pzb.drawingblood-第21部分

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ide。　Trevor　closed　his　sketchbook　and　slid　it　into　his　backpack。　He　could　work　on　the　Bird　strip　later；　at　the　house。
　　The　rain　began　to　e　down　in　great　gusting　sheets　as　he　left　the　graveyard。　By　the　time　he　reached　the　road；　the　ground　was　already　wet　enough　to　sink　and　squelch　under　his　feet；　muddy　water　oozing　into　his　socks　and　sneakers。　The　trees　bowed　low　over　the　road；　then　lashed　the　wind…torn　sky。
　　A　ways　down　the　road；　Trevor　realized　that　he　had　barely　glanced　at　the　headstone　as　he　left；　had　not　touched　it　at　all　past　the　first　initial　contact。　It　was　numb；　dead；　like　the　fragments　of　memory　and　bone　that　lay　beneath　it。　Maybe　they　had　been　there　once；　but　as　their　flesh　decayed　and　crumbled　in　the　sodden　Southern　ground；　their　essences　had　leached　away　too。　Maybe　he　could　find　his　family　in　Missing　Mile；　or　something　of　them。　But　not　where　their　bodies　lay。
　　He　had　plodded　most　of　the　way　back　to　town　when　he　heard　a　car　ing　slowly　up　the　road　behind　him；　grinding　over　the　coarse　wet　gravel。　He　thought　briefly　of　trying　to　thumb；　just　as　quickly　decided　against　it。　He　was　already　soaked　through；　nobody　would　want　his　soggy　ass　on　their　upholstery。
　　Now　the　car　was　close　enough　that　he　could　hear　its　wipers　sluicing　back　and　forth　across　the　windshield。　The　sound　triggered　a　memory　so　distant　it　was　barely　there：　lying　in　the　back　seat　of　his　father's　car　one　rainy　afternoon　in　Texas；　listening　to　the　shush…skree　of　the　wipers　and　watching　the　rain　course　down　the　windows。　One　of　the　great　San　Francisco　contingent　of　cartoonists…Trevor　couldn't　remember　which　one…had　been　passing　through　town；　and　Bobby　was　showing　him　the　sights　of　1970　Austin；　whatever　they　may　have　been。　The　other　cartoonist　was　busily　rolling　joint　after　joint；　but　that　didn't　stop　him　from　running　his　mouth　as　much　as　Bobby。　For　Trevor　in　the　back　seat　everything　blurred　together　like　different　hues　of　watercolor　paint：　the　fortable　sound　of　the　adults'　voices；　the　sweet　herbal　tang　of　the　pot　smoke；　the　afternoon　city　light　filtering　through　a　veil　of　rain。
　　Momma　must　have　been　at　home　with　the　baby。　Didi　had　been　sick　with　one　thing　or　another　for　a　good　part　of　his　first　year。　Momma　worried　over　him；　fixed　him　special　nasty…tasting　organic　mush；　kept　watch　over　him　as　he　slept。　Just　as　if　she　thought　it　mattered；　just　as　if　they　all　lived　in　a　universe　where　Didi　was　going　to　grow　up。
　　Trevor　kept　walking；　did　not　register　that　the　car　had　pulled　up　behind　him　until　a　horn　blipped。　He　turned　and　found　himself　staring　at　the　headlights　and　grillwork　of　his　father's　old　car；　the　one　whose　back　seat　he　had　dozed　on　that　rainy　day　in　Austin；　the　one　they　had　driven　to　Missing　Mile。　The　two…toned　Rambler；　or　its　twin；　plete　with　a　crimp　that　had　graced　its　front　bumper　since　1970。
　　His　father's　car；　the　windshield　opaque　with　reflected　light；　the　windows　obscured　by　beads　and　drips　of　rain。　Bobby's　car　ing　down　Burnt　Church　Road；　from　the　direction　of　the　graveyard。　And　the　window　on　the　driver's　side　was　slowly　cranking　down。
　　Trevor　thought　there　might　be　tears　on　his　face。　Or　maybe　it　was　only　the　rain；　dripping　out　of　his　sodden　hair。
　　He　stepped　forward　to　meet　the　car　and　whatever　was　inside　it。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Seven
　　
　　Just　after　dawn；　Zach　left　his　car　in　the　parking　lot　of　a　prefab　pink　motel　and　walked　out　onto　the　dirtiest　beach　he　had　ever　seen。
　　He'd　kept　on　a　steady　northeastern　course　all　night。　Shooting　past　Pensacola　at　two；　he　had　intended　to　go　straight　on　east　to　Jacksonville　but　had　been　diverted　by　a　highway　sign　pointing　out　the　turnoff　to　a　town　called　Two　Egg。　Zach　might　never　set　foot　in　Florida　again；　he　had　to　see　Two　Egg　before　he　left。
　　But　the　town　was　eerie　even　for　rural　Florida　in　the　small　hours　of　the　morning。　The　buildings　on　the　downtown　strip　all　seemed　to　have　been　built　in　the　early　fifties；　that　time　of　false　prosperity　and　fake　space…age　optimism。　There　was　that　look　of　the　Plexiglas　pillar　and　chromium　arch；　the　kidney　shape　and　the　fashionable　sign　of　the　atom。　But　now　these　fabulous　structures　were　abandoned；　left　behind　by　the　chill　silicon　void　of　the　millennium's　end。　Their　aqua　paint　was　faded　and　peeling；　their　once…wondrous　swoops　and　starbursts　and　streamlined　angles　rusting；　falling　away。
　　The　buildings　seemed　to　sway　and　nod　over　the　street　as　if　trying　to　pull　Zach　into　their　sterile　dream。　The　street　was　full　of　trash；　crumpled　fast…food　bags　and　torn　newspapers　drifting　like　aimless　ghosts。　The　swamp　was　reclaiming　the　town　on　all　sides；　stagnant　tongues　of　water　lapped　at　the　sidewalks；　cattails　grew　in　every　vacant　lot。　Altogether；　the　town　made　Zach　think　of　the　opening　helicopter　landing　scene　of　Romero's　Day　of　the　Dead　as　filmed　on　the　ruined　set　of　The　Jetsons：　desolation　in　which　rotting　corpses　might　rise；　set　against　a　backdrop　as　garish　and　sad　as　a　forgotten　cartoon。
　　He　got　out　of　Two　Egg　in　a　hurry。　Thirty　minutes　later　he　crossed　the　state　line　into　Georgia。
　　Now　he　was　on　Tybee　Island；　according　to　the　signs　he'd　been　nearly　too　bleary…eyed　to　read　by　the　time　he　finally　hit　the　coast。　Just　east　of　Savannah；　Tybee　was　a　cheap　resort　area　frequented　by　redneck　and　middle…class　family　groups　all　summer。　The　island　was　honeybed　with　seaside　motels；　fried　seafood　shacks；　shell　stands；　and　those　weird；　ubiquitous　little　Indian　boutiques　with　their　unvarying　inventory　of　gauzy　cotton　clothes；　incense；　out…of…date　rock　posters；　cheap　jewelry；　and　drug　paraphernalia。
　　This　early；　nearly　everything　was　closed。　Zach　paid　cash　for　a　room　at　the　Sea　Castle　Motor　Inn；　parked　his　car　behind　the　Pepto…Bismol…colored　building；　and　walked　down　to　the　beach。
　　The　Atlantic　Ocean　looked　dark　and　murky；　not　quite　slate；　not　quite　green。　The　foam　that　laced　the　breakers　was　like　whipped　cream　squeezed　out　of　a　can；　thin　and　unappetizing；　unnatural…looking。　And　the　sand…a　hundred　times　worse　than　the　chalky　whitish　stuff　on　the　Gulf　…　gray　and　wet　and　heavy；　like　silt；　like　sludge。　Zach　nudged　a　heap　of　it　with　the　toe　of　his　sneaker　and　uncovered　a　broken　plastic　shovel；　the　wrapper　from　a　Payday　bar；　the　gritty；　sticky　wad　of　a　used　condom。　He　kicked　sand　back　over　the　whole　mess　and　watched　it　fall　in　a　dirty　spray；　only　half　hiding　the　trash。
　　He　had　thought　the　ocean　would　soothe　his　jangling　nerves。　Instead　the　sight　of　it　endlessly　heaving　and　churning　made　him　feel　tight　inside；　lost　somehow；　as　if　this　was　not　the　place　he　had　meant　to　e　to　at　all。　He　had　also　thought　there　would　be　other　teenagers　on　the　beach；　that　he　would　be　able　to　blend　in　and　look　like　part　of　some　holiday　crowd。　But　at　this　early　hour　the　beach　was　nearly　empty；　and　the　few　people　he　saw　were　middle…aged　couples　or　terribly　young　parents　with　herds　of　tiny　children。　Even　when　he　took　his　shirt　off　and　let　the　fledgling　sun　beat　on　his　pale　back　and　shoulders；　Zach　felt　about　as　inconspicuous　as　Sid　Vicious　at　a　Baptist　covered…dish　supper。
　　He　was　beginning　to　realize　just　how　little　he　knew　about　life　outside　of　New　Orleans。　But　that　was　all　right：　with　intelligence　and　intuition；　he　could　hack　it。
　　Hacking　was　defined　as　the　manipulation　of　any　plex　system；　as　in　〃I　can't　hack　getting　dressed　tonight；　so　I'm　going　to　the　club　in　my　bathrobe。〃　The　plex　system　could　be　numbers　on　a　screen　or　the　relays　and　interchanges　of　the　phone　system；　those　were　mechanical；　and　all　you　had　to　do　was　learn　them。　The　crucial　fact　many　puter　hackers　never　seemed　to　realize…and　the　reason　some　of　them　were　perceived　as　such　geeks…was　that　the　world　and　all　its　sentient　beings　and　their　billions　of　stories　prised　the　most　intricate；　fascinating　system　of　all。
　　He　pushed　himself　up　off　the　gray　sand　and　walked　to　the　edge　of　the　water。　The　glare　caught　the　round　lenses　of　his　glasses；　made　his　eyes　sting　and　tear。　Fine；　he　felt　like　crying　anyway。　A　breeze　tainted　with　the　odors　of　wet　salt　and　crude　oil　caught　his　hair　and　pushed　it　back　from　his　face；　dried　the　faint　sheen　of　sweat　on　his　forehead　and　upper　lip。　The　tears　and　the　wind　felt　good　together。
　　Zach　looked　up　and　down　the　beach；　followed　the　juncture　of　sand　and　water　until　it　merged　into　infinity。　South　of　here　were　the　Georgia　Sea　Islands；　where　the　rich　language　and　culture　of　the　Gullah　people　had　dried　up　over　the　past　century　like　so　many　fronds　of　marsh　grass　never　woven　into　baskets；　like　so　many　magical　roots　never　fashioned　into　protective　〃hands。〃　North　was　the　rest　of　the　Atlantic　Seaboard；　more　than　a　thousand　miles　of　that　churning；　strange…colored　ocean　stretching　all　the　way　up　to　the　unimaginably　toxic　sands　of　New　York　and　New　Jersey。
　　Soon　the　beach　began　to　get　crowded；　and　Zach　saw　that　he　would　never　be　able　to　blend　in　here。　The　redneck　dudes　in　their　drawstring　jams　and　scraggly　little　mustaches；　the　dudettes　with　their　bleached…permed…frosted　hair　and　cottage　cheese　asses　and　scary；　leathery　tans；　the　kids　that　were　hideous　little　replicas　of　their　parents　in　Teenage　Mutant　Ninja　drag…all　stared　at　Zach　as　if　he　might　be　something　nasty　that　had　washed　up　overnight　and　hadn't　floated　back　out　yet。　It　was　time　to　crash；　time　to　sleep　now　so　he　could　blow　this　boring　joint　by　nightfall。
　　Back　in　his　room　at　the　Sea　Castle；　Zach　stripped　out　of　his　sweaty　cutoffs；　laid　his　glasses　on　the　nightstand；　and　crawled　into　the　double　bed。　The　sheets　were　worn　but　clean　and　cool。　He　nestled　into　the　pillows；　closed　his　eyes；　felt　delicious　exhaustion　wash　over　him；　thought　of　the　kid　Leaf　and　suddenly　had　a　raging　boner　that　was　never　going　to　let　him　sleep　in　a　million　years；　noway；　nohow。
　　Zach　leaned　over　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　rummaged　in　one　of　his　bags；　found　a　string　of　little　blue　plastic　packets；　and　tore　one　off。　He　never　used　rubbers　for　sex　unless　the　other　person　insisted…and　many　of　his　lovers　in　New　Orleans　had　insisted；　he　was　known　for　more　than　his　pallid　good　looks　and　mysterious　wealth　（which　bination　had　convinced　a　certain　set　of　French　Quarter　kids　that　Zach　was　a　vampire　and　another　set　entirely　that　he　was　dying　of　AIDS　and　whooping　it　up　while　he　still　could）。　But　he　always　used　them　for　beating　off。　Not　a　one　had　broken　yet；　and