pzb.drawingblood-第26部分

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　　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　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