pzb.drawingblood-第5章

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ily　genteel　antebellum　homes　with　sagging　pillars　and　wraparound　verandas；　several　of　which　were　fixed　up　as　boardinghouses；　a　7…Eleven；　the　old　Farmers　Hardware　Store　whose　parking　lot　doubled　as　the　Greyhound　bus　depot；　and　a　few　other　businesses　that　were　actually　open。　But　down　here　the　rent　was　cheaper。　And　the　kids　didn't　mind　ing　to　the　bad　end　of　town　after　dark。
　　Kinsey　crossed　the　street　and　ducked　into　a　shadowy　doorway。　The　door　was　a　special　piece　of　work　he　had　missioned　from　a　carver　over　in　Corinth：　a　heavy；　satin…textured　slab　of　pine；　varnished　to　the　color　of　warm　caramel　and　carved　with　irregular；　twisted；　black…stained　letters　that　seemed　to　bleed　from　the　depths　of　the　wood。　THE　SACRED　YEW。
　　Kinsey's　real　home。　The　one　he　had　made　for　the　children；　because　they　had　nowhere　else　to　go。
　　Well　。　。　。　mostly　for　the　children。　But　for　himself　too；　because　Kinsey　had　never　had　anywhere　to　go　either。　A　Bible…belting　mother　who　saw　her　son　as　the　embodiment　of　her　own　black　sin；　her　maiden　name　was　McFate；　and　all　the　McFates　were　psychotic　delusionaries　of　one　stripe　or　another。　A　pale　shadow　of　a　father　who　was　drunk　or　gone　most　of　the　time；　then　suddenly　dead；　as　if　he　had　never　existed　at　all；　most　of　the　Hummingbirds　were　poetic　souls　tethered　to　alcoholic　bodies；　though　Kinsey　himself　had　always　been　able　to　take　a　drink　or　two　without　requiring　three　or　four。
　　In　1970　he　inherited　the　mechanic's　job　from　the　garage　where　his　father　had　worked　off　and　on。　Kinsey　was　better　at　repairing　engines　than　Ethan　Hummingbird　had　ever　been；　though　deep　inside　he　suspected　this　was　not　what　he　wanted　to　do。
　　Growing　older；　his　friends　leaving　for　college　and　careers；　and　somehow　the　new　friends　he　made　were　always　younger：　the　forlorn；　bewildered　teenagers　who　had　never　asked　to　be　born　and　now　wished　they　were　dead；　the　misfits；　the　rejects。　They　sought　Kinsey　out　at　the　garage；　they　sat　and　talked　to　his　skinny　legs　sticking　out　from　under　some　broken…down　Ford　or　Chevy。　That　was　the　way　it　always　was；　and　for　a　while　Kinsey　thought　it　always　would　be。
　　Then　in　1975　his　mother　died　in　the　terrible　fire　that　shut　down　the　Central　Carolina　Cotton　Mill　for　good。　Two　years　later　Kinsey　received　a　large　settlement；　quit　the　garage；　and　opened　the　first…ever　nightclub　in　Missing　Mile。　He　tried　to　mourn　his　mother；　but　when　he　thought　about　how　much　better　his　life　had　gotten　since　her　death；　it　was　difficult。
　　Kinsey　fumbled　in　his　pocket　for　the　key。　A　large；　ornate　pocketwatch　fell　out　and　dangled　at　the　end　of　a　long　gold　chain；　the　other　end　of　which　was　safety…pinned　to　Kinsey's　vest。　He　flipped　the　watch　open　and　glanced　at　its　pearly　face。　Nearly　an　hour　ahead　of　schedule：　he　liked　to　be　at　the　Yew　by　four　to　take　deliveries；　clean　up　the　last　of　the　previous　night's　mess；　and　let　the　bands　in　for　an　early　sound　check　if　they　wanted。　But　it　was　barely　three。　The　overcast　day　must　have　deceived　him。　Kinsey　shrugged　and　let　himself　in　anyway。　There　was　always　work　to　do。
　　The　windowless　club　was　dark　and　still。　To　his　right　as　he　entered　was　the　small　stage　he　had　built。　His　carpentry　was　unglamorous　but　sturdy。　To　his　left　was　the　art　wall；　a　mural　of　painted；　crayoned；　and　Magic　Markered　graffiti　that　stretched　all　the　way　back　to　the　partition　separating　the　bar　area　from　the　rest　of　the　club。　The　tangle　of　obscure　band　names　and　their　arcane　symbols；　song　lyrics；　and　catchphrases　was　indistinct　in　the　gloom。　Kinsey　could　only　make　out　one　large　piece　of　graffiti；　spray…painted　in　gold；　wavering　halfway　between　wall　and　ceiling：　WE　ARE　NOT　AFRAID。
　　Those　words　might　be　the　anthem　of　every　kid　who　passed　through　that　door；　Kinsey　thought。　The　hell　of　it　was　that　they　were　afraid；　every　one　of　them；　terribly　so。　Afraid　they　would　never　make　it　to　adulthood　and　freedom；　or　that　they　would　make　it　only　at　the　price　of　their　fragile　souls；　afraid　that　the　world　would　prove　too　dull；　too　cold；　that　they　would　always　be　as　alone　as　they　felt　right　now。　But　not　one　of　them　would　admit　it。　We　are　not　afraid；　they　would　chant　along　with　the　band；　their　faces　bathed　in　golden　light；　we　are　not　afraid；　believing　it　at　least　until　the　music　was　over。
　　He　crossed　the　dance　floor。　The　sticky　remnants　of　last　night's　spilled　beer　and　soda　sucked　softly　at　the　soles　of　his　shoes　with　each　step。　Idly　brooding；　he　passed　the　restrooms　on　his　right　and　entered　the　room　at　the　back　that　served　as　the　bar。
　　He　was　brought　up　short　by　the　stifled　screech　of　the　girl　bent　over　the　cash　drawer。
　　The　back　door　stood　open；　as　if　she　had　been　ready　to　leave　in　a　hurry。　The　girl　stood　frozen　at　the　register；　catlike　face　a　mask　of　shock　and　fear；　wide　eyes　fixed　on　Kinsey；　a　sheaf　of　twenties　clutched　in　her　hand。　Her　open　handbag　sat　on　the　bar　beside　her。　A　perfect；　damning　tableau。
　　〃Rima？〃　he　said　stupidly。　〃What　。　。　。　？〃
　　His　voice　seemed　to　unfreeze　her。　She　spun　and　broke　for　the　door。　Kinsey　threw　himself　over　the　bar；　shot　out　one　long　arm；　and　caught　her　by　the　wrist。　The　twenties　fluttered　to　the　floor。　The　girl　began　to　sob。
　　Kinsey　usually　had　a　couple　of　local　kids　working　at　the　Yew；　mostly　doing　odd　jobs　like　stocking　the　bar　or　collecting　money　at　the　door　when　a　band　played。　Rima　had　worked　her　way　up　to　tending　bar。　She　was　fast；　funny；　cute；　and　（Kinsey　had　thought）　utterly　trustworthy；　so　much　so　that　he　had　let　her　have　a　key。　When　he　had　another　bartender；　he　didn't　have　to　stay　until　closing　time　every　night；　on　slow　nights　someone　else　could　lock　up。　It　was　almost　like　having　a　mini…vacation。　But　keys　had　a　way　of　getting　lost；　or　changing　hands；　and　Kinsey　didn't　entrust　them　to　many　of　his　workers。　He　had　believed　he　was　a　pretty　good　judge　of　character。　The　Sacred　Yew　had　never　been　ripped　off。
　　Until　now。
　　Kinsey　reached　for　the　phone。　Rima　threw　herself　across　him；　grabbing　for　it　with　her　free　hand。　They　struggled　briefly　for　the　receiver；　then　Kinsey　wrested　it　free　and　easily　held　it　out　of　her　reach。　The　phone　cord　caught　her　purse　and　swept　it　onto　the　floor。　The　contents　spilled；　skittered；　shattered。　Kinsey　tucked　the　receiver　into　the　hollow　of　his　shoulder　and　began　to　dial。
　　〃Kinsey；　no；　please！〃　Rima　grabbed　futilely　for　the　phone　again；　then　sagged　back　against　the　bar。　〃Don't　call　the　cops　。。。〃
　　His　finger　paused　over　the　last　number。　〃Why　shouldn't　I？〃
　　She　saw　her　opening　and　went　for　it。　〃Because　I　didn't　take　any　money。　Yes；　I　was　going　to；　but　I　didn't　have　time　。　。　。　and　I'm　in　trouble；　and　I'm　leaving　town。　Just　let　me　go　and　you'll　never　see　me　again。〃　Her　face　was　wet　with　tears。　In　the　half…light　of　the　bar　Kinsey　could　not　see　her　eyes。　Her　wrist　was　so　thin　that　his　hand　could　have　encircled　it　two　or　three　times；　the　bones　felt　as　fragile　as　dry　twigs。　He　eased　his　grip　a　little。
　　〃What　kind　of　trouble？〃
　　〃I　went　to　the　Planned　Parenthood　clinic　over　in　Corinth　。　。　。〃
　　Kinsey　just　looked　at　her。
　　〃You　want　me　to　spell　it　out？〃　Her　sharp　little　face　went　mean。　〃I'm　pregnant；　Kinsey。　I　need　an　abortion。　I　need　five　hundred　dollars！〃
　　Kinsey　blinked。　Whatever　he　had　expected；　that　wasn't　it。　Rima　had　arrived　in　Missing　Mile　just　a　few　months　ago。　Among　local　guys　who　had　asked　her　out　and　been　turned　down；　the　word　was　that　she　carried　a　torch　for　the　guitarist　of　a　speed　metal　band　back　in　her　native　California。　So　far　as　Kinsey　knew；　she　hadn't　been　back　to　California　recently。　〃Who　。　。　。　？〃　he　managed。
　　〃You　don't　know　him；　okay？〃　She　swiped　a　hand　across　her　eyes。　〃An　asshole　who　wouldn't　wear　a　rubber　because　that's　like　taking　a　shower　with　a　raincoat　on。　There's　plenty　of　'em　around。　They　shoot　their　wad　and　that's　the　last　thing　they　have　to　worry　about！〃　Now　her　mean　face　had　collapsed；　she　was　crying　so　hard　she　could　barely　choke　out　the　words。　〃Kinsey；　I　slept　with　the　wrong　guy　and　he's　not　going　to　help　me　out；　he　won't　even　talk　to　me。　And　I　don't　want　any　goddamn　baby；　let　alone　his。〃
　　〃At　least　tell　me　who。　I　could　talk　to　him。　There　are　things　。　。　。〃
　　She　shook　her　head　violently。　〃NO！　I　just　want　to　go　to　Raleigh　and　get　rid　of　it。　I　won't　e　back　to　Missing　Mile。　I'll　go　to　my　sister's　place　in　West　Virginia；　or　maybe　back　to　L。A。　。　。　。　Please；　Kinsey。　Just　let　me　go。　You　won't　see　me　around　here　again。〃
　　He　studied　her。　Rima　was　twenty…one；　he　knew；　but　her　body　seemed　years　younger：　barely　five　feet　tall；　breastless　and　hipless；　all　flat　planes　and　sharp　angles。　Her　straight；　shiny　brown　hair　was　held　back　with　plastic　barrettes　like　a　little　girl's。　He　tried　to　imagine　that　childish　body　swollen　with　pregnancy；　could　not。　The　very　idea　was　painful。
　　〃I　can't　give　you　any　money；〃　he　said。
　　〃No；　I　wouldn't…〃
　　〃But　you　can　take　your　last　pay　envelope。　It's　there　on　the　bulletin　board。〃　Kinsey　let　go　of　her　wrist　and　turned　away。
　　〃Oh；　God；　Kinsey；　thank　you。　Thank　you。〃　She　knelt　and　began　scraping　together　the　contents　of　her　purse。　When　she　had　searched　out　everything　in　the　dimness　of　the　bar；　she　went　to　the　bulletin　board　and　took　down　her　envelope。　Kinsey　was　hardly　surprised　to　see　her　glance　into　it　as　if　making　sure　enough　money　was　there。　She　turned　and　stared　at　him　for　a　long　moment；　as　if　deciding　whether　to　say　anything　else。
　　〃Good　luck；〃　he　told　her。
　　Rima　looked　surprised；　and　a　little　guilty。　Then；　as　if　the　milk　of　human　kindness　were　too　heady　a　potion　for　her　parched　soul；　she　spun　on　her　heel　and　left　without　another　word。
　　There　goes　my　mini…vacation；　Kinsey　thought。
　　Thirty　minutes　later；　with　the　lights　turned　up　and　the　swampy　area　behind　the　bar　half…mopped；　he　found　the　little　white　packet。
　　It　was　nestled　in　a　crack　in　the　wooden　floor　directly　below　the　spot　where　Rima's　purse　had　spilled。　With　the　lights　off；　as　they　had　been　when　Kinsey　caught　her；　it　was　unlikely　that　she　would　have　spotted　it。　Kinsey　bent；　picked　it　up；　and　looked　at　it　for　a　long　time。　It　didn't　look　like　much：　a　tiny　twist　of　plastic；　the　corner　of　a　Baggie　perhaps；　with　an　even　tinier　pinch　of　white　powder　inside。　No；　it　didn't　look　like　much　at　all。　But　Kinsey　knew　it　for　what　it　was：　a　towering　monument　to　his　gullibility。
　　She　could　still　be　pregnant；　he　reasoned　as　he　walked　to　the　restroom。　She　really　could　need　money　for　an　abortion。　Somebody　could　be　giving　her　coke。　Maybe　she　was　even　selling　the　shit　to　get　the　money　she　needed。
　　Yeah；　right。　The　things　she　had　said　about　the　father　of　her　embryo…if　embryo　there　was…hardly　suggested　that　he　would　be　giving　her　free　drugs。　And　Kinsey　knew　that　the　market　for　cocaine　in　Missing　Mile　was　very　poor　indeed。　You　could　hardly　turn　around　without　bumping　into　a　pothead　or　a　boozehound；　and　they　treated　psychedelics　like　candy；　but　coke　was　another　thing。　Most　of　the　younger　kids　seemed　to　think　it　was　boring：　it　didn't　tell　them　stories　or　give　them　visions；　didn't　drown　their　pain；　didn't　do　anything　for　them　that　a　pot　of　strong　coffee　couldn't　do　for　a　fraction　of　the　price。　They　would　probably　snort　coke　if　it　was　handed　to　them；　but　they　wouldn't　spend　their　allowances　on　it。　And　most　of　the　older　townie　crowd　couldn't　afford　it　even　if　they　wanted　it。
　　Rima；　though；　seem