cb.booksofblood-第4部分

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　　　THE　MIDNIGHT　MEAT　TRAIN
　　
　　
　　LEON　KAUFMAN　WAS　no　longer　new　to　the　city。　The　Palace　of　Delights；　he'd　always　called　it；　in　the　days　of　his　innocence。　But　that　was　when　he'd　lived　in　Atlanta；　and　New　York　was　still　a　kind　of　promised　land；　where　anything　and　everything　was　possible。
　　Now　Kaufman　had　lived　three　and　a　half　months　in　his　dream…city；　and　the　Palace　of　Delights　seemed　less　than　delightful。
　　Was　it　really　only　a　season　since　he　stepped　out　of　Port　Authority　Bus　Station　and　looked　up　42nd　Street　towards　the　Broadway　intersection？　So　short　a　time　to　lose　so　many　treasured　illusions。
　　He　was　embarrassed　now　even　to　think　of　his　naivety。　It　made　him　wince　to　remember　how　he　had　stood　and　announced　aloud：　〃New　York；　I　love　you。〃　Love？　Never。
　　It　had　been　at　best　an　infatuation。
　　And　now；　after　only　three　months　living　with　his　object　of　adoration；　spending　his　days　and　nights　in　her　presence；　she　had　lost　her　aura　of　perfection。
　　New　York　was　just　a　city。
　　He　had　seen　her　wake　in　the　morning　like　a　slut；　and　pick　murdered　men　from　between　her　teeth；　and　suicides　from　the　tangles　of　her　hair。　He　had　seen　her　late　at　night；　her　dirty　back　streets　shamelessly　courting　depravity。　He　had　watched　her　in　the　hot　afternoon；　sluggish　and　ugly；　indifferent　to　the　atrocities　that　were　being　mitted　every　hour　in　her　throttled　passages。
　　It　was　no　Palace　of　Delights。
　　It　bred　death；　not　pleasure。
　　Everyone　he　met　had　brushed　with　violence；　it　was　a　fact　of　life。　It　was　almost　chic　to　have　known　someone　who　had　died　a　violent　death。　It　was　proof　of　living　in　that　city。
　　But　Kaufman　had　loved　New　York　from　afar　for　almost　twenty　years。　He'd　planned　his　love　affair　for　most　of　his　adult　life。　It　was　not　easy；　therefore；　to　shake　the　passion　off；　as　though　he　had　never　felt　it。　There　were　still　times；　very　early；　before　the　cop…sirens　began；　or　at　twilight；　when　Manhattan　was　still　a　miracle。
　　For　those　moments；　and　for　the　sake　of　his　dreams；　he　still　gave　her　the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　even　when　her　behaviour　was　less　than　ladylike。
　　
　　She　didn't　make　such　forgiveness　easy。　In　the　few　months　that　Kaufman　had　lived　in　New　York　her　streets　had　been　awash　with　spilt　blood。
　　In　fact；　it　was　not　so　much　the　streets　themselves；　but　the　tunnels　beneath　those　streets。
　　〃Subway　Slaughter〃　was　the　catch…phrase　of　the　month。　Only　the　previous　week　another　three　killings　had　been　reported。　The　bodies　had　been　discovered　in　one　of　the　subway　cars　on　the　AVENUE　OF　THE　AMERICAS；　hacked　open　and　partially　disembowelled；　as　though　an　efficient　abattoir　operative　had　been　interrupted　in　his　work。　The　killings　were　so　thoroughly　professional　that　the　police　were　interviewing　every　man　on　their　records　who　had　some　past　connection　with　the　butchery　trade。　The　meat…packaging　plants　on　the　water…front　were　being　watched；　the　slaughter…houses　scoured　for　clues。　A　swift　arrest　was　promised；　though　none　was　made。
　　This　recent　trio　of　corpses　was　not　the　first　to　be　discovered　in　such　a　state；　the　very　day　that　Kaufman　had　arrived　a　story　had　broken　in　The　Times　that　was　still　the　talk　of　every　morbid　secretary　in　the　office。
　　The　story　went　that　a　German　visitor；　lost　in　the　subway　system　late　at　night；　had　e　across　a　body　in　a　train。　The　victim　was　a　well…built；　attractive　thirty…year…old　woman　from　Brooklyn。　She　had　been　pletely　stripped。　Every　shred　of　clothing；　every　article　of　jewellery。　Even　the　studs　in　her　ears。
　　More　bizarre　than　the　stripping　was　the　neat　and　systematic　way　in　which　the　clothes　had　been　folded　and　placed　in　individual　plastic　bags　on　the　seat　beside　the　corpse。
　　This　was　no　irrational　slasher　at　work。　This　was　a　highly…organized　mind：　a　lunatic　with　a　strong　sense　of　tidiness。
　　Further；　and　yet　more　bizarre　than　the　careful　stripping　of　the　corpse；　was　the　outrage　that　had　then　been　perpetrated　upon　it。　The　reports　claimed；　though　the　Police　Department　failed　to　confirm　this；　that　the　body　had　been　meticulously　shaved。　Every　hair　had　been　removed：　from　the　head；　from　the　groin；　from　beneath　the　arms；　all　cut　and　scorched　back　to　the　flesh。　Even　the　eyebrows　and　eyelashes　had　been　plucked　out。
　　Finally；　this　all　too　naked　slab　had　been　hung　by　the　feet　from　one　of　the　holding　handles　set　in　the　roof　of　the　car；　and　a　black　plastic　bucket；　lined　with　a　black　plastic　bag；　had　been　placed　beneath　the　corpse　to　catch　the　steady　fall　of　blood　from　its　wounds。
　　In　that　state；　stripped；　shaved；　suspended　and　practically　bled　white；　the　body　of　Loretta　Dyer　had　been　found。
　　It　was　disgusting；　it　was　meticulous；　and　it　was　deeply　confusing。
　　There　had　been　no　rape；　nor　any　sign　of　torture。　The　woman　had　been　swiftly　and　efficiently　dispatched　as　though　she　was　a　piece　of　meat。　And　the　butcher　was　still　loose。
　　The　City　Fathers；　in　their　wisdom；　declared　a　plete　close…down　on　press　reports　of　the　slaughter。　It　was　said　that　the　man　who　had　found　the　body　was　in　protective　custody　in　New　Jersey；　out　of　sight　of　enquiring　journalists。　But　the　cover…up　had　failed。　Some　greedy　cop　had　leaked　the　salient　details　to　a　reporter　from　The　Times。　Everyone　in　New　York　now　knew　the　horrible　story　of　the　slaughters。　It　was　a　topic　of　conversation　in　every　Deli　and　bar；　and；　of　course；　on　the　subway。
　　But　Loretta　Dyer　was　only　the　first。
　　Now　three　more　bodies　had　been　found　in　identical　circumstances；　though　the　work　had　clearly　been　interrupted　on　this　occasion。　Not　all　the　bodies　had　been　shaved；　and　the　jugulars　had　not　been　severed　to　bleed　them。　There　was　another；　more　significant　difference　in　the　discovery：　it　was　not　a　tourist　who　had　stumbled　on　the　sight；　it　was　a　reporter　from　The　New　York　Times。
　　Kaufman　surveyed　the　report　that　sprawled　across　the　front　page　of　the　newspaper。　He　had　no　prurient　interest　in　the　story；　unlike　his　elbow　mate　along　the　counter　of　the　Deli。　All　he　felt　was　a　mild　disgust；　that　made　him　push　his　plate　of　over…cooked　eggs　aside。　It　was　simply　further　proof　of　his　city's　decadence。　He　could　take　no　pleasure　in　her　sickness。
　　Nevertheless；　being　human；　he　could　not　entirely　ignore　the　gory　details　on　the　page　in　front　of　him。　The　article　was　unsensationally　written；　but　the　simple　clarity　of　the　style　made　the　subject　seem　more　appalling。　He　couldn't　help　wondering；　too；　about　the　man　behind　the　atrocities。　Was　there　one　psychotic　loose；　or　several；　each　inspired　to　copy　the　original　murder？　Perhaps　this　was　only　the　beginning　of　the　horror。　Maybe　more　murders　would　follow；　until　at　last　the　murderer；　in　his　exhilaration　or　exhaustion；　would　step　beyond　caution　and　be　taken。　Until　then　the　city；　Kaufman's　adored　city；　would　live　in　a　state　somewhere　between　hysteria　and　ecstasy。
　　At　his　elbow　a　bearded　man　knocked　over　Kaufman's　coffee。
　　〃Shit！〃　he　said。
　　Kaufman　shifted　on　his　stool　to　avoid　the　dribble　of　coffee　running　off　the　counter。
　　〃Shit；〃　the　man　said　again。
　　No　harm　done；〃　said　Kaufman。
　　He　looked　at　the　man　with　a　slightly　disdainful　expression　on　his　face。　The　clumsy　bastard　was　attempting　to　soak　up　the　coffee　with　a　napkin；　which　was　turning　to　mush　as　he　did　so。
　　Kaufman　found　himself　wondering　if　this　oaf；　with　his　florid　cheeks　and　his　uncultivated　beard；　was　capable　of　murder。　Was　there　any　sign　on　that　over…fed　face；　any　clue　in　the　shape　of　his　head　or　the　turn　of　his　small　eyes　that　gave　his　true　nature　away？
　　The　man　spoke。
　　〃Wannanother？〃　Kaufman　shook　his　head。
　　〃Coffee。　Regular。　Dark；〃　the　oaf　said　to　the　girl　behind　the　counter。　She　looked　up　from　cleaning　the　grill　of　cold　fat。
　　〃Huh？〃
　　〃Coffee。　You　deaf？〃　The　man　grinned　at　Kaufman。
　　〃Deaf；〃　he　said。
　　Kaufman　noticed　he　had　three　teeth　missing　from　his　lower　jaw。
　　〃Looks　bad；　huh？〃　he　said。
　　What　did　he　mean？　The　coffee？　The　absence　of　his　teeth？
　　〃Three　people　like　that。　Carved　up。〃　Kaufman　nodded。
　　〃Makes　you　think；〃　he　said。　〃Sure。〃
　　〃I　mean；　it's　a　cover…up　isn't　it？　They　know　who　did　it。〃　This　conversation's　ridiculous；　thought　Kaufman。　He　took　off　his　spectacles　and　pocketed　them：　the　bearded　face　was　no　longer　in　focus。　That　was　some　improvement　at　least。
　　〃Bastards；〃　he　said。　〃Fucking　bastards；　all　of　them。　I'll　lay　you　anything　it's　a　cover…up。〃
　　〃Of　what？〃
　　〃They　got　the　evidence：　they're　just　keeping　us　in　the　fucking　dark。　There's　something　out　there　that's　not　human。〃　Kaufman　understood。　It　was　a　conspiracy　theory　the　oaf　was　trotting　out。　He'd　heard　them　so　often；　a　panacea。
　　〃See；　they　do　all　this　cloning　stuff　and　it　gets　out　of　hand。
　　They　could　be　growing　fucking　monsters　for　all　we　know。
　　There's　something　down　there　they　won't　tell　us　about。
　　Cover…up；　like　I　say。　Lay　you　anything。〃　Kaufman　found　the　man's　certainty　attractive。　Monsters；　on　the　prowl。　Six　heads：　a　dozen　eyes。　Why　not？
　　He　knew　why　not。　Because　that　excused　his　city：　that　let　her　off　the　hook。　And　Kaufman　believed　in　his　heart　that　the　monsters　to　be　found　in　the　tunnels　were　perfectly　human。
　　The　bearded　man　threw　his　money　on　the　counter　and　got　up；　sliding　his　fat　bottom　off　the　stained　plastic　stool。