pzb.drawingblood-第54节

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　　The　highway　between　New　Orleans　and　Houma　was　precariously　close　to　flooding；　as　it　was　much　of　the　year。　Cover's　tires　had　thrown　off　a　thin　steady　spray　of　water　for　the　last　forty　miles　or　so。　There　were　cranes　in　the　breakdown　lane；　big　white　birds　standing　on　one　leg　watching　his　van　slush　by；　or　catching　frogs　in　the　reeds　and　cattails　that　grew　right　up　onto　the　blacktop。　Huge　gnarled　trees　hung　low　over　the　road；　draped　in　Spanish　moss。　God；　he　hated　the　look　of　Spanish　moss。
　　The　local　cop　in　Houma　said　the　truck　was　parked　in　somebody's　front　yard　and　looked　like　it　hadn't　moved　in　a　while。　Cover　navigated　the　joyless　streets　of　downtown　Houma；　got　lost　several　times；　finally　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　house。　The　yard　was　dotted　here　and　there　with　scraggly　chickens。　He　disliked　chickens；　his　grandmother　had　kept　a　henhouse；　and　even　as　a　little　boy　the　chalky　smell　of　their　shit；　their　scaly　feet；　and　the　weird；　wobbly　red　flesh　of　their　bs　had　filled　him　with　revulsion。
　　The　pickup　was　a　sorry　sight；　sitting　on　three　flat　tires　and　a　cement　block；　with　an　ancient　paint　job　that　might　have　once　been　red　beneath　the　chicken　shit。　But　there　was　the　license　plate；　clear　as　anything：　LLBTR…5。　The　cop　was　leaning　against　his　cruiser　taking　a　steady　torrent　of　abuse　from　a　big　black…haired；　red…faced　man　with　a　flair　for　dramatic　gestures。　Relief　spread　across　the　cop's　ratty　little　face　as　Cover　pulled　up。
　　〃Mister　Big　Damn　G…man！〃　hollered　the　Cajun。　Cover　cringed。　He　hated　being　called　a　G…man。　〃Mister　G…man；　maybe　you　can　tell　me　for　why　this　stupid　cop　wants　to　plague　me　all　damn　day；　hein？　I'm　just　stirrin'　up　a　pot　a'　gumbo；　me；　an'　he　e　knockin'　an'　ask　so　many　questions　I　done　scorched　my　roux！〃
　　〃Uh；　Agent　Cover；　this　is　Mr。　Robicheaux；〃　the　cop　broke　in。　〃He　says　the　truck　hasn't　been　driven　for　about　five　years…〃
　　〃Damn　right　it　ain't！　My　wife　she　made　me　put　on　that　damn；　what…you…call…him；　vanity　plate。　Was　a　damn　voodoo　curse；　says　me。　S'posed　to　stand　for　'Laissez　Les　Bans　Temps　Rouler；'　an'　it　ain't　rolled　since。　Now　the　chickens　roost　in　there。〃
　　Agent　Cover　opened　the　truck's　passenger　door。　There　were　three　frizzly　chickens　on　the　front　seat；　several　more　nesting　in　straw　on　the　floorboards。　They　cocked　their　reptilian　eyes　at　him　and　gobbled　frantically。
　　As　if　to　cap　off　the　sheer　perfection　of　his　day；　a　single　egg　rolled　off　the　seat　and　landed　square　on　the　tip　of　his　left　tassel　loafer。　Cover　stared　down　at　the　golden　yolk　and　milky　albumen　oozing　over　the　carefully　polished　leather。
　　Somebody　hates　me；　he　thought。　He　wished　he　never　had　to　set　foot　in　the　sweltering　mud　of　Louisiana　again。　He　wished　he　never　had　to　interrogate　another　snotty　punk　who　knew　a　thousand　times　more　about　puters　than　he　ever　would　or　wanted　to。　He　wished　he　had　the　coveted　White　House　detail。
　　But　none　of　that　mattered。　What　was　the　first　thing　they　had　drummed　into　him　at　Glynco？
　　Absalom　Cover　was　a　Secret　Service　agent。　And　Secret　Service　agents　were　granite　agents。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Eighteen
　　
　　Trevor　sat　in　the　diner　punishing　a　bottomless　cup　of　coffee；　sketching　and　writing　in　an　old　spiral　notebook　he'd　found　in　the　back　of　Zach's　car。　His　hands　shook　a　little；　and　the　glossy　black　Formica　of　the　tabletop　was　scattered　with　constellations　of　white　sugar。　Only　by　pressing　the　heel　of　his　right　hand　against　the　table　and　holding　the　notebook　flat　was　he　able　to　steady　his　pen。
　　Eyes；　hands；　screaming　mouths　clawed　their　way　across　the　page　and　were　lost　in　the　drowning　pattern。　He　could　never　remember　drawing　this　fast；　not　since　early　childhood；　when　he　was　desperate　to　get　as　many　things　as　possible　down　on　paper　because　he　knew　that　was　the　only　way　he　would　ever　get　good　at　it。
　　His　hand　began　to　cramp；　and　he　banged　it　against　the　table　in　frustration。　He　hated　it　when　his　hand　cramped；　it　was　like　having　his　mind　go　blank。　Trevor　made　himself　extend　and　flex　the　fingers；　stretch　the　muscles　of　the　palm。　He　flipped　through　the　pages；　saw　that　Zach　had　noted　things　here　and　there　in　a　nearly　illegible　handwriting　full　of　flourishes　and　jagged　psycho　spikes。　A　trio　of　phone　numbers　for　Caspar；　Alyssa；　and　〃Mutagenic　BBS。〃　A　bunch　of　inprehensible　scribblings　that　looked　mostly　like　this：
　　
　　DEC=》　A
　　YOU=》　info　ter
　　DEC=》　all　sorts　of　shit；　then　A
　　
　　or　〃MILNET：　WSMR…TAC；　NWC…TAC〃　or　〃Crap　file…》　CRYPT　Unix