　walking　hand　in　hand　with　a　girl　shorter　and　more　rounded　than　Momma；　a　girl　who　wore　bright　feathers　in　her　hair。　She　turned　to　Daddy　and　Trevor　saw　that　her　face　was　a　swollen　purple　mass　of　flesh；　the　holes　of　her　eyes　black　and　depthless　behind　the　big　round　glasses；　her　ruined　features　split　in　the　semblance　of　a　smile　as　she　leaned　in　to　give　his　father　a　deep　soul　kiss。
　　And　Daddy　kissed　back　。　。　。
　　
　　Sunlight　woke　him；　streaming　through　the　dirty　panes　of　his　window；　trickling　into　the　corners　of　his　eyes。　His　head　ached　slightly；　felt　somehow　too　heavy　on　his　neck。　Trevor　rolled　over；　stretched；　and　looked　around　the　room；　silently　greeting　his　drawings。　There　was　one　of　the　house；　one　of　Momma　holding　Didi；　a　whole　series　of　ones　that　he　was　pretty　sure　were　going　to　turn　into　a　ic。　He　knew　he　could　never　draw　the　slick；　tawdry　world　of　Birdland　the　way　Daddy　had；　but　he　could　make　his　own　world。　He　needed　to　practice　writing　smaller　so　he　could　do　the　letters。
　　His　head　slightly　logy　but　full　of　ideas；　Trevor　rolled　off　the　mattress；　pushed　open　the　door　of　his　room；　and　walked　down　the　hall　toward　the　kitchen。
　　He　saw　the　blood　on　the　walls　before　he　saw　Momma。
　　It　would　e　out　in　the　autopsy　report…which　Trevor　did　not　read　until　years　later…that　Daddy　had　attacked　her　near　the　front　door；　that　they　must　have　argued；　that　there　had　been　a　struggle　and　he　had　driven　her　back　toward　the　hall　before　he　killed　her。　That　was　where　he　would　have　picked　up　the　hammer。
　　Momma　was　crumpled　in　the　doorway　that　led　from　the　living　room　into　the　hall。　Her　back　rested　against　the　frame。　Her　head　lolled　on　the　fragile　stem　of　her　neck。　Her　eyes　were　open；　and　as　Trevor　edged　around　her　body；　they　seemed　to　fix　on　him。　For　a　heart…stopping　second　he　thought　she　was　alive。　Then　he　saw　that　the　eyes　were　cloudy；　and　filmed　with　blood。
　　Her　arms　were　a　mass　of　blood　and　bruise；　silver　rings　sparkling　amid　the　ruin　of　her　hands。　（Seven　fingers　broken；　the　autopsy　report　would　say；　along　with　most　of　the　small　bones　in　her　palms；　as　she　raised　her　hands　to　ward　off　the　blows　of　the　hammer。）　There　was　a　deep　gouge　in　her　left　temple；　another　in　the　center　of　her　forehead。　Her　hair　was　loose；　fanned　around　her　shoulders；　stiff　with　blood。　A　clear　fluid　had　seeped　from　her　head　wounds　and　dried　on　her　face；　making　silvery　tracks　through　the　mask　of　red。
　　And　on　the　wall　above　her；　a　confusion　of　bloody　handprints　trailing　down；　down　。　。　。
　　Trevor　spun　and　ran　back　down　the　hall；　toward　his　brother's　room。　He　did　not　know　that　his　bladder　had　let　go；　did　not　feel　the　hot　urine　spilling　down　his　legs。　He　did　not　hear　the　sound　he　was　making；　a　long；　high　moan。
　　The　door　of　Didi's　room　was　closed。　Trevor　had　not　closed　it　when　he　looked　in　on　Didi　last　night。　High　up　on　the　door　was　a　tiny　smudge　of　blood；　barely　noticeable。　It　told　Trevor　everything　he　needed　to　know。　He　went　in　anyway。
　　The　room　was　thick　with　the　smell　of　blood　and　shit。　The　two　odors　together　were　cloying；　almost　sweet。　Trevor　went　to　the　bed。　Didi　lay　in　the　same　position　Trevor　had　left　him　in　last　night；　his　head　burrowed　into　the　pillow；　one　small　hand　curled　into　a　fist　near　his　mouth。　The　back　of　Didi's　head　was　like　a　swamp；　a　dark　mush　of　splintered　bone　and　thick　clotted　gore。　Sometime　during　the　night…because　of　the　heat；　or　in　the　spasms　of　death…　Didi　had　kicked　off　his　covers。　Trevor　saw　the　dark　brown　stain　between　his　legs。　That　was　where　the　smell　came　from。
　　Trevor　lifted　the　blanket　and　pulled　it　over　Didi；　covering　the　stain；　the　ruined　head；　the　unbearable　curled　hand。　The　blanket　settled　over　the　small　still　form。　Where　it　covered　the　head；　a　blotch　of　red　appeared。
　　He　had　to　find　Daddy。　His　mind　clung　to　some　tiny；　glittering　hope　that　maybe　Daddy　hadn't　done　this　at　all；　that　maybe　some　crazy　person　had　broken　into　their　house　and　killed　Momma　and　Didi　and　left　him　alive　for　some　reason；　that　Daddy　might　still　be　alive　too。
　　He　stumbled　out　of　Didi's　room；　felt　his　way　along　the　hall；　sprawled　headlong　into　the　bathroom。
　　That　was　where　Momma's　friends　found　him　hours　later；　when　they　drove　out　to　see　why　Momma　hadn't　shown　up　to　model　that　day；　she　was　so　reliable　that　they　became　worried　immediately。　The　front　door　was　unlocked。　They　saw　Momma's　body　first；　and　had　nearly　worked　themselves　into　hysterics　when　someone　heard　the　high　toneless　keening。
　　They　found　Trevor　squeezed　into　a　tiny　space　between　the　toilet　and　the　old　porcelain　sink；　curled　as　pact　as　a　fetus；　his　eyes　fixed　on　the　body　of　his　father。　Bobby　McGee　hung　from　the　shower　curtain　rod。　It　was　the　old…fashioned　kind　bolted　into　the　wall；　and　had　held　his　weight　all　night　and　all　day。　He　was　naked。　His　penis　hung　limp　and　dry　as　a　dead　leaf；　there　had　been　no　last　orgasm　in　death　for　him。　His　body　was　thin　nearly　to　the　point　of　emaciation；　luminously　pale；　his　hands　and　feet　gravid　with　blood；　his　face　so　swollen　as　to　be　featureless　except　for　the　eyes　bulging　halfway　out　of　their　sockets。　The　rough　strand　of　hemp　cut　a　deep　slash　in　his　neck。　His　hands　and　his　torso　were　still　stained　with　the　blood　of　his　family。
　　As　someone　lifted　him　and　carried　him　out；　still　curled　into　the　smallest　possible　ball；　Trevor　had　his　first　coherent　thought　in　hours；　and　the　last　he　would　have　for　many　days。
　　He　needn't　have　worried　about　accidentally　ing　upon　the　Devil's　Tramping　Ground；　he　realized。
　　The　Devil's　Tramping　Ground　had　e　to　him。
　　
　　
　　From　the　Corinth　Weekly　Eye；　June　16；1972
　　
　　By　Denny　Marsten；　Staff　Writer
　　
　　MISSING　MILE…Grisly　tragedy　has　struck　just　down　the　road。　Hardly　anyone　knew　that　the　famous　〃underground〃　cartoonist　Robert　McGee　was　living　in　North　Carolina　until　he　bludgeoned　two　members　of　his　family　to　death；　then　mitted　suicide　in　a　rented　house　on　the　outskirts　of　Missing　Mile。
　　
　　McGee；　formerly　of　Austin；　Texas；　was　35。　His　work　has　appeared　in　student　and　counter…culture　newspapers　across　the　country；　and　he　created　the　controversial　adult　ic　book　Birdland。　Also　deceased　are　his　wife；　Rosena　McGee；　29；　and　a　son；　Fredric　McGee；　3。　Surviving　is　another　son；　name　and　age　unknown。
　　
　　A　state　trooper　mented　at　the　scene；　〃We　believe　drugs　were　involved　。　。　。　With　these　kinds　of　people；　they　usually　are。〃　Another　trooper　remarked　that　this　was　the　first　multiple　murder　in　Missing　Mile　since　1958；　when　a　man　shot　his　wife　and　his　three　brothers　to　death。
　　
　　Kinsey　Hummingbird　of　Missing　Mile　repaired　the　McGees'　car　a　few　weeks　before　the　murders。　〃I　didn't　see　anything　wrong　with　any　of　them；〃　Hummingbird　said。　〃And　if　I　had；　it　would　be　nobody's　business。　Only　the　McGees　will　ever　know　what　went　on　in　that　house。〃
　　
　　He　added；　〃Robert　McGee　was　a　great　artist。　I　hope　somebody　takes　good　care　of　the　little　boy。〃
　　
　　No　one　would　speculate　on　why　McGee　chose　to　let　his　eldest　son　live。　The　child　has　been　taken　into　custody　of　the　state　and　will　be　placed　in　an　orphanage　or　foster　home　if　no　relatives　are　located。
　　
　　Twenty　Years　Later
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　One
　　
　　As　he　walked　to　work　each　afternoon；　Kinsey　Hummingbird　was　apt　to　reflect　upon　a　variety　of　things。　These　things　might　be　philosophical　（quantum　physics；　the　function　of　Art　in　the　universe）　or　prosaic　（what　sort　of　person　would　take　the　time　to　scrawl　〃Robin　Fuks〃　in　a　freshly　cemented　sidewalk；　had　they　really　thought　the　legend　was　important　enough　to　be　preserved　through　the　ages　in　concrete？）　but　never　boring。　Kinsey　seldom　found　himself　bored。
　　The　walk　from　his　house　to　downtown　Missing　Mile　was　an　easy　one。　Kinsey　hoofed　it　twice　a　day　nearly　every　day　of　his　life；　only　driving　in　when　he　had　something　too　heavy　to　carry…a　pot　of　homemade　fifteen…bean　soup；　for　instance；　or　a　stray　amplifier。　The　walk　took　him　past　a　patchwork　quilt　of　fields　that　changed　with　every　season：　plowed　under　dark　and　rich　in　winter；　dusted　with　the　palest　green　in　spring；　resplendent　with　tobacco；　pumpkin　vines；　or　other　leafy　crops　through　the　hot　Carolina　summer　and　straight　on　till　harvest。　It　took　him　past　a　fairytale　landscape　of　kudzu；　an　entire　hillside　and　stand　of　trees　taken　over　by　the　exuberant　weed；　transformed　into　ghostly　green　spires；　towers；　hollows。　It　took　him　over　a　disused　set　of　train　tracks　where　wildflowers　grew　between　the　uneven　ties；　where　he　always　managed　to　stub　his　toe　or　twist　his　ankle　at　least　once　a　month。　It　took　him　down　the　wrong　end　of　Firehouse　Street　and　straight　into　town。
　　Missing　Mile　was　not　a　large　town；　but　it　was　big　enough　to　have　a　run…down　section。　Kinsey　walked　through　this　section　every　day；　appreciating　the　silence　of　it；　the　slight　eeriness　of　the　boarded…up　storefronts　and　soap…blinded　windows。　Some　of　the　empty　stores　still　bore　going…out…of…business　signs。　The　best　one；　which　never　failed　to　amuse　Kinsey；　trumpeted　BEAT　XMAS　RUSH！　in　red　letters　a　foot　high。　The　stores　not　boarded　up　or　soaped　were　full　of　dust　and　cobwebs；　with　the　occasional　wire　clothes　rack　or　smooth　mannequin　torso　standing　a　lonely　vigil　over　nothing。
　　One　rainy　Saturday　afternoon　in　June；　Kinsey　came　walking　into　town　as　usual。　He　wore　a　straw　hat　with　a　tattered　feather　in　its　band　and　a　long　billowing　raincoat　draped　around　his　skinny　shoulders。　Kinsey's　general　aspect　was　that　of　an　amiable　scarecrow；　his　slight　stoop　did　nothing　to　hide　the　fact　that　he　was　well　over　six　feet　tall。　He　was　of　indeterminate　age　（some　of　the　kids　claimed　Kinsey　wasn't　much　older　than　them；　some　swore　he　was　forty　or　more；　practically　ancient）。　His　hair　was　long；　stringy；　and　rather　sparse。　His　clothes　were　timeworn；　colorfully　mismatched；　and　much　mended；　but　they　hung　on　his　narrow　frame　neatly；　almost　elegantly。　There　was　a　great　deal　of　the　country　in　his　beaky　nose；　his　long　jaw　and　clever　mouth；　his　close…set　bright　blue　eyes。
　　The　warm　rain　hit　the　sidewalk　and　steamed　back　up；　forming　little　eddies　of　mist　around　Kinsey's　ankles。　A　puddle　of　oil　and　water　made　a　swirling　rainbow　in　the　street。　A　couple　more　blocks　down　Firehouse　Street；　the　good　end　of　town　began：　some　shabbily　genteel　antebellum　hom