pzb.drawingblood-第25部分

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　　Over　a　year　ago　he　had　discovered　that　the　newspaper　had　a　program　that　let　reporters　type　in　their　stories　from　home。　He'd　created　an　account　for　himself；　changing　his　password　every　time　he　planted　an　item　in　the　paper。　Currently　it　was　ZYGOTE；　thanks　to　his　last　story　about　the　petrified　abortion。　He　logged　on　and　changed　it　to　pedro。　Then　he　typed：
　　
　　GODDESS　SEEN　IN　BOWL　OF　GUMBO
　　by　Joseph　Boudreauxn　Staff　Writer
　　The　Goddess　Kali　is　known　in　Hinduism　as
　　the　Mother　and　Destroyer　of　Creation…But
　　can　she　make　a　roux？
　　In　a　twist　on　the　well…known　Jesus…in…the…plate…of…spaghetti　theme；　Parvata　Sanjay　of　India　spied　the　Hindu　goddess　in　his　bowl　during　a　recent　visit　to　New　Orleans；　while　sampling　the　seafood　gumbo　ata　popular　French　Quarter　restaurant。　〃Her　four　terrible　arms　were　outstretched；〃　said　Sanjayn；　〃and　her　bloody；　lolling　tongue　was　clearly　visible。　It　was　only　a　pattern　in　the　soup；　formed　by　the　oil　on　the　surface；　but　I　believe　all　patterns　have　significance。　〃
　　Might　Mr。　Sanjay　have　sampled　a　few　Dixie　beers　as　well？
　　The　Calcutta　native　plans　to　continue　his　American　travels　in　North　Carolina；　wherehe　says　he　wants　to　try　the　barbecue。
　　
　　Zach　added　the　sequence　of　characters　that　meant　an　editor　had　approved　his　copy。　Then　with　a　few　more　keystrokes　he　sent　it　on　its　merry　way　to　the　printing　department；　where　it　joined　the　other　stories　ready　to　be　printed　in　next　Sunday's　edition。　It　was　easier　to　bury　items　in　the　Sunday　paper…they　were　hungry　for　filler　and　didn't　look　twice　at　the　shit　that　came　in。
　　He　knew　Eddy　would　be　watching　the　paper　for　hidden　news　of　him。　The　mention　of　Kali　would　catch　her　eye；　and　she　might　also　notice　that　he　had　reversed　the　Indian　surname　and　first　name。　Calling　the　guy　Mr。　Parvata　Sanjay　was　something　like　calling　an　American　Mr。　Rogers　Fred。
　　Other　friends　and　outlaws　might　see　it　and　recognize　his　hand　too。　Maybe　some　of　Them　would　see　it　too；　for　that　matter；　but　Zach　didn't　think　They　would　connect　it　with　a　hacker　on　the　run。
　　He　logged　out　and　broke　the　phone　connection；　turned　off　the　puter；　and　carried　it　back　out　to　his　car。　A　quick　pee　in　the　pink…tiled　bathroom；　room　key　left　in　the　door；　and　Zach　was　gone。　After　sleeping　all　day　he　was　ready　to　drive　all　night；　and　anyway　he　couldn't　stand　the　thought　of　lying　there　in　that　slick　red　heart…shaped　bed；　staring　at　his　own　lonely；　horny　body　in　the　mirror　overhead。
　　South　of　the　Border　disappeared　behind　him。　Soon　it　was　only　a　faint　fuchsia　glow　on　the　horizon。　As　the　night　deepened　and　the　traffic　thinned　to　nothing；　it　seemed　to　Zach　that　the　whole　country　lay　over　the　next　rise；　around　the　next　bend　of　the　highway　all　lit　up　and　wide　awake；　violent　and　strange　and　joyous；　just　waiting　for　him　to　e　find　it。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Eight
　　
　　Trevor　didn't　know　what　he　expected　to　see　inside　the　Rambler　as　the　driver's　window　wound　down：　a　grinning　skeleton　dirt…crusted　and　worm…festooned；　dry　bone　finger　beckoning　him　in？　His　father's　flesh　restored；　black　shades　balanced　on　his　blade　of　a　nose；　intense　eyes　blazing　through　smoky　lenses？　Or　Bobby　as　he　had　looked　the　last　time　Trevor　saw　him；　dead　eyes　bulging；　tongue　jutting　like　a　rotten　melon；　chin　and　bare　scrawny　chest　slicked　with　drool；　streaked　with　gore？
　　Whatever　he　expected；　it　wasn't　the　smiling　face　of　Terry　Buckett；　the　affable　second…generation　hippie　who　had　introduced　himself　at　the　bar　last　night。　The　owner　of　the　record　store；　Trevor　remembered。　Procurer　of　jazz　sides；　retailer　of　the　magic　that　had　made　Bird　so　little　money　during　his　own　lifetime。
　　〃Hey；　Trevor　Black。　It's　pouring　down　rain；　or　didn't　you　notice？　Catch　a　ride；　man。〃
　　Terry　cocked　a　thumb　toward　the　passenger　door。　Trevor　made　himself　walk　around　the　front　of　the　car；　heard　wet　gravel　crunching　under　his　feet　though　he　could　not　feel　it；　heard　the　roar　and　thrum　of　the　idling　engine。　Perched　high　on　its　wheels；　the　Rambler　looked　like　a　child's　sketch　of　an　automobile；　a　small　rectangle　atop　a　larger　one　precariously　balanced　on　two　circles。　It　was　a　boxy；　plain；　yet　somehow　rakish　machine。　It　was　not　the　sort　of　car　in　which　you　expected　to　see　a　ghost；　it　was　not　the　sort　of　car　you　expected　to　be　a　ghost。
　　Trevor　raised　his　left　hand　and　wrapped　his　fingers　around　the　door　handle。　It　was　cold　to　the　touch；　beaded　with　rain。　He　pulled　the　heavy　door　open　and　slid　in；　across　the　dirty…white　vinyl　seat　his　butt　had　polished　in　cloth　diapers　and　Osh…Kosh　overalls；　the　seat　that　had　stuck　to　the　backs　of　his　legs　when　it　was　hot；　the　seat　that　Didi　had　peed　on　a　couple　of　times；　though　most　of　his　accidents　had　been　confined　to　the　back。
　　Terry　lounged　fortably　on　the　other　side　of　the　seat；　curly　hair　pulled　back　in　a　faded　blue　bandanna；　dark　amused　eyes　looking　Trevor　up　and　down。　Terry's　features　were　blunt；　not　quite　handsome；　his　bushy　eyebrows　nearly　met　over　the　bridge　of　his　nose；　and　he　needed　a　shave。　But　his　face　had　a　friendly；　squared　look；　a　face　that　wouldn't　take　any　bullshit　but　wouldn't　give　you　any　either。　Make　him　a　little　seedier…looking　and　he　could　have　been　a　character　drawn　by　Crumb。
　　Terry　put　the　car　in　gear；　eased　off　the　clutch；　and　started　rolling　down　Burnt　Church　Road　again。　He　seemed　to　be　in　no　great　hurry　to　get　anywhere。
　　〃Where　did　you　get　this　car？〃　Trevor　asked。
　　〃Aw；　I've　had　it　forever。　Kinsey　used　to　help　me　fix　it　whenever　it　broke　down；　but　I've　learned　to　do　most　of　the　work　myself。　I　love　these　old　engines。　No　damn　electronics　to　get　fucked　up；　just　a　bunch　of　metal　and　grease。　You　know　these　wipers　still　run　on　vacuum　tubes？〃　Terry　indicated　the　slushing　windshield　wipers　as　though　pointing　out　an　artifact　of　some　forgotten　civilization。　〃Something　else　Kinsey　told　me　about　this　car。　It　used　to　belong　to　a　famous　cartoonist　who　killed　himself　here　in　Missing　Mile。　Pretty　weird；　huh？〃
　　Trevor　sagged　back　in　the　seat　and　let　out　a　long　unsteady　breath。　Terry　glanced　over。　〃You　okay；　man？〃
　　〃Yeah。〃　He　sat　up；　swiped　water　out　of　his　eyes。　His　shirt　was　sticking　to　his　skin；　outlining　his　ribs。　His　jeans　were　sodden；　unpleasantly　heavy。　〃Just　wet。　And　cold。〃
　　〃Well；　look；　I　was　going　into　town　to　do　some　errands；　but　my　house　is　just　back　down　the　road。　You　want　to　stop　by　there　and　towel　off？　I'll　even　give　you　a　dry　T…shirt；　I've　got　a　million　of　'em。〃
　　〃No；　I'm　fine…〃
　　But　Terry　was　already　turning　the　car　around。　〃I　forgot　to　get　stoned　before　I　left　anyway。　Consider　it　done。〃
　　A　couple　of　minutes　later　the　Rambler　turned　into　a　long　gravel　driveway　and　stopped　in　front　of　a　small　wooden　house　whose　paint　was　not　so　much　peeling　as　fraying　at　the　edges。　A　couple　of　rocking　chairs　were　stationed　on　the　porch　among　various　whirligigs；　wagon　wheels；　pirated　street　signs；　and　crates　of　empty　beer　bottles。　Country　kitsch　gone　weird。
　　Terry　led　the　way　up　the　porch　steps；　through　the　towers　of　junk；　and　unlocked　the　front　door。　〃Watch　out　for　the　hex　sign。　It's　supposed　to　be　bad　luck　to　step　on　it　or　something。〃
　　Trevor　looked　down　as　he　crossed　the　threshold。　Someone　had　painted　two　interlocking　triangles；　one　red　and　one　blue；　with　a　silver　ankh　at　their　juncture。　〃What's　it　for？〃
　　〃Don't　ask　me。　This　house　belongs　to　my　friend　Ghost；　who's　even　spookier　than　you　might　guess　from　his　name。　His　grandmother　was　some　kind　of　witch。〃
　　〃He　isn't　here；　is　he？〃　Trevor　hoped　he　wasn't　about　to　meet　yet　another　of　Missing　Mile's　friendly　freaks。　He　had　only　wanted　a　ride；　not　an　impromptu　afternoon　party。
　　〃No；　his　band　is　on　tour。　Extended　tour。　I'm　minding　the　farm；　which　means　free　rent　and　a　lifetime　supply　of　good　karma。〃
　　〃How　e？〃
　　〃Oh；　I　don't　know。〃　Terry　shrugged。　〃Miz　Deliverance　was　a　good　witch。　What　color　shirt　do　you　want？〃
　　〃Black。〃
　　〃But　of　course。〃
　　Terry　tossed　him　a　cotton　T…shirt　printed　with　the　Whirling　Disc　logo…a　little　long…haired　man　who　looked　like　a　hippie　version　of　the　man　on　the　Monopoly　game；　twirling　a　record　on　the　end　of　his　candy…striped　cane…　and　pointed　him　down　the　hall　to　the　bathroom。　Trevor　placed　his　wet　feet　carefully　on　the　mellow　hardwood　floors。　He　was　intrigued　by　the　idea　of　a　house　with　good　karma；　a　house　that　held　memories　of　love　and　music。
　　He　pulled　the　heavy　wooden　door　of　the　bathroom　shut　behind　him；　tugged　his　wet　shirt　over　his　head　and　dropped　it　on　the　floor。　It　was　just　a　plain　black　tee　like　almost　every　other　shirt　Trevor　owned；　he　had　one　with　a　pocket；　but　that　was　getting　fancy。　The　little　Whirling　Disc　man　was　a　radical　departure　for　him。
　　Trevor　unbound　his　ponytail；　leaned　over　the　old　clawfoot　bathtub　and　wrung　a　stream　of　water　from　his　hair。　Then　he　rumpled　it　with　a　towel　and　let　it　hang　loose　to　dry。　It　rippled　halfway　down　his　back；　ginger　like　Bobby's；　shot　through　with　a　few　strands　of　pale　gold　like　Momma's。
　　The　mirror　in　the　bathroom　made　him　nervous；　he　had　a　strong　sense　of　someone　looking　back　at　him　from　its　depths。　He　put　his　lips　close　against　the　wavy　silver　surface；　whispered　〃Who　is　it？〃　But　nothing　answered。　There　was　only　his　own　high　pale　forehead　melding　with　its　own　reflection；　hi