pzb.drawingblood-第28部分

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　　Soon　he　turned　and　went　back　into　the　soft　gloom　of　the　house。　Without　giving　himself　time　to　think　about　it　he　crossed　the　living　room；　walked　a　few　paces　down　the　hall；　and　let　himself　into　Didi's　room。
　　It　looked　smaller　than　he　remembered；　but　that　might　have　been　due　to　the　kudzu　vines　that　had　burst　through　the　window　and　taken　over　more　than　half　the　room。　They　twined　up　the　walls；　around　the　light　fixture　on　the　ceiling。　They　trailed　into　the　closet　on　Trevor's　left；　where　he　could　still　see　a　few　of　Didi's　toys　mired　in　the　leaves；　as　if　the　kudzu　had　actually　twined　around　them　and　lifted　them　off　the　floor。　A　smiling　plush　octopus；　a　windup　grandfather　clock；　a　once…red　rubber　ball。　All　were　covered　in　dust；　faded　with　time　and　neglect。　Twenty　years　never　touched　by　a　little　boy's　hands；　a　little　boy's　love。
　　The　kudzu　filled　the　left　half　of　the　room　with　rustling　heart…shaped　leaves　and　shifting　green　shadows。　The　mattress　sat　in　a　clear　spot　to　the　right。　Instead　of　a　tiny　body　it　bore　only　a　huge；　irregular　bloodstain；　dark　crimson　and　wet…looking　in　the　center；　fading　to　the　most　delicate　pale　brown　around　the　edges。　Trevor　noticed　splotches　and　runners　of　blood　on　the　wall　above　the　mattress　too；　five　or　six　feet　up。　How　many　blood　vessels　were　in　the　brain？　And　how　far　could　they　spray　when　the　head　was　crushed　like　a　juicy　grape；　made　to　spill　out　the　red　secrets　of　its　wine；　the　electric　potion　of　its　cerebral　fluid；　the　very　chemistry　of　its　thoughts　and　dreams？
　　It's　a　glorious　summer　day；　some　remotely；　annoyingly　sane　voice　in　his　head　nagged　him；　and　here　you　are　buried　in　this　tomb　of　a　house　staring　at　the　twenty…year…old　deathstain　of　a　brother　you　barely　had　time　to　know。
　　And　another　part　of　him　answered；　We　get　to　the　places　where　we　need　to　be。
　　He　pulled　the　Whirling　Disc　T…shirt　over　his　head；　let　it　fall　to　the　floor；　and　stretched　out　on　Didi's　mattress。　Stale　dust　puffed　up　from　the　ticking　as　he　centered　his　head　on　the　bloodstain。　It　was　stiff　and　dry　against　his　cheek；　and　smelled　only　of　age；　with　perhaps　a　faint　sour　undertone　like　the　memory　of　spoiled　meat。　He　nuzzled　his　face　into　the　stain；　spread　his　arms　wide　as　if　to　embrace　it。
　　From　somewhere　in　the　room　came　a　faint　popping　sound；　then　the　noise　of　something　heavy　hitting　the　floor。　Trevor　jerked　reflexively　but　did　not　look　around。　He　wasn't　sure　he　wanted　to　see　what　new　surprise　the　house　had　dealt　him。　Not　yet。　Can't　you　even　give　me　a　minute　with　Didi？　he　thought。　Can't　I　even　have　that　before　I　have　to　start　thinking　about　you　again？
　　But　by　now　he　knew　he　wasn't　calling　the　shots；　not　many　of　them　anyway。　He　had　e　here　to　learn；　and　whatever　was　here　would　teach　him　。　。　。　something。　He　pushed　himself　up　on　his　elbows　and　turned　to　look　into　the　corner　of　the　room　from　which　the　sound　had　e；　over　by　the　closet。　A　small　dark　object　lay　near　the　edge　of　the　kudzu；　as　if　it　had　tumbled　out　of　the　vines。　The　object　was　perhaps　a　foot　long；　half…shrouded　in　shadow。　Trevor　tried　to　tell　himself　it　could　be　anything。　A　stick。　A　stray　piece　of　wood。
　　A　hammer。
　　He　got　up　and　crossed　the　room；　stared　at　it　for　a　long　moment；　then　leaned　down　and　picked　it　up。　The　stout　wooden　handle　was　scuffed　and　streaked　with　dark　stains。　It　felt　slightly　warm　in　his　hand。　The　head　and　claw　were　rusted；　caked　with　a　delicate；　crumbling　dry　brown　matter　like　powdery　fungus；　like　desiccated　petals。　He　touched　his　finger　to　it；　rubbed　it　against　his　thumb。　The　scrim　of　matter　between　them　felt　dusty；　gritty。　Pale　brown；　like　the　edges　of　the　bloodstain。　He　remembered　reading　somewhere　that　any　human　tissue　would　turn　to　some　shade　of　brown　eventually；　given　time。　It　was　the　color　of　all　skin；　the　color　of　waste；　the　color　of　rot。
　　Cause　of　death：　blunt　trauma　。　。　。
　　Trevor　had　no　idea　what　had　happened　to　the　hammer　that　had　killed　his　family；　but　he　knew　it　could　not　have　stayed　in　the　house。　It　would　have　been　taken　as　evidence；　photographed；　probably　even　fitted　into　the　holes　in　their　skulls　to　prove　it　was　indeed　the　murder　weapon。　That　was　how　they　did　things。　Yet　he　knew　too；　just　as　surely；　that　this　was　the　same　hammer。
　　He　stood　for　a　long　time　turning　it　over　and　over　in　his　hands。　He　felt　a　few　slow　tears　leaking　from　his　eyes；　running　into　his　mouth　or　dripping　off　his　chin。　But　he　had　done　most　of　his　crying　last　night；　with　Kinsey。　Now　he　was　beginning　to　feel　as　if　he　were　being　taunted。　Here's　a　hammer；　what　can　you　do　with　it？
　　He　didn't　know　yet。
　　But　when　a　noise　came　from　the　living　room…no　scrape　or　creak　of　the　house；　he　was　already　starting　to　get　used　to　those；　but　a　distinct　footfall…he　whirled　and　raised　the　hammer　before　he　knew　what　he　was　doing。
　　And　when　he　heard　a　stranger's　voice；　Trevor　moved　swiftly　and　silently　toward　the　door。
　　
　　〃Shit！　I　better　get　back　to　the　store　before　it　pours。　Tell　Zach　I'll　see　him　later　if　he　decides　to　hang　out。〃
　　Terry　tipped　a　quick　salute　at　Kinsey；　who　was　on　his　knees　ripping　several　weeks'　worth　of　silver　duct　tape　off　the　stage；　and　took　his　leave　of　the　Sacred　Yew。　A　few　minutes　later　Zach　came　out　of　the　rest　room；　his　face　and　hands　freshly　scrubbed；　his　dark　eyelashes　still　beaded　with　water；　settling　his　glasses　on　the　narrow　bridge　of　his　nose。　〃It's　raining；〃　he　told　Kinsey。
　　〃I　heard。　How　could　you　tell？〃
　　〃The　ceiling's　leaking。　I　put　the　trash　can　under　it。〃
　　Kinsey　sighed；　pushed　his　feathered　hat　back　over　his　stringy　hair；　and　kept　tugging　at　the　duct　tape。
　　〃Did　Terry　leave？　I　was　going　to　ask　him　if　he　knew　a　place　I　could　crash。〃
　　〃He'll　let　you　have　his　spare　bedroom　if　R。J。　isn't　camped　there。　You　can　sleep　on　my　couch；　too；　if　you'll　do　me　a　favor。　I　was　going　to　do　it　myself；　but　I　need　to　stay　here　and　make　sure　the　place　doesn't　flood。　The　landlord　won't　fix　our　pipes　and　sometimes　a　heavy　rain　just　es　right　in。〃
　　Zach　had　an　open　Natty　Boho　in　his　hand…he'd　grabbed　it　out　of　the　cooler　and　slapped　two　dollars　on　the　counter　before　Kinsey　could　card　him…and　looked　in　no　great　hurry　to　go　anywhere；　but　he　agreed　readily　enough。　〃Sure；　I'll　do　you　a　favor。〃
　　〃There's　a　young　man　living　in　an　abandoned　house　out　on　the　other　side　of　town。〃　Kinsey　explained　briefly　about　Trevor；　giving　none　of　the　details　of　why　he　was　in　the　house。　〃He　has　no　electricity　or　running　water。　I　brought　in　a　few　things　for　him…blankets；　bottled　water；　some　food。　Think　you　could　take　it　out　to　him？〃
　　Zach　looked　dubious。　〃Okay。〃
　　〃He　doesn't　bite。〃
　　〃Oh；　well　then　forget　it。〃　Zach　saw　Kinsey's　blank　look。　〃Sorry。　What's　he　doing　in　this　abandoned　house？〃
　　〃I'll　let　him　tell　you　himself；　if　he　wants　to。　You'll　like　Trevor。　He's　lived　in　New　York…the　two　of　you　can　pare　notes　on　that　pestilent　hellhole。〃
　　Zach　followed　Kinsey　behind　the　bar　to　get　the　box　of　supplies。　Kinsey　noticed　that　Zach's　hands　were　restless；　nervous；　their　slender　spatulate　fingers　always　manipulating　something：　skating　over　the　keypad　of　the　adding　machine；　toying　with　the　phone。　Once　he　reached　for　the　keys　of　the　cash　register；　but　drew　back　as　if　realizing　that　would　be　impolite。　The　boy　seemed　to　have　a　fascination　for　switches　and　buttons。　He　refrained　from　actually　pushing　them；　but　stroked　and　tapped　them　gently　as　if　wishing　he　could。
　　Kinsey　gave　him　directions　to　the　house　and　let　him　out　the　back　door。　Zach　could　hardly　miss　the　place；　there　were　several　run…down　houses　on　Violin　Road；　but　only　one　that　was　barely　even　there。　Kinsey　went　back　into　the　club。　Now　a　thin　trickle　of　water　was　seeping　from　under　the　door　of　the　men's　room。　If　the　rain　kept　up；　he　could　spend　the　whole　afternoon　mopping　and　wringing；　mopping　and　wringing。　Damn　the　landlord。
　　He　wasn't　sure　he　had　done　right　by　sending　Zach　out　to　Violin　Road；　but　it　felt　right　somehow。　He　hated　the　thought　of　Trevor　staying　out　there　another　night　without　food　or　water。　Someone　should　at　least　make　sure　he　hadn't　fallen　through　a　rotten　floor　and　broken　his　neck。
　　Zach　was　an　all　right　sort；　if　a　little　shifty。　Kinsey　didn't　think　he　was　really　from　New　York；　or　anywhere　near　it。　There　was　a　type　of　New　York　accent　that　sounded　something　like　his　voice；　true。　But　Kinsey　had　heard　a　distinctive　one　from　New　Orleans…a　weird　blend　of　Italian；　Cajun；　and　deep…South…that　sounded　a　lot　closer。　And　Zach　had　perked　up　visibly　when　Terry　mentioned　that　the　name　of　his　band　was　Gumbo。
　　But　if　he　wanted　to　be　from　New　York；　then　he　was　from　New　York　as　far　as　anyone　around　here　was　concerned。　Kinsey　only　asked　questions　when　he　could　tell　a　kid　wanted　him　to。　Right　now　Zach；　no　last　name　offered；　looked　like　he　wanted　to　stay　as　far　away　from　questions　as　possible。
　　
　　Zach　swerved　to　avoid　the　swollen　carcass　of　a　possum　in　the　road；　slowed；　and　turned　into　a　likely…looking　driveway。　It　was　barely　more　than　a　rutted　track　losing　a　battle　to　tall　grasses　and　wildflowers；　the　house　itself　was　so　overgrown　that　it　was　invisible　from　the　road　unless　you　were　looking　for　it。　Zach　thought　it　looked　like　a　wonderful　place　to　live。
　　He　finished　his　beer；　got　out　of　the　car；　and　pulled　the　box　of　supplies　out　after　him。　Kinsey　had　put　a　six…pack　of　Coke　in　with　the　bottled　water；　blankets；　and　various　packaged　food。　There　was　even　a　pillow　in　a　flowered　case　at　the　bottom　of　the　box。　Whoever　this　Trevor　Black　was；　Kinsey　had　done　him　up　right。
　　The　rain　had　slacked　off　some；　but　it　was　still　drizzling　drearily；　beading　on　his　glasses；　making　his　hair　straggle　into　his　face。　The　day　had　taken　on　a　cool；　slightly　eerie　cast。　Zach　hoisted　the　box　and　lugged　it　up　the　steps　to　the　vine…draped　porch。
　　The　front　door　hung　askew　on　its　hinges；　half　open。　Zach　knocked；　waited；　knocked　again。　No　response。　He　squinted　into　the　damp　gloom　of　the　house；　then　shrugged　and　let　himself　in。
　　For　a　moment　he　stood　in　the　center　of　the　living　room　letting　his　eyes　adjust　to　the　absence　of　light。　Gradually　details　resolved　themselves　and　he　saw　the　holes　in　the　ceiling；　the　vines　twisting　in　the　windows；　the　rotting　hulks　of　furniture。　A　tendril　of　unease　touched　him。　He　cleared　his　throat。　〃Hello？〃
　　Nothing。　The　doorway　to