pzb.drawingblood-第23节

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　ink；　sometimes　he　would　trace　it　into　patterns　with　his　finger　or　the　nib　of　a　pen。
　　But　he　hadn't　done　it　for　years　and　years。　He　thought　the　last　time　had　been　on　his　twentieth　birthday；　two　years　。　out　of　state's　custody；　the　ill　winds　of　adulthood　and　poverty　blowing　down　his　neck。　It　was　as　if　America　had　begun　the　decade　of　the　eighties　by　shattering　some　great　cosmic　mirror；　except　that　the　seven　years　of　bad　luck　hadn't　ended　yet。　The　wizened；　evil…faced　dybbuk　in　the　White　House　had　been　as　alien　a　being　as　Trevor　could　imagine；　a　shriveled　yet　hideously　animated　puppet　thrust　into　power　by　the　same　shadowy　forces　that　had　controlled　the　world　since　Trevor　was　five；　forces　he　could　not　control；　could　barely　see　or　begin　to　understand。
　　He　had　spent　the　night　of　his　twentieth　birthday　wandering　around　New　York　City；　riding　the　subways　alone；　slamming　down　coffee　and　cappuccino　and　espresso　in　every　dive　he　passed；　finally　achieving　an　exaggerated　state　of　awareness　that　went　beyond　perception　into　hallucination。　He　ended　up　huddled　in　a　grove　in　Washington　Square　Park；　furtively　slicing　at　his　wrist　with　a　dull　and　rusty　blade　he　dug　out　of　his　pocket；　trying　to　let　some　of　this　electric　energy　out　with　the　blood　before　it　rattled　him　to　pieces。　Toward　dawn　he　fell　into　restless　sleep　and　dreamed　of　angels　telling　him　to　do　violence…to　himself？　to　someone　else？　he　could　not　remember　when　he　woke。
　　He　didn't　know　why　he　had　stopped　cutting　himself　after　that。　It　had　just　stopped　working：　the　pain　couldn't　e　out　that　way　anymore。
　　Trevor　sat　up　straight；　shook　himself。　He'd　nearly　started　to　doze　here　in　the　gathering　storm　on　his　family's　grave。　He　saw　an　image　of　his　flayed　wrist　above　a　white　sheet　of　paper；　dark　sluggish　blood　making　Rorschach　blots　on　the　page。
　　The　first　drops　of　rain　were　hitting　the　spongy　carpet　of　grass　and　pine　needles；　dark　streaking　and　blotching　on　the　headstones。　Lightning　sketched　across　the　sky；　searing　jagged　blue；　then　thunder　rolling　in　like　a　slow　tide。　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