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red by modems。 A little time spent discovering which ones led to bulletin boards…and what other ones might be useful… had led him to Mutanet； and a bination of brashness； twisted humor； and demonstration of his abilities had gotten him on。
He had all kinds of work waiting and projects going： credit card accounts to shave pennies from like wafer…thin slices of salami； bank balances to augment； lists of phone codes to obtain for sale later。 He had recently written a program that cracked the encrypted password system of the state police headquarters； and he was toying with the idea of wiping clean the records of every drug offender he could find。
But right now he felt like fooling around on Mutanet for a while。 He wasn't sure what made him do it…it wasn't how he usually began a work session…and he was never sure what gods to thank； afterward。 For the pirate board might have been the only thing that saved him。
The system's logo appeared； along with a screenful of warnings； exhortations； and dire pronouncements； then a prompt。 Zach tapped in his Mutanet handle （LUCIO） and his current password （NH3GH3）； and he was in。
A puter BBS worked much like a real bulletin board： you could put up items for anyone to read and respond to； or you could put messages in envelopes； so to speak； for the eyes of one person only。 It was better than a real bulletin board； though； because no one could deface your messages or peek into your envelopes except the systems operator； who wasn't usually inclined to bother。
He had mail waiting； a message from a talented phreak named Zombi who had given him some good uncanceled credit card numbers of the recently deceased。 Grieving relatives didn't usually think to notify the card panies right away； and in the meantime the numbers were ripe for misuse or dissemination。 Maybe this would be something equally nifty。
He brought up his mail and sat back in his chair。
And the message filled his screen； flashing like Bourbon Street strip…club neon； pulsing like a vein in a junkie's fevered temple。
LUCIO。 THEY ARE ONTO YOU。 THEY KNOW WHO YOU ARE。 THEY KNOW WHERE YOU ARE。 RUN。
Chapter Three
The Greyhound bus was slow and hot and nearly empty。 It smelled mostly of smoke and sweat； a tired smell like the ends of journeys； but underlying that was a faintly exotic sweetness that twined into the nostrils like opium smoke。 Probably the industrial strength disinfectant they used to slop out the rest room at the back of the bus； but to Trevor it was the smell of travel； of adventure。 At any rate； it was an odor he knew as well as that of his own skin。 He had spent a good part of the past seven years on Greyhound buses； or waiting for them in the quiet despair of a thousand cavernous terminals。
The Carolina countryside rolled past his window； summer…green； then dusk…blue； then a deepening； smoky violet。 When he could no longer see by the dying sunlight that came through the window； he switched on the small bulb above his seat and kept drawing； his hand moving to the rhythm of the Charlie Parker tape on his Walkman。 Now and then he raised his head and stared briefly out the window。 All the cars had their headlights on； rushing toward him in an endless dazzling stream。 Soon it was so dark that he could see only his own hollow…eyed reflection in the glass。
The fat redneck occupying the two seats in front of him heaved a great sigh when Trevor turned on the light。 Trevor was dimly aware of the man shifting in his seat； making a show of tugging his John Deere cap down over his eyes； his body giving off a strong stale odor of cheap beer and human dirt。 At last he turned pletely around and stared at Trevor over the back of the seat。 Neckless； his head looked like a jug resting on a wall； the skin of his face was seamed and damp and blotchy； nearly leprous。 He might have been nineteen or forty。 〃Hey； you；〃 he said。 〃Hey； hippie。〃
Trevor looked up but did not remove his earphones。 He always listened to music at a very low volume； and he could hear fine with them on。 〃Me？〃
〃Yeah； you； who the fuck you think I mean； him？〃 The redneck gestured at an ancient black man asleep across the aisle； toothless cavern of his mouth gaping； gnarled hands twisting around the nearly empty bottle of Night Train in his lap。
Ever so slowly Trevor shook his head； never looking away from the redneck's bleary； glittering eyes。
〃Well anyway； you mind turnin' that goddamn light off？ I got a real bad headache； you know？〃
Hangover； more like。 Trevor shook his head again； even more slowly； even more firmly。 〃I can't。 I have to work on this drawing。〃
〃The fuck you do！〃 More of the redneck's head rose over the seat； though there was still no neck in evidence。 A large scarred hand appeared as well。 Trevor saw black half…moons of dirt under each thick nail。 〃What's a freak like you drawin' that's so goddamn important？〃
Silently Trevor turned his sketchbook around so that the redneck could see it。 The light showed every detail of the drawing： a slender woman half…seated； half…sprawled in a doorway； head thrown back； yawning mouth full of blood and broken teeth。 Her left temple and forehead were smashed in； her hair and face and the front of her blouse black with blood。 The draftsmanship was stark and flawless； the frozen agony eloquent in every line of her body； in every stroke of her ruined face。
〃My mother；〃 Trevor said。
The redneck's fat face quivered。 His lips twitched； his eyes went shocked； momentarily defenseless； then flat。 〃Fuckin' freak；〃 he muttered loudly。 But he didn't say anything else about the light； not for the rest of the trip。
The bus turned off the interstate at Pittsboro and got on the narrow two…lane state highway。 It stopped for minutes at a tiny dark station in Corinth； then there were no more stops； and it was irrevocable； it was true； he was really going back to Missing Mile。
Trevor looked back down at his drawing。 A line appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned at it。 How weird。 In the lower right…hand corner； without being aware of it； he had labeled the drawing。 And he had labeled it wrong。 In big； dark block letters he had printed the name ROSENA BLACK。
But his mother's name had been Rosena McGee。 She had been born Rosena Parks； but she had died a McGee。 Black was the name Trevor had chosen for himself years ago； the name he drew under。
He didn't erase the mislabel； it was too heavily penciled； would fuck up the paper。 He wasn't much for erasing anyway。 Sometimes your mistakes showed you the really interesting connections between your brain； your hand； and your heart； the ones you might otherwise never know were there。 They were important even if you had no idea what they meant。
Like now； for instance。 ing back here might be the biggest mistake he'd ever made。 But it might also be the most important thing he had ever done。
He couldn't remember his last sight of Missing Mile。 His mother's friends had carried him out of the house that morning； and that was all he had known for a while。 Only one of them； a man with large； gentle hands； had been brave enough to edge past Bobby's dangling body and pry Trevor from his niche between the toilet and the sink。 The next thing he remembered was waking up in a blank white room； smelling medicine and vomit； then screaming at the sight of a tube that snaked out of a bag hanging by the bed and ran straight into the crook of his arm。 The flesh where it went in was puffy； red； sore。
Trevor had thought the thing was alive； burrowing into him as he slept。 He would never really trust sleep again。 You closed your eyes and went somewhere else for a few hours； and while you were gone； anything could happen … anything at all。 The whole world could be ripped out from under you。
The nurse said Trevor had not been able to hear people trying to talk to him； and could not eat or drink。 The tube had pumped ground…up food into his arm to keep him from starving to death； or so he understood it。 He was embarrassed to find himself wearing a diaper。 Even Didi was too old for diapers。 Then he remembered that Didi wasn't anything anymore but a memory of a smashed shape on a stained mattress。 His family had been dead five days； had been buried while Trevor floated in that hazy twilight world。
The doctors at the hospital in Raleigh called it catatonia。 Trevor knew it was Birdland。 Not just the place where no one else could touch you； but the place you went when the real world scared you away。
After it became apparent that no relative or friend of the family was going to claim him； and a series of cognitive tests proved he was functional （if withdrawn）； the court declared Trevor McGee a ward of the state。 He was placed in the North Carolina Boys' Home on the outskirts of Charlotte； an orphanage and school whose operating budget had been shaved to the bone the previous year。 There was no foster family program； no special training for the gifted； no therapy for the disturbed。 There was only an enormous drafty pillared school building and four outlying dorms all built of smooth gray stone that held a chill even in the heart of summer。 There were only three hundred boys aged five to eighteen； all kept crew…cut and conservatively dressed； each with his own personal hell and none of them much inclined to help ease the weight of anyone else's。
The place seemed to have no color； no texture。 Trevor's thirteen years there were a collage of blurred edges； featureless gray expanses； empty city streets sectioned into little diamonds by the chain…link fence that surrounded the Home and its grounds。 His room was a cold square box； but safe because he could draw there without anyone looking over his shoulder。
Most of the other boys used sports as their escape； built their dreams around athletic scholarships to State or UNC。 Trevor was painfully clumsy； except for his right hand； his body felt wrong to him； like something he wasn't entitled to and shouldn't have。 He dreaded the afternoons he was forced out to the playing fields with his gym class； hot dusty tedium broken only by occasional panic when someone screamed at him to run or swing or catch a hurtling ball that looked like a bomb falling at a thousand miles per hour out of a dizzying clear blue sky。
His life at the Boys' Home had been neither good nor terrible。 He never tried to make friends； and mostly he was ignored。 On the rare occasions that a group of predators chose him as their next target； Trevor returned their taunts until he goaded them into attacking him。 They always attacked him eventually。 Then he would hurt as many of them as badly as he could。 He learned to land a hard punch with his left fist； to kick and claw and bite； anything that did not risk his drawing hand。 He usually got the worst of it； but that particular group would leave him alone afterward； and Trevor would mind his own business until the next group came along。 From things he read； he suspected it was a lot like prison。
The state had cut him loose at eighteen with an option to attend vocational school。 Instead； Trevor headed for the Greyhound station and bought a ticket for as far as the hundred dollars in his pocket would take him。
He had traveled haphazardly in those years； zigzagging between cities and coasts； picking up work here and there； occasionally selling a sketch or a ic strip for the price of a bus ticket； often more。 Sometimes he met people that under other circumstances he thought he might have called friends。 At any rate； people in the real world were more interesting than any he had met in the Home。 But as soon as he left a place； these acquaintances were gone as if erased from the world。
He never let anyone touch him。 Mostly he preferred to be alone。 If he was ever unable to draw； Trevor thought he would probably die。 It was a possibility he always kept tucked away in a corner of his mind； the fort of the razor or the rope； the security of poison on the shelf waiting to be swallowed。 But he wouldn't take anyone with him when he went。
He had not cut his hair for seven years。 He had never had a permanent address。 He seldom visited a town or a city more than once。 There were only a few places he avoided。 Austin。