pzb.drawingblood-第31章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
ars。
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 murders。 But had he planned to leave Trevor alive； and drugged him so he would sleep through it all？ Or had he drugged both boys； planning to kill both； and changed his mind about Trevor for some reason？
And what about Didi？ Trevor wondered if his brother had seen his death ing。 He had found Didi curled on his belly； ruined head burrowed deep into the pillow； as if Bobby had killed him in his sleep。 But unless Bobby had given him Seconal too； Trevor didn't think Didi could have slept through the sounds of his mother dying。 Bobby could have killed him sitting up in bed…or cowering… and then arranged him back into the peaceful sleeping position as if trying to absolve himself。
Fredric D。 McGee； Box 17； Violin Road； male Caucasian； 3 yrs； 2…6； 25 pounds； blond hair； brown eyes。 Occupation： None。 Cause of death： blunt trauma。 Victim had approximately twenty…two separate wounds； all in head/neck area。 Cranium and brain were pletely destroyed 。 。 。
Trevor imagined Didi's eyes as the hammer descended。 He squeezed his own eyes shut and slammed the heel of his hand against the door frame。 A rain of dust sifted down。 The pain in his hand…his left hand； of course； he didn't hit things with his drawing hand…made the image of Didi fade。 And； in a far corner of the living room； a crumpled sheet of newspaper suddenly rustled； then tore。 The sound was nearly heart…stopping in the silent room。
Trevor turned away from the doorway； walked over to the corner and nudged the paper with his toe。 He could see no mouse or insect； nothing that could have made it move； let alone tear。 He picked it up and smoothed it； and the headline screamed off the page at him。 〃I HAD TO DO IT；〃 SAYS KILLER。 The word killer was ripped neatly in half。
Trevor examined the paper more closely and saw that it was a Raleigh News and Observer dated October 1986； years after he had left Missing Mile。 The headline story was about a man in Corinth who had given his pregnant wife an abortion with a 30。06； firing sixteen shells into her belly。 Even in the womb children were not safe from their fathers。 Trevor imagined the sizzle of hot lead tunneling into unformed fetal flesh； the raw； bloody reek edged with the firework smell of cordite。 But Bobby hadn't been giving any interviews after murdering his family； not hi this world anyway。
Trevor pictured the front page of hell's daily； printed on asbestos but still singed at the edges； Bobby's huge…eyed； shell…shocked face in grainy black and white on the front page。 And the headline would say…what？ … ANOTHER FUCKED…UP GUY KILLS FAMILY； THEN SELF。 ONE KID LEFT ALIVE； 〃WE'LL GET HIM LATER〃 SAYS DEVIL。 Minor demons yawning over steaming mugs of bitter black coffee and brimstone； blearily scanning the news but not thinking much about it； this was business as usual in hell。
He felt the house drawing him in； filling his mind with images and icons till he overflowed like a pitcher of dark liquid。 Caffeine sang in his veins。 He dropped the newspaper； walked through the doorway stained with his mother's blood； past the kitchen on his left； and slowly down the hall； cocking his head and listening as he passed each room； trying to see through the half…closed doors。
On the right side of the hall was his parents' bedroom； then Bobby's studio。 On the left was Didi's room； then Trevor's； then the tiny bathroom where Bobby had died。 He remembered standing here before； looking at the afternoon light filtering in through the rooms； falling in golden slants across the hall floor； and wondering if he would ever be able to draw well enough to capture it。
He could do it now。 But the light was subtly different； murkier； with a greener tinge to it。 After a moment Trevor realized it must be because of the kudzu growing over the windows of the rooms； catching the sunlight and staining it。
He continued to the end of the hall； trailing his hand along the water…stained wall。 On his right was the studio； on his left the bathroom。 Bobby's hell and purgatory。 Or was it the other way around？ Trevor guessed that was one of the things he had e to find out。
He looked to his left and saw the faint gleam of light on dirty porcelain； the buckled shower curtain rod above the black chasm of the tub。 How many hours was it now until the exact moment when Bobby had fastened the rope and stepped off the edge of the tub？ How many hours until the twentieth anniversary of his neck snapping？
Trevor's eyes moved over the peeling walls； over the dark rectangle of the mirror； found the space between sink and toilet where he had curled his five…year…old body into the tightest possible ball。 He wondered if he could fit there now。 He wondered what he would see if he did。
Instead he turned and went into the studio。 The two large windows were intact； and the room was dusty but otherwise clean。 Trevor brushed off the tilted surface of Bobby's drawing table。 He preferred to draw on a flat surface； having gotten used to his desk at the Home； but the folding table was one of the few things Bobby hadn't sold or thrown out when they left Aust
