pzb.drawingblood-第33章
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e folded his arms on the tabletop and cradled his head and went effortlessly to sleep。
Sometime later the gooseneck lamp clicked off； leaving him in darkness broken only by the trembling； shifting moonlight that came in the windows； filtered through kudzu and twenty years of dust。
Trevor did not dream that night。
Chapter Ten
Kinsey Hummingbird woke on Monday morning hoping Trevor might have e back in the night； though he had not seen him all day Sunday。 Kinsey couldn't imagine anyone sleeping in that house。 But apparently Trevor had； at any rate； he wasn't here。
There were so many things Kinsey wanted to say to the boy…but he had to stop thinking of him as a boy。 Trevor was twenty…five after all； even if he had had reason to lie； the chronology was right。 Kinsey remembered the date of the McGee deaths well enough。
It was just that Trevor looked so young。 That scared five…year…old was still a big part of him； Kinsey thought as he got up and went to the kitchen； though some flintier core must have kept Trevor alive and sane。 There was an undeniable strength there； many people in Trevor's situation would have retreated into the numb fog of catatonia or blown their brains out as soon as they were able to lay hands on a gun。
But even for a soul of enormous strength； what would a night in that house have been like？
After the investigation of the McGee deaths was over… and of course there had been little investigating to do； the bodies told their own mute tale…the cops had locked the door behind them and the family's things had sat in the house； gathering dust in the silent； bloodstained rooms。 A FOR SALE sign went up in the scrubby yard； but no one saw it as anything other than a ghoulish joke on the realtor's part。 That house would never be rented again； let alone sold。
Browsing the aisles of Potter's Store one day deep in the summer of 1972； the FOR SALE sign outside the murder house already niggling at his mind； Kinsey found himself wondering what had happened to the McGees' things。 Potter's was a cavernous thrift establishment downtown； huge and dim and cool； its rickety rows of metal shelves crammed with chipped plates and battered silverware and obsolete （though usually functional） kitchen appliances； its cracked glass display case filled with strange knickknacks and costume jewelry； its bins heaped high with musty clothing。 Kinsey； with his love of junk； often spent long afternoons browsing here。
But he didn't think the McGees' belongings had ended up at Potter's Store。 He wasn't sure what he thought he should have seen： bloodstained mattresses； maybe； or splattered shirts and dresses woven through the pile marked MISC WOMENS CLOTHS 25 CENTS。 But there hadn't been any jazz records or underground ics either； and there sure as hell hadn't been a drawing table。 He supposed everything was still out there； moldering in the silent rooms。
The house on Violin Road never sold。 The FOR SALE sign was stolen； replaced by the realtor； whose optimism apparently knew no bounds。 The paint on the new sign faded throughout the long dry summer。 Tall weeds grew up around it； and it began to list。 At last it fell face forward and was soon hidden in the long grass。
By that time kudzu had begun to climb the walls of the house。 Where the children of Violin Road had thrown rocks through the windows； the insidious vine snaked in。 Kinsey imagined it twining through the rooms； sucking nourishment from blood long dry。 He did not doubt that this was possible。 As a child； he had seen a kudzu root unearthed from the Civil War graveyard where his own great…great…great…uncle Miles was buried。 The root； fully six feet long； had eaten its way through a grave and taken on the shape of the man buried there。 Its offshoots formed four twisted limbs； the root…tips bursting from them at the ends like a multitude of fingers and toes。 At the top had been a skull…sized tangle of delicate fibers in which the planes and hollows of a face could almost be made out。
Twenty years later the house was nearly hidden under its twining green blanket。 Driving past it； you could barely tell that there was a house on the overgrown lot at all。 Only the wooden porch and the peak of the roof showed forlornly through the vines。 A stand of oaks shaded the house； their heavy canopy of foliage turning the yard into a deep green cave of light and shadow。 The fronds of a willow brushed the roof； fingering the jagged edges of glass in the rotting window frames； strumming the kudzu like the strings of a lyre。
Kinsey wondered again how much of the family's stuff was still in there。 He knew kids had broken in over the years； daring each other； showing off。 Terry； Steve； and R。J。 had been in years ago； though Ghost would not even go as far as the porch。
So most of the things in the front room would be long spirited away。 But not many kids would have gotten past the gouged and bloodied doorway to the hall； and Kinsey doubted that any would have made it farther than the first bedroom； where the little boy had died。 The back rooms would be dusty but intact。 He wondered what Trevor would find in them。
Kinsey measured coffee； poured cold tapwater into the machine； and； as the old percolator began to bubble and steam； fell to gazing out his kitchen window at his own backyard。 He had a little vegetable garden； but otherwise the grasses and trees grew wild。 Kinsey liked it that way； home to any flying； slithering； or crawling thing that cared to take up residence。 But it was not as snarled and shadow…stained； not as forbidding a landscape as the house on Violin Road。
The house where Trevor must be now； even as Kinsey sipped his first milky cup of morning coffee。
Kinsey's mother had cured him of Christian prayer long ago。 He tried to think of a Zen koan that might be of use to Trevor； but the only one he could remember was 〃Why has Bodhidharma no beard？〃 which didn't seem to apply。 But then koans weren't supposed to apply。
His head full of ghosts； little smirking Buddhas； and secondhand treasures； Kinsey stood woolgathering for the better part of an hour in his own clean forting kitchen。
Hank Williams's nasal twang poured out of the car speakers as raw and potent as moonshine spiked with honey。 Zach pondered it as he drove。 It should not have been a remarkable voice； it was nothing but a po'bucker whine straight from the backwoods of Alabama。 But there was something golden and tragic in it； some lost soul that fell to its knees and sobbed every time Hank opened his mouth。
He'd been meandering north on 1…40 and surrounding roads when he saw the turnoff for Highway 42。 Zach loved the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series； and the sign reminded him that the number forty…two was the answer to life； the universe； and everything。 It pulled him as inexorably as the lights of South of the Border had done。 Soon he was driving down a two…lane blacktop shrouded in rags and tatters of predawn mist； and several times he caught himself singing lustily along with Hank。
The little town only caught his attention because of its curious name and weird architecture； to his road…weary eyes it seemed that the entire downtown was decorated with wagon wheels and spinning barbers' poles。 He almost drove on through； but caught himself drifting across the center line and decided to stop for a quick nap。
Zach pulled into an alley and came upon a small lot where several other cars were already parked。 The friendly local deputy…dawg wouldn't bother him here； at any rate he was only going to stretch his tired bones across the seat； close his eyes for a few minutes； then get moving again 。 。 。
He slept for six hours in the parking lot behind the Whirling Disc record store。 The lot was also used for storage by an adjacent auto parts store； and the Mustang was not noticed among the other junkers for some time。 When he finally woke； the sun had risen high and hot； his body was bathed in sweat； and Terry Buckett was peering into the car； tapping worriedly on the window。
〃Man！ I thought you were dead for sure！〃 Terry took a hit off Zach's pipe and passed it back； shaking his head； letting the fragr
