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！
hat Trevor wanted to capture here。
For now； though； he was just sketching in the panels and their contents； space for captions and word balloons； rough figures and backgrounds； the barest hints of gestures and expressions。 The faces and hands were his favorite part； he would linger over them later。 He had already drawn Bird hundreds of times。 The handsome fleshy features appeared on the margins of his pages and woven into his backgrounds nearly as often as the face of his father。
He reached the part on the porch； just before the police arrived； and the first time Walter Brown's face appeared in closeup。 His pencil slowed； then stopped； and he tapped the eraser against the page thoughtfully。 He realized he had never seen a picture of Brown； had no idea what the singer looked like。
No problem： he could wing it； improvise the man's face like a jazz solo。 He already had a hazy picture in his head； and even as he thought about it； the features grew clearer。 His fantasy Walter Brown was a very young man； about twenty…but then they had all been young； mostly younger than Trevor was now…and boyishly thin to Bird's fleshiness； with high cheekbones and slightly slanting dark…almond eyes。 Handsome。
This was how he usually worked： pondering an idea for months； turning it over and over in his head until he had nearly every panel and line worked out。 Only then did he put pencil or pen or brush to paper； and the thing spilled full…blown onto the page。 Bobby had been the same way； working in feverish bursts and starts。 And when the inspiration was gone； it was gone forever。
At least if that happens to me； Trevor reminded himself； I won't have anyone to kill。 There was no person he had cared that much about。 Incidents like the one with the art teacher were a different thing altogether。 You could cheerfully rip such people's heads off and drink the fountaining blood from the neck…stumps in those first few minutes of blind rage； if the fragile constraints of civilization and lack of physical power did not bind you。
But later； when you had time to think on it； you realized that nothing could be gained by hurting such people； that perhaps they were not even alive enough to feel pain。 You could make better use of your anger by keeping it to yourself； letting it grow until you needed it。
Still 。。。 if you loved someone； really loved them； wouldn't you want to take them with you when you died？ Trevor tried to imagine actually holding someone down and killing them； just breaking them apart； watching as the love in their face turned to agony or rage or confusion； feeling their bones crack and their blood flow over your hands； under the nails； greasing into the palms。
There was no one with whom he would want such intimacy。 Kinsey had hugged him last night in the club； had held him as naturally as one might hold a suffering child。 It had been the first time Trevor had cried in another person's presence in twenty years。 For that matter； it was as physically close to another person as he had been since the man with gentle hands carried him out of the house； since his last glimpse of his father's swollen face。 These two brief meetings of clothed skin were all he'd had。
No； he remembered。 Not quite all。
Once； when he was twelve； a slightly older boy at the Home had caught him alone in the shower and pushed him into a corner。 The boy's hands had scrabbled over his slick soapy skin； and Trevor had felt something in his head snap。 Next thing he knew three counselors were pulling him off the kid； who was curled in the fetal position on the stall floor； and the knuckles of his left hand were throbbing； bruised； and blood was streaking the white tiles； swirling down the silver drain 。 。 。
The older boy had a concussion； and Trevor was confined to his hall for a month。 His homework and meals were brought to him。 The solitude was wonderful。 He filled eighteen notebooks； and one of the things he drew over and over was the shower stall with the boy in it： head smacking the cold tiles at the precise moment of impact； skinny body curled in a half inch of water threaded with his own blood。 His blood that Trevor had spilled before he even knew what he was doing。
And the weird thing was； the boy's hands had actually felt good sliding over his skin。 He had liked the feeling 。 。 。 and then suddenly the boy had been on the floor with blood ing out of his head。
He had plenty of time to think about what he had done； and what had made him do it； the violence inherent in his genes； in his soul。 That was the first time he could remember considering the forts of suicide。
Trevor stuck his pencil behind his ear； laid his sketchbook on the ground in front of him。 He let the fingers of his right hand slide down the soft inner skin of his left forearm。 The skin there was mottled with old scars； years of slashes and cross…hatchings done with a single…edged Exacto razor blade； the same kind he used for layouts。 Perhaps a hundred thin raised lines of skin； paler than the rest of his arm； exquisitely sensitive； some still reddened and hurt once in a while； as if the tissue deep inside his arm had never quite healed。 But if you went deep enough into the tissue； no scar ever healed pletely。
And this map of pain he had carved out of his skin； this had been no half…assed attempt at suicide； anyway。 Trevor knew that to kill yourself you had to cut along the length of your arm； had to lay it open from wrist to elbow like some fruit with a rich red pulp and a hard white core。 Had to cut all the way to bone； had to sever every major artery and vein。 He had never tried it。
These cuts he had made over the years were more in the nature of experimentation： to test his domain over his own malleable flesh； to know the strange human jelly below the surface； part layer upon cell…delicate layer of skin； part quickening blood； part pale subcutaneous fat that parted like butter at the touch of a new blade。 Sometimes he would hold his arm over a page of his sketchbook； let the blood fall on clean white paper or mingle with fresh black ink； sometimes he would trace it into patterns with his finger or the nib of a pen。
But he hadn't done it for years and years。 He thought the last time had been on his twentieth birthday； two years 。 out of state's custody； the ill winds of adulthood and poverty blowing down his neck。 It was as if America had begun the decade of the eighties by shattering some great cosmic mirror； except that the seven years of bad luck hadn't ended yet。 The wizened； evil…faced dybbuk in the White House had been as alien a being as Trevor could imagine； a shriveled yet hideously animated puppet thrust into power by the same shadowy forces that had controlled the world since Trevor was five； forces he could not control； could barely see or begin to understand。
He had spent the night of his twentieth birthday wandering around New York City； riding the subways alone； slamming down coffee and cappuccino and espresso in every dive he passed； finally achieving an exaggerated state of awareness that went beyond perception into hallucination。 He ended up huddled in a grove in Washington Square Park； furtively slicing at his wrist with a dull and rusty blade he dug out of his pocket； trying to let some of this electric energy out with the blood before it rattled him to pieces。 Toward dawn he fell into restless sleep and dreamed of angels telling him to do violence…to himself？ to someone else？ he could not remember when he woke。
He didn't know why he had stopped cutting himself after that。 It had just stopped working： the pain couldn't e out that way anymore。
Trevor sat up straight； shook himself。 He'd nearly started to doze here in the gathering storm on his family's grave。 He saw an image of his flayed wrist above a white sheet of paper； dark sluggish blood making Rorschach blots on the page。
The first drops of rain were hitting the spongy carpet of grass and pine needles； dark streaking and blotching on the headstones。 Lightning sketched across the sky； searing jagged blue； then thunder rolling in like a slow tide。 Trevor closed his sketchbook and slid it into his backpack。 He could work on the Bird strip later； at the house。
The rain began to e down in great gusting sheets as he left the graveyard。 By the time he reached the road； the ground was already wet enough to sink and squelch under his feet； muddy water oozing into his socks and sneakers。 The trees bowed low over the road； then lashed the wind…torn sky。
A ways down the road； Trevor realized that he had barely glanced at the headstone as he left； had not touched it at all past the first initial contact。 It was numb； dead； like the fragments of memory and bone that lay beneath it。 Maybe they had been there once； but as their flesh decayed and crumbled in the sodden Southern ground； their essences had leached away too。 Maybe he could find his family in Missing Mile； or something of them。 But not where their bodies lay。
He had plodded most of the way back to town when he heard a car ing slowly up the road behind him； grinding over the coarse wet gravel。 He thought briefly of trying to thumb； just as quickly decided against it。 He was already soaked through； nobody would want his soggy ass on their upholstery。
Now the car was close enough that he could hear its wipers sluicing back and forth across the windshield。 The sound triggered a memory so distant it was barely there： lying in the back seat of his father's car one rainy afternoon in Texas； listening to the shush…skree of the wipers and watching the rain course down the windows。 One of the great San Francisco contingent of cartoonists…Trevor couldn't remember which one…had been passing through town； and Bobby was showing him the sights of 1970 Austin； whatever they may have been。 The other cartoonist was busily rolling joint after joint； but that didn't stop him from running his mouth as much as Bobby。 For Trevor in the back seat everything blurred together like different hues of watercolor paint： the fortable sound of the adults' voices； the sweet herbal tang of the pot smoke； the afternoon city light filtering through a veil of rain。
Momma must have been at home with the baby。 Didi had been sick with one thing or another for a good part of his first year。 Momma worried over him； fixed him special nasty…tasting organic mush； kept watch over him as he slept。 Just as if she thought it mattered； just as if they all lived in a universe where Didi was going to grow up。
Trevor kept walking； did not register that the car had pulled up behind him until a horn blipped。 He turned and found himself staring at the headlights and grillwork of his father's old car； the one whose back seat he had dozed on that rainy day in Austin； the one they had driven to Missing Mile。 The two…toned Rambler； or its twin； plete with a crimp that had graced its front bumper since 1970。
His father's car； the windshield opaque with reflected light； the windows obscured by beads and drips of rain。 Bobby's car ing down Burnt Church Road； from the direction of the graveyard。 And the window on the driver's side was slowly cranking down。
Trevor thought there might be tears on his face。 Or maybe it was only the rain； dripping out of his sodden hair。
He stepped forward to meet the car and whatever was inside it。
Chapter Seven
Just after dawn； Zach left his car in the parking lot of a prefab pink motel and walked out onto the dirtiest beach he had ever seen。
He'd kept on a steady northeastern course all night。 Shooting past Pensacola at two； he had intended to go straight on east to Jacksonville but had been diverted by a highway sign pointing out the turnoff to a town called Two Egg。 Zach might never set foot in Florida again； he had to see Two Egg before he left。
But the town was eerie even for rural Florida in the small hours of the morning。 The buildings on the downtown strip all seemed to have been built in the early fifties； that time of false prosperity and fake space…age optimism。 There was that look of the Plexiglas pillar and chromium arch； the kidney shape and the fashionable sign of the atom。 But now these fabulous structures were abandoned； left behind by the chi