pzb.drawingblood-第27节

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　　And　he　put　away　java　the　way　Terry's　car　chugged　motor　oil。　Terry　wondered　what　Trevor　was　trying　to　stay　awake　for。
　　One　thing　was　certain：　Missing　Mile　had　itself　another　live　one。
　　
　　Trevor　stayed　long　enough　to　drink　most　of　the　second　pot　of　coffee。　Terry　finished　the　joint　and　ran　his　mouth　in　what　seemed　like　a　friendly　way；　talking　about　music；　the　town；　even　ics　once　he　found　out　Trevor　drew　them。　Trevor　didn't　usually　talk　about　it；　but　Terry　asked　so　many　questions　that　he　couldn't　help　answering　some。
　　At　least　Terry　didn't　mention　Bobby　McGee；　but　then　Birdland　probably　wasn't　his　sort　of　thing。　He　liked　the　Freak　Brothers；　predictably；　but　most　of　his　other　favorites　featured　guys　in　capes　and　long　underwear　beating　up　guys　in　black。　（There　was　an　awkward　silence　here；　then　Trevor；　unable　to　help　himself；　mumbled　〃I　hate　that　shit。〃　Terry　just　shrugged。）
　　Terry　seemed　kind　enough；　still　Trevor　could　not　shake　the　idea　that　he　was　being　surreptitiously　examined　like　some　three…headed　sideshow　attraction。　In　few　other　places　had　people　seemed　as　curious　about　him；　as　interested　in　him；　as　here。　It　was　as　if　they　sensed　that　he　was　a　hometown　boy；　or　nearly　so。
　　Finally　Terry　stood　up　and　stretched。　Trevor　saw　a　flash　of　bare　belly　beneath　his　T…shirt：　the　skin　lightly　tanned；　with　the　barest　beginnings　of　a　roll　of　fat　and　a　thin　line　of　pale　brown　hair　disappearing　into　the　waistband　of　his　jeans。　〃Guess　we　better　get　moving。　You　want　a　ride　somewhere？〃
　　〃Violin　Road。〃
　　〃Pretty　dead　out　there；　man。　You　sure？〃
　　〃That's　where　I'm　staying　now。〃
　　Terry　glanced　at　Trevor；　seemed　to　wrestle　with　something　he　wanted　to　say；　evidently　decided　it　was　none　of　his　business。　〃Okay。　Violin　Road　it　is。〃
　　The　rain　had　stopped　but　the　day　was　still　overcast。　The　air　felt　heavy　and　moist　against　Trevor's　skin；　like　an　unwanted　kiss。　The　Rambler　gunned　through　town　and　bumped　over　the　railroad　tracks。　It　was　Sunday　afternoon；　and　nearly　everything　seemed　to　be　shut　down；　doors　locked　tight；　windows　dark　and　shaded。　Freak　subculture　or　not；　Missing　Mile　was　still　in　the　heart　of　the　Bible　Belt。　The　thought　of　his　lambs　being　able　to　buy　a　tube　of　toothpaste　or　get　a　cup　of　coffee　on　Sunday　was　surely　a　terrible　affront　to　the　Lord。
　　Then　they　were　turning　off　Firehouse　Street　onto　another　gravel　road；　one　that　changed　to　rutted　dirt　after　half　a　mile　or　so。　Violin　Road。　Trevor　felt　a　loosening　in　his　chest；　a　hot　ribbon　of　excitement　uncoiling　in　his　stomach。　The　scrap　heaps　and　rusted　hulks　of　automobiles；　the　unpainted　trailers；　the　castle…like　spires　of　kudzu　slipped　past；　less　substantial　than　blurry　images　in　old　photographs。　His　eyes　swept　the　roadside。
　　Then；　suddenly；　there　was　the　house：　his　hell；　his　Birdland。
　　It　was　set　farther　back　from　the　road　than　he　remembered。　The　porch　and　the　peak　of　the　roof　were　barely　visible　through　the　rioting　growth　that　had　taken　over　the　yard。　A　weeping　willow　at　the　side　of　the　house　had　not　been　much　taller　than　Momma's　head；　now　its　pale　green　fronds　caressed　the　roof。　A　verdant　tangle　of　goldenrod　and　forsythia；　Queen　Anne's　lace　and　pokeweed　and　brown…eyed　Susans　ran　right　up　to　the　porch　steps；　which　were　partly　crumbled。　Kudzu　was　draped　over　everything　like　a　green　blanket；　tendrils　twining　between　the　porch　railings；　through　the　broken　windows。
　　〃You　can　let　me　out　here。〃
　　Terry　slowed　the　Rambler　to　a　crawl；　looked　around。　This　far　out；　Violin　Road　was　sparsely　populated；　there　was　no　other　house　in　sight。　〃Where？〃
　　〃Right　here。〃
　　〃The　murder　house？〃
　　Trevor　didn't　say　anything；　waited　for　the　car　to　slow　enough　so　that　he　could　jump　out。　Terry　seemed　to　have　forgotten　that　his　foot　was　on　the　gas；　the　Rambler　inched　along　at　ten　miles　per　hour。　〃Oh　shit；〃　he　said。　〃I　think　I　know　who　you　are。〃
　　〃Yeah；　I'm　starting　to　feel　like　a　local　celebrity　or　something。　Thanks　for　the　ride。　I'll　see　you　at　the　Yew。〃
　　Trevor　grabbed　his　bag　and　pushed　the　passenger　door　open；　prompting　Terry　to　apply　his　brakes　at　last。　Trevor's　sneakers　hit　the　scrubby　grass　at　the　side　of　the　road；　then；　before　he　could　think　about　it；　he　was　sprinting　toward　the　house。
　　〃Be　careful；　man！〃　Terry　yelled。　Trevor　pretended　not　to　hear。　Then　the　Rambler　was　speeding　up；　disappearing　down　the　road；　throwing　mud　in　its　wake。　It　rounded　a　bend　and　was　gone。
　　Trevor　stood　alone　in　the　yard；　panting；　staring　at　the　house。　A　few　patches　of　weathered　wood　and　broken　glass　were　visible　through　the　growth；　other　than　that　the　face　of　the　house　was　mostly　hidden。
　　The　grass　just　brushed　his　knees。　As　he　pushed　through　it；　sparkling　drops　of　water　scattered　to　earth；　grasshoppers　whirred　away　from　his　invading　feet。　He　ducked　under　a　dripping　bower　of　vine　and　was　there。　No　more　obstacles　lay　between　him　and　the　house。　The　steps　were　mostly　intact；　and　he　thought　the　porch　would　hold　him。　The　front　door　was　barely　ajar。　Beyond　that　was　dusty　darkness。
　　Trevor　closed　his　eyes　for　a　long　moment；　heard　the　sigh　and　hush　of　leaves；　the　high　shrill　drone　of　insects；　the　distant　conversation　of　birds　。　。　。　and　beneath　that；　a　subliminal　voice　whispering　to　him；　making　itself　heard　over　years　of　absence　and　decay？
　　He　was　afraid　so。　He　hoped　so。
　　He　opened　his　eyes；　took　a　deep　breath　of　sunlight　and　the　verdant　smell　the　rain　had　left；　and　put　his　foot　on　the　first　step。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Nine
　　
　　The　air　in　Birdland　was　golden　as　slow　syrup；　green　as　the　light　that　filtered　through　the　kudzu；　weighted　with　dampness　and　rot。　The　cool　decaying　scent　of　a　house　abandoned　for　decades；　made　up　of　many　things：　the　black　earth　under　the　floor；　the　dry　droppings　of　animals；　the　drifts　of　dead　insects　sifting　to　shards　of　iridescent　chitin　beneath　shimmering　tapestries　of　cobweb。　In　the　random　shafts　of　sunlight　that　fell　through　the　lattice　of　roof　and　vegetation；　dust　motes　slowly　shifted；　turned。　Each　one　might　represent　a　memory　Trevor　had　of　this　house；　a　particle　of　the　universe　charged　with　the　terrible　energy　of　years。
　　He　moved　deeper　in。　Here　was　the　living　room；　the　husks　of　the　ugly　chair　and　old　brown　sofa　that　had　e　with　the　house　moldering　in　a　corner；　reduced　to　skins　of　brittle　colorless　cloth　stretched　over　skeletons　of　wood　and　wire。　The　rain　had　e　in　through　the　holes　in　the　roof；　and　the　room　smelled　of　slow　damp　decay；　of　fungal　secrets。　Here　were　the　remains　of　the　stacked　milk　crates　where　the　records　had　been　stored。　Most　of　the　records　were　gone；　probably　stolen　by　kids　who　had　made　it　this　far　in；　though　by　the　end　of　that　summer　the　magical　vinyl　wheels　would　have　been　as　warped　as　if　they　had　spent　two　months　in　a　slow　oven。
　　A　few　fleeting　images　of　album　covers　came　to　him：　Janis　Joplin's　Cheap　Thrills　with　art　by　R。　Crumb；　the　psychedelic　hologram　of　the　Rolling　Stones'　Satanic　Majesties　Request　that　could　induce　dizziness　if　he　stared　into　it　too　long；　a　photograph　of　Sidney　Bechet　that　had　scared　him　a　little　to　look　at；　because　the　muscles　of　the　jazz　saxophonist's　cheeks　and　neck　were　so　developed　that　his　head　appeared　swollen；　elephantine。
　　Here　was　the　doorway　leading　into　the　hall；　where　Momma　had　died。　Her　blood　had　long　since　faded　to　a　barely　discernible　pattern　of　streaks　and　spatters　on　the　wall；　not　much　darker　than　the　shadow　and　grime　around　it。　But　here　and　there　the　wooden　frame　had　been　splintered　by　hammer　blows　that　missed。　And　in　two　spots；　one　on　either　side　of　the　door；　Momma's　fingers　had　dug　into　the　wall　hard　enough　to　leave　gouges　in　the　plaster。　That　must　have　happened　when　Bobby　didn't　miss。
　　In　the　autopsy　report　was　a　list　of　substances　found　under　her　fingernails：　wood；　plaster；　her　husband's　blood　and　her　own。　And　little　divots　of　Bobby's　skin；　strands　of　Bobby's　hair。　She　had　fought　him　off　hard。　She　had　died　in　intimate　contact　with　him。
　　Cause　of　death：　blunt　trauma。　Victim　had　fifteen　separate　wounds　made　by　a　claw　hammer；　five　to　the　head；　three　to　the　chest　area；　seven　to　the　arms　and　hands。　Three　of　the　head　wounds　and　two　of　the　chest　wounds　could　in　and　of　themselves　have　been　fatal。
　　Had　Momma　died　quietly？　This　was　something　Trevor　had　wondered　about　for　a　long　time。　She　might　have　wrestled　with　Bobby　in　a　desperate　silence　at　first；　not　wanting　to　wake　the　boys　and　scare　them　with　another　fight。　But　once　she　realized　that　Bobby　meant　them　harm；　Trevor　thought；　she　would　have　started　screaming。　She　would　have　tried　to　hold　Bobby　off　long　enough　to　let　them　get　out　of　the　house。
　　And　the　injuries　she　had　taken　before　her　death：　seven　broken　fingers；　a　splintered　collarbone　and　a　shattered　tibia；　three　cracked　ribs；　a　blow　sunk　so　deeply　into　her　chest　that　it　penetrated　the　breastbone。　Could　she　have　remained　silent　through　those？
　　Trevor　didn't　think　so。　He　probably　could　have　slept　through　anything　that　night。　He　remembered　the　bitter…tasting　grapefruit　juice　Bobby　had　given　him　before　bed；　the　dull　loginess　of　his　head　the　next　morning　when　he　woke。　And　a　notation　in　his　file　at　the　Home　said　there　had　been　Seconal　in　his　blood　when　he　was　brought　in。
　　Bobby　had　drugged　him；　which　meant　he　had　planned　the　murd