pzb.drawingblood-第14节

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cy；　and　somehow　seemed　a　distilled　essence　of　its　time；　you　could　easily　picture　the　guy　in　his　sharp　suit　with　its　deep…cut　lapels；　hair　slicked　back；　cool　ofay　cat。　〃Well！　Yeah！　Miiiiles　Davis。　Remember；　you　still　have　plenty　of　time　to　get　to　Birdland…〃
　　Kinsey　heard　a　strangled　sob。　He　opened　his　eyes　and　stared　at　Trevor；　who　was　rolling　his　head　back　and　forth　on　the　bar；　his　hands　clawing　at　the　scarred　wood。　His　lips　were　pulled　back　over　his　teeth；　and　tears　poured　from　his　eyes。　Kinsey　could　actually　see　them　forming　salty　little　pools　on　the　bar's　varnished　surface。　He　moved　toward　the　boy。　〃Hey；　Trevor？　What…〃
　　〃I　don't　have　plenty　of　time　to　get　to　Birdland！〃　Trevor　cried。　His　voice　sounded　as　if　it　were　being　pulled　out　of　him；　dragged　over　hot　coals　and　rusty　nails；　tortured　out　of　his　throat。　〃I　don't　have　any　time　at　all…and　I'm　scared…〃
　　〃Birdland？〃　Kinsey　said　softly。
　　Trevor　caught　the　puzzled　inflection。　He　looked　up　at　Kinsey；　the　pale　flesh　of　his　eyelids　swollen；　his　clear　eyes　naked　and　wet　and　terrified。　And　suddenly　Kinsey　knew　that　face：　a　five…year…old　boy；　in　bad　need　of　a　haircut　by　some　standards；　too　thin　and　hollow…eyed　by　any；　standing　on　the　side　of　a　country　road　staring　first　at　his　mother；　then　at　his　father。
　　〃Trevor　McGee；〃　said　Kinsey。
　　〃Oh；　goddamn　。　。　。〃　Miserably；　Trevor　nodded。　Then　he　was　sobbing　again。　Kinsey　went　around　the　bar；　put　a　cautious　hand　on　the　boy's　trembling　shoulder；　felt　the　muscles　bunch　up　and　flinch　away　from　his　palm。
　　〃Don't　touch　me！〃
　　〃Sorry。　I　didn't　mean…〃
　　〃No；　I　just　can't…〃
　　They　stared　helplessly　at　each　other。　Trevor's　face　was　flushed；　slick　with　tears。　Everything　in　the　way　he　held　himself…arms　crossed　over　his　chest；　shoulders　hunched　…　screamed　Don't　touch　me　as　loudly　as　Trevor's　mouth　had　done。　But　his　eyes　were　five　years　old　again；　and　begged　Hold　me。　Hold　me。　Help　me。
　　Trevor　might　hate　him；　might　even　think　Kinsey　was　hitting　on　him；　but　that　was　just　too　bad。　Kinsey　could　not　ignore　such　pain。　〃I　remember　you；〃　he　said。　〃I　was　the　mechanic　who　fixed　your　parents'　car。　I　wanted　to　help　you　then；　and　I　want　to　help　you　now。〃　Before　Trevor　could　flinch　again；　Kinsey　wrapped　his　long　arms　around　the　boy　and　held　on　tight。
　　He　felt　Trevor's　body　go　absolutely　rigid；　felt　him　try　to　pull　away。　If　he　had　kept　trying；　Kinsey　would　have　let　him　go。　But　after　a　few　seconds　of　struggle　Trevor　sagged　against　Kinsey's　chest。
　　〃I　remember　you　too；〃　he　said。　〃You　recognized　my　dad　。　。　。　but　he　was　ashamed　of　himself　。　。　。　ashamed　of　us　。。。〃
　　〃You　poor　child；〃　Kinsey　whispered；　〃you　poor；　poor　child。〃　The　thin　body　was　all　sharp　angles；　all　elbows　and　shoulder　blades；　it　felt　as　fragile　against　him　as　that　of　a　wounded　bird。　Kinsey　imagined　Trevor's　fear　unfolding　like　treacherous　wings　to　carry　him　back　to　that　house；　back　to　the　strange　and　painful　year　1972；　to　the　death　he　no　doubt　thought　he　had　deserved。
　　At　last　the　crying　faded　to　an　occasional　long　tremor　that　jerked　through　the　boy　like　an　electric　current。　He　had　been　leaning　hard　against　Kinsey；　his　sharp　chin　digging　into　Kinsey's　shoulder。　Now　he　pulled　away　and　slumped　on　the　bar　stool；　swiping　at　his　face。　Kinsey　decided　not　to　give　him　time　to　be　embarrassed。　〃Let's　go。〃
　　Trevor　gave　him　a　half…wary；　half…questioning　look。
　　〃You　shouldn't　be　by　yourself　tonight；〃　Kinsey　told　him。　〃You're　ing　home　with　me。〃
　　He　expected　argument；　maybe　refusal；　and　he　was　prepared　to　push　the　issue。　But　if　anything；　Trevor　looked　relieved。　Kinsey　wondered　whether　the　boy　had　been　planning　to　hike　out　to　Violin　Road；　to　sleep　in　that　bad　memory　of　a　house。　The　house　of　Trevor　McGee's　thwarted　doom　and；　perhaps；　of　Trevor　Black's　impending　destiny。
　　Trevor　slung　his　backpack　over　his　shoulder；　turned　off　the　bar　lights；　and　followed　Kinsey　out　of　the　club；　down　the　bad　end　of　Firehouse　Street；　into　the　silent　silver…lit　night。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Four
　　
　　Four　rings。　Zach　counted　them　with　his　teeth　gritted；　his　free　hand　viciously　shredding　a　fundamentalist　tract　he'd　picked　up　somewhere；　Tomb　of　the　Unborn。
　　Then　the　gentle　click　of　a　lifted　receiver；　muted　Dixieland　jazz　playing　in　the　background。　〃Hi；　this　is　Eddy　Sung。〃
　　〃EDDY　FOR　CHRISSAKE　YOU　GOT　TO　HELP　ME　I　GOT　TO　GET　OUT　OF…〃
　　The　Dixieland　changed　abruptly　to　grinding　industrial　hardcore。　〃I'm　sorry　I'm　not　here；　but　if　you　leave　your　number　I'll　call　you　back　as　soon…〃
　　〃AWWWW　SHIT；　GODDAMMIT；　EDDY；　PLEASE　BE　THERE！！！　PLEASE　PICK　UP！！！〃
　　A　squealing　snatch　of　violins；　then　Eddy's　answering　machine　beeped　in　his　ear。　Zach　took　a　deep　sobbing　breath；　resisted　the　urge　to　slam　his　own　phone　into　the　cradle　hard　enough　to　crack　its　casing；　and　tried　to　speak　calmly。　〃Ed…I'm　in　trouble。　You　always　said　you　coveted　my　apartment；　well；　call　me　soon　enough　and　you　might　get　the　goddamn　thing。〃
　　He　hung　up；　spun　aimlessly　in　the　middle　of　the　room　for　several　moments。　The　puter　screen　caught　his　eye；　still　pulsing　like　some　obscene　digital　orifice。　Yes；　you　could　fall　headlong　into　that　screen；　that　alternate　reality　like　a　cradling　mouth　or　womb；　never　ing　up　for　air；　never　realizing　that　so　slowly；　so　smoothly　you　took　no　notice；　it　was　chewing　and　digesting　you　。　。　。
　　No。　Blaming　the　puter　for　his　troubles；　that　was　like　a　terminal　lung　cancer　victim　blaming　a　pack　of　cigarettes　or；　worse；　his　faithful　old　Zippo。　It　was　a　tool　and　he　had　chosen　to　use　it。　His　troubles　were　with　They　whose　clammy　suckered　tentacle　grasped　the　other　end　of　that　tool。　William　Burroughs　had　advised　him　to　know　what　was　on　the　end　of　his　fork；　but　had　he　listened？　Of　course　not…and　now　the　dirty　tines　were　on　the　verge　of　impaling　his　tongue。
　　But　in　that　direction　madness　lay。
　　He　leaned　against　the　doorjamb　that　led　into　the　bathroom…with　its　polished　sea…green　tiles　and　its　skylight　in　the　ceiling　high　above　the　tub；　taking　a　shower　here　was　like　standing　beneath　a　sunlit　waterfall；　and　where　would　he　ever　find　such　a　place　again？　A　green　waterfall　of　a　bathroom…an　apartment　with　all　his　things　in　it；　a　block　from　the　wondrous　bazaar　that　sold　everything　he　needed；　two　blocks　from　the　bank　of　the　Mississippi　that　coursed　。　through　the　city　like　a　throbbing　brown　artery？
　　Before　moving　in　here　two　years　ago；　Zach　had　spent　most　of　his　time　on　the　streets　and　at　various　friends'　houses。　This　was　the　first　place　that　had　ever　felt　like　home。　He　wasn't　sure　he　knew　how　to　live　anywhere　else；　wasn't　sure　anywhere　else　would　have　him。
　　But　that　didn't　matter。　He　had　been　cutting　things　too　close；　taking　too　many　dumb　chances。　When　he　started　hacking　three　years　ago；　it　had　been　just　another　lark；　another　way　of　amusing　himself；　a　curiosity　like　getting　drunk　on　sloe　gin　or　watching　the　Psychic　Friends　Network　on　late…night　cable　TV。　During　his　brief　high　school　career　he　had　taken　an　elementary　programming　class　and　ended　up　getting　himself　kicked　out　of　the　school　puter　room；　which　robbed　him　of　his　only　good　reason　to　show　up　at　the　brain…numbing；　tomblike　institution　at　an　inhuman　hour　each　weekday　morning。
　　At　sixteen；　two　years　after　leaving　home；　Zach　dropped　out　and　started　casting　about　for　something　better。　He　had　known　immediately　that　hacking　was　it。　He'd　only　had　a　cheap　PC…clone　with　a　slow　modem　at　first；　but　fucking　around　on　the　underground　bulletin　boards　he　found　with　his　automatic　dialing　program　led　him　to　wonder　about　other　networks；　secret　systems　and　databanks　that　were　supposed　to　be　hidden　but　were　actually　right　there；　tantalizingly　there；　vibrating　behind　a　thin　membrane　of　mands　and　passwords。
　　Free　information　and　money；　if　only　you　could　get　at　it。　Zach　soon　discovered　that　he　could。　And　it　was　so　damn　easy　。。。
　　But　if　they　caught　you　at　things　like　stealing　from　credit　card　panies　and　breaking　the　systems　of　Southern　Bell；　affectionately　known　as　the　Gestapo　among　phreaks　and　hackers；　it　could　be　worth　ten　years　in　a　federal　prison。　Sure；　you　might　get　out　in　half　as　many；　or　even　less。　But　the　thought　of　even　one　day　in　the　pen　was　too　much　for　most　hackers；　conjuring　up　vivid　images　of　great　tattooed　baby…rapers　and　serial　killers　cornholing　their　lily…white　butts；　then　snapping　their　skinny　necks。
　　Zach　let　his　knees　buckle　and　slid　down　the　door　frame　to　the　floor。　He'd　kicked　off　his　sneakers　at　some　point；　and　the　green　tiles　were　blessedly　cool　against　the　soles　of　his　feet。　He　saw　the　round　mirror　above　the　sink　reflecting　his　empty　room；　saw　the　dripping　faucet　that　over　the　years　had　left　a　stain　on　the　porcelain　like　the　imprint　of　rusty　teardrops；　saw　the　blue　ceramic　mug　that　held　two　toothbrushes；　one　purple　and　one　black。　He　kept　an　extra　because　Eddy　had　been　known　to　sleep　over　on　occasions　when　they　watched　one　bad　film　too　many　or　talked　too　far　into　the　night　or　simply　drank　themselves　into　a　stupor　on　the　cheap　bourbon　Eddy　loved。
　　There　was　nothing　untoward　to　it；　though；　nothing　sexual；　not　even　a　furtive　drunken　groping　here　or　there。　Zach　liked　Eddy　too　much　for　that。
　　But　never　mind　who　he　liked。　He　was　going　to　be　on　the　road；　playing　it　lonely　for　a　while。　Hackers　were　scared　of