pzb.drawingblood-第9部分

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their　sockets。　〃I　can't　drink　coffee　anymore；〃　he　admitted。　〃I　used　to　love　it；　but　now　it　just　gives　me　the　shakes。〃
　　Dougal's　heavy　eyebrows　drew　together　in　genuine　consternation。　〃But　we　got　de　second…best　joe　hi　de　world　right　here！　Jus'　have　a　slug；　it'll　do　you　right。〃
　　〃I　can't　even　drink　decaf；〃　Zach　said　sadly。　〃My　imagination's　too　good。〃
　　〃You're　twenty？〃
　　〃Nineteen。〃
　　〃An'　you　quit　drinkin'　coffee…〃
　　〃When　I　was　sixteen。〃
　　Dougal　shook　his　head。　The　frayed　and　festooned　ends　of　dreads　swayed　gently　around　his　face。　〃I　t'ink　you　need　to　relax。　If　I　couldn't　drink　New　Orleans　coffee；　I　guess　I'd　be　makin'　even　more　donations　to　de　cause　than　you　do。〃
　　〃So　what's　the　best　joe？〃
　　〃Jamaican　Blue　Mountain；　mon。　Fry　up　some　salt　fish'n'ackee　every　morning；　have　two…three　cups　of　Blue　Mountain；　you　lose　dem　dark　circles　unda　your　eyes。〃
　　Yeah；　thought　Zach；　and　die　of　a　heart　attack　before　I　hit　twenty…five。
　　They　shot　the　shit　for　a　few　more　minutes。　（〃Party　tonight；〃　Dougal　informed　him；　〃buncha　folks　gonna　dial　de　trip　phone　at　Louie's；〃　which　translated　to　〃Anywhere　from　three　to　twenty　people　are　going　to　drop　acid　in　St。　Louis　Cemetery　tonight。〃）　As　he　made　his　farewells　and　turned　to　go；　Dougal　stopped　him。　〃You　want　de　hat？　Half　price…no　problem。〃
　　Zach　had　forgotten　he　was　still　holding　the　black　Amish　hat。　He　started　to　toss　it　back　on　the　table；　then　stopped。　He　didn't　have　a　hat；　and　this　one　would　keep　the　sun　off　nicely。　He　put　it　on；　a　perfect　fit。　Dougal　nodded。　〃Very　fine。　Make　you　look　like　a　preacher　man　gone　bad。〃　That　sunny　grin　again；　and　Zach　laughed　too。　These　guys　could　sell　you　anything。
　　On　his　way　back；　Zach　stopped　at　a　produce　stand　and　bought　a　few　handfuls　of　thin；　twisted；　lethally　hot　red　and　green　peppers。　Once　in　a　while　the　Market　would　get　some　of　the　orange　and　yellow　scotch　bonnets；　or　habaneros；　that　grew　on　bushes　in　Dougal's　home　country。　They　were　said　to　be　the　hottest　pepper　in　the　world…fifty　times　the　heat　of　the　jalapeno…and　they　had　a　sweet；　fruity　flavor　Zach　loved。　But　the　Louisiana　peppers　would　do　for　now。　He　would　snack　on　them　later；　while　swigging　milk　and　speeding　down　the　highways　of　hackdom。
　　He　supposed　his　strange　body　chemistry　had　its　rewards。　He　missed　coffee　like　a　dear　lost　lover；　but　he　knew　no　one　else　who　could　hack　on　acid；　thrive　for　days　on　pot　and　Bloody　Marys　made　of　equal　parts　vodka；　tomato　juice；　and　Tabasco；　or　munch　ounces　of　near…pure　capsicum　without　even　a　scorched　tongue　or　a　burning　belly　to　show　for　it。
　　He　walked　back　down　Madison；　checked　his　mail…two　catalogs；　one　from　Loompanics　Unlimited；　which　sold　books　about　how　to　obtain　fake　IDs　and　disable　tanks　and　other　useful　things；　and　one　from　Mo　Hotta　Mo　Betta；　which　carried　every　fiery　sauce；　spread；　spice；　and　seasoning　known　to　humankind。　These　he　filed　on　the　bed　for　leisurely　perusal　later；　along　with　his　sharp　new　hat。　His　fingers　were　itchy；　ready　to　pound　some　keys。
　　First　he　took　out　the　antidrug　pamphlet　and　removed　the　bag　of　pot　taped　between　its　pages。　Tight　green　bud；　packed　nearly　flat；　laced　with　delicate　little　red　hairs　that　spelled　P…O…T…E…N…C…Y。　Zach　stuck　his　nose　in　the　bag　and　breathed　deep。　The　smell　alone　was　intoxicating；　herbal　and　piney。　Anything　that　smelled　that　good　just　had　to　be　illegal。
　　He　crumbled　some　onto　a　stray　sheet　of　paper；　removed　a　couple　of　seeds　and　set　them　aside　to　throw　in　a　field　later；　packed　the　weed　into　his　black　onyx　pipe　and　lit　up。　The　sweet　smoke　curled　down　into　his　lungs；　sent　green　tendrils　into　his　bloodstream；　uncoiled　the　knots　in　his　brain。
　　Aaaahhh。
　　Time　to　work。
　　He　flipped　the　box　on；　stuck　the　phone　in　the　modem's　cradle；　and　dialed　an　obscure　local　pirate　bulletin　board　system　known　as　Mutanet。　The　BBS　was　an　information　exchange　for　all　sorts　of　hackers；　phone　phreaks；　and　assorted　puter　weirdos。　Zach　had　discovered　its　existence　by　writing　a　program　that　dialed　every　phone　number　in　the　area　code　and　kept　a　list　of　the　ones　answered　by　modems。　A　little　time　spent　discovering　which　ones　led　to　bulletin　boards…and　what　other　ones　might　be　useful…　had　led　him　to　Mutanet；　and　a　bination　of　brashness；　twisted　humor；　and　demonstration　of　his　abilities　had　gotten　him　on。
　　He　had　all　kinds　of　work　waiting　and　projects　going：　credit　card　accounts　to　shave　pennies　from　like　wafer…thin　slices　of　salami；　bank　balances　to　augment；　lists　of　phone　codes　to　obtain　for　sale　later。　He　had　recently　written　a　program　that　cracked　the　encrypted　password　system　of　the　state　police　headquarters；　and　he　was　toying　with　the　idea　of　wiping　clean　the　records　of　every　drug　offender　he　could　find。
　　But　right　now　he　felt　like　fooling　around　on　Mutanet　for　a　while。　He　wasn't　sure　what　made　him　do　it…it　wasn't　how　he　usually　began　a　work　session…and　he　was　never　sure　what　gods　to　thank；　afterward。　For　the　pirate　board　might　have　been　the　only　thing　that　saved　him。
　　The　system's　logo　appeared；　along　with　a　screenful　of　warnings；　exhortations；　and　dire　pronouncements；　then　a　prompt。　Zach　tapped　in　his　Mutanet　handle　（LUCIO）　and　his　current　password　（NH3GH3）；　and　he　was　in。
　　A　puter　BBS　worked　much　like　a　real　bulletin　board：　you　could　put　up　items　for　anyone　to　read　and　respond　to；　or　you　could　put　messages　in　envelopes；　so　to　speak；　for　the　eyes　of　one　person　only。　It　was　better　than　a　real　bulletin　board；　though；　because　no　one　could　deface　your　messages　or　peek　into　your　envelopes　except　the　systems　operator；　who　wasn't　usually　inclined　to　bother。
　　He　had　mail　waiting；　a　message　from　a　talented　phreak　named　Zombi　who　had　given　him　some　good　uncanceled　credit　card　numbers　of　the　recently　deceased。　Grieving　relatives　didn't　usually　think　to　notify　the　card　panies　right　away；　and　in　the　meantime　the　numbers　were　ripe　for　misuse　or　dissemination。　Maybe　this　would　be　something　equally　nifty。
　　He　brought　up　his　mail　and　sat　back　in　his　chair。
　　And　the　message　filled　his　screen；　flashing　like　Bourbon　Street　strip…club　neon；　pulsing　like　a　vein　in　a　junkie's　fevered　temple。
　　
　　LUCIO。　THEY　ARE　ONTO　YOU。　THEY　KNOW　WHO　YOU　ARE。　THEY　KNOW　WHERE　YOU　ARE。　RUN。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Three
　　
　　The　Greyhound　bus　was　slow　and　hot　and　nearly　empty。　It　smelled　mostly　of　smoke　and　sweat；　a　tired　smell　like　the　ends　of　journeys；　but　underlying　that　was　a　faintly　exotic　sweetness　that　twined　into　the　nostrils　like　opium　smoke。　Probably　the　industrial　strength　disinfectant　they　used　to　slop　out　the　rest　room　at　the　back　of　the　bus；　but　to　Trevor　it　was　the　smell　of　travel；　of　adventure。　At　any　rate；　it　was　an　odor　he　knew　as　well　as　that　of　his　own　skin。　He　had　spent　a　good　part　of　the　past　seven　years　on　Greyhound　buses；　or　waiting　for　them　in　the　quiet　despair　of　a　thousand　cavernous　terminals。
　　The　Carolina　countryside　rolled　past　his　window；　summer…green；　then　dusk…blue；　then　a　deepening；　smoky　violet。　When　he　could　no　longer　see　by　the　dying　sunlight　that　came　through　the　window；　he　switched　on　the　small　bulb　above　his　seat　and　kept　drawing；　his　hand　moving　to　the　rhythm　of　the　Charlie　Parker　tape　on　his　Walkman。　Now　and　then　he　raised　his　head　and　stared　briefly　out　the　window。　All　the　cars　had　their　headlights　on；　rushing　toward　him　in　an　endless　dazzling　stream。　Soon　it　was　so　dark　that　he　could　see　only　his　own　hollow…eyed　reflection　in　the　glass。
　　The　fat　redneck　occupying　the　two　seats　in　front　of　him　heaved　a　great　sigh　when　Trevor　turned　on　the　light。　Trevor　was　dimly　aware　of　the　man　shifting　in　his　seat；　making　a　show　of　tugging　his　John　Deere　cap　down　over　his　eyes；　his　body　giving　off　a　strong　stale　odor　of　cheap　beer　and　human　dirt。　At　last　he　turned　pletely　around　and　stared　at　Trevor　over　the　back　of　the　seat。　Neckless；　his　head　looked　like　a　jug　resting　on　a　wall；　the　skin　of　his　face　was　seamed　and　damp　and　blotchy；　nearly　leprous。　He　might　have　been　nineteen　or　forty。　〃Hey；　you；〃　he　said。　〃Hey；　hippie。〃
　　Trevor　looked　up　but　did　not　remove　his　earphones。　He　always　listened　to　music　at　a　very　low　volume；　and　he　could　hear　fine　with　them　on。　〃Me？〃
　　〃Yeah；　you；　who　the　fuck　you　think　I　mean；　him？〃　The　redneck　gestured　at　an　ancient　black　man　asleep　across　the　aisle；　toothless　cavern　of　his　mouth　gaping；　gnarled　hands　twisting　around　the　nearly　empty　bottle　of　Night　Train　in　his　lap。
　　Ever　so　slowly　Trevor　shook　his　head；　never　looking　away　from　the　redneck's　bleary；　glittering　eyes。
　　〃Well　anyway；　you　mind　turnin'　that　goddamn　light　off？　I　got　a　real　bad　headache；　you　know？〃
　　Hangover；　more　like。　Trevor　shook　his　head　again；　even　more　slowly；　even　more　firmly。　〃I　can't。　I　have　to　work　on　this　drawing。〃
　　〃The　fuck　you　do！〃　More　of　the　redneck's　head　rose　over　the　seat；　though　there　was　still　no　neck　in　evidence。　A　large　scarred　hand　appeared　as　well。　Trevor　saw　black　half…moons　of　dirt　under　each　thick　nail。　〃What's　a　freak　like　you　drawin'　that's　so　goddamn　important？〃
　　Silently　Trevor　turned　his　sketchbook　around　so　that　the　redneck　could　see　it。　The　light　showed　every　detail　of　the　drawing：　a　slender　woman　half…seated；　half…sprawled　in　a　doorway；　head　thrown　back；　yawning　mouth　full　of　blood　and　broken　teeth。　Her　left　temple　and　forehead　were　smashed　in；　her　hair　and　face　and　the　front　of　her　blouse　black　with　blood。　The　draftsmanship　was　stark　and　flawless；　the　frozen　agony　eloquent　in　every　line　of　her　body；　in　every　stroke　of　her　ruined　face。
　　〃My　mother；〃　Trevor　said。
　　The　redneck's　fat　face　quivered。　His　lips　twitched；　his　eyes　went　shocked；　momentarily　defenseless；　then　flat。　〃Fuckin'　freak；〃　he　muttered　loudly。　But　he　didn't　say　anything　else　about　the　light；　not　for　the　rest　of　the　trip。
　　The　bus　turned　off　the　interstate　at　Pittsboro　and　got　on　the　narrow　two…lane　state　highway。　It　stopped　for　minutes　at　a　tiny　dark　station　in　Corinth；　then　there　were　no　more　stops；　and　it　was　irrevocable；　it　was　true；　he　was　really　going　back　to　Missing　Mile。
　　Trevor　looked　back　down　at　his　drawing。　A　line　appeared　between　his　eyebrows　as　he　frowned　at　it。　How　weird。　In　the　lower　right…hand　corner；　without　being　aware　of　it；　he　had　labeled　the　drawing。　And　he　had　labeled　it　wrong。　In　big；　dark　bl