pzb.drawingblood-第30章
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〃Should I just bring the whole pot？〃
〃Yes。〃 He seemed serious； so Terry went back to the kitchen and got it； along with the bag of sugar and a couple of spoons。 Trevor poured himself another cup； stirred in a meager spoonful of sugar almost as an afterthought； and drank half of it at once。 Terry took his first sip。 〃I thought you could use a bite to eat too。〃
〃What is it？〃 Trevor hadn't noticed the plate of sandwiches until now。
〃Olive loaf and mustard on whole grain。〃
〃Olive loaf？〃
〃Yeah； it's kind of a classic around here。 A while back； Kinsey wanted to have New Orleans Night at the Yew and serve muffuletta sandwiches； right？ But he didn't know how to make the Italian olive salad。 So he made these fucked…up things on sub rolls with boiled ham； sliced pepperoni； and olive loaf。 They were awful but we all choked 'em down。 Since then I've kind of gotten to like it。〃
Trevor took a sandwich and bit cautiously at the very edge of it； stayed poker…faced； managed not to shudder。 Then he seemed to inhale and the whole thing was gone。 He picked up the other half of the sandwich and repeated the process； then poured himself another cup of coffee。
〃You； uh； want me to fix another pot of Java？〃
〃I don't know。〃 Trevor looked up； and an odd shadow passed over his face。 It was as if he had managed to relax for a few minutes； to let down a little of his guard； and then he had suddenly remembered some awful thing he had to do。 〃Maybe I better just go。〃
〃It's okay； man。 I'm in no hurry。 That's the whole point of owning a business； you know…you set your own hours and pay people good money； nobody yells at you if you're a little late。〃 Or a little stoned。
Spooning coffee out of its foil bag； Terry mused over the enigma in his living room。 There was something very strange about this new kid： he seemed nervous and aloof； but at the same time terribly lonely。 It was as if he had no social skills； as if he were some kind of space alien who had read extensively about people and their habits and customs； maybe wanted to know more； but was only now making first contact。
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 year
