pzb.drawingblood-第67部分

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t　he　had　thought　it　a　separate　piece　of　clothing。　Her　arms　were　swathed　to　the　elbows　in　gore。
　　She　raised　her　hands　and　showed　him　what　she　held。　Trevor　saw　a　gelatinous　glob　of　blood　shot　through　with　dark　veins；　the　black　dot　of　an　eye；　five　tiny　curled　fingers。
　　〃I　didn't　have　the　money　for　a　doctor；〃　she　said；　〃so　I　hit　myself　in　the　stomach　until　it　bled。　I　just　wanted　the　damn　thing　out　of　me。　Do　you　hear？　Out！〃
　　Trevor　advanced　on　her；　stared　her　down。　A　quick　hot　vein　of　anger　pulsed　in　his　head。　Zach　had　suffered　unforgivably　at　the　hands　of　this　woman。　〃You　did　not；〃　he　said。　〃You　didn't　want　him　but　you　had　him　anyway；　and　you　two　tortured　him　as　long　as　you　could　get　away　with　it。　That　was　nineteen　years　ago　and　your　baby's　doing　fine。　Where　are　you　now；　you　fucking　evil　bitch？〃
　　The　woman　crumpled　back　against　the　door　frame。　The　bloody　mess　slid　out　of　her　hands。　Trevor　had　to　resist　the　urge　to　scoop　the　lonely　detritus　into　his　own　hands　and　sob　over　it。　That　mangled　thing　wasn't　Zach；　couldn't　be。　It　was　only　a　neverborn　phantom。
　　He　remembered　that　Zach's　mother　was　named　Evangeline；　like　the　poem。　〃Go　away；　Evangeline；〃　he　said。　〃Get　out　of　my　house。　I　hate　you。〃
　　Her　huge　stricken　eyes　settled　on　Trevor。　He　couldn't　tell　if　she　was　hearing　him；　she　hadn't　responded　directly　to　anything　he　said。　〃You're　a　ghost；〃　he　told　her；　〃and　you're　not　even　the　right　one。〃
　　Her　head　fell　back。　Her　hands　curled　into　claws。　A　shudder　went　through　her；　and　for　a　moment　the　outlines　of　her　body　blurred；　as　if　she　were　passing　through　some　unseen　membrane。　Then　all　at　once　her　hair　was　turning　to　cornsilk　shot　through　with　streaks　of　darker　gold；　matted　with　blood。　Her　features　grew　softer；　rounder；　her　breasts　heavier。　Her　arms　hung　by　her　sides；　a　mass　of　blood　and　bruise。　Trevor　found　himself　looking　at　his　own　mother；　Rosena　McGee；　as　he　had　discovered　her　that　morning。
　　He　remembered　the　first　day　he　had　e　back　to　the　house；　when　he　switched　on　the　light　in　the　studio　and　saw　Bobby's　drawing　of　this　scene；　identical　to　the　one　Trevor　had　done　on　the　bus。　At　the　time　Trevor　thought　maybe　Bobby　had　drawn　it　before　her　death；　as　a　sort　of　dry　run。　But　it　was　too　exact；　with　Rosena　struggling；　he　never　could　have　landed　the　blows　as　precisely　on　her　flesh　as　he　had　done　on　paper。
　　No。　He　had　killed　her；　and　then　he　had　sat　down　here　with　his　sketchbook　and　drawn　her。　Then　he　had　tacked　the　drawing　to　the　studio　wall　before　he　went　in　and　killed　Didi。　Trevor　had　no　proof　of　this　sequence　of　events；　but　he　could　see　it　all　too　clearly。　Bobby　hunched　on　the　floor　before　her　broken　body；　hand　flying　over　the　paper；　eyes　flickering　with　manic　intensity　from　Rosena's　dead　face　to　the　page　and　back　again。　But　why？
　　His　mother's　eyes　were　open；　the　whites　filmed　with　blood。　There　were　deep　gouges　in　her　forehead；　her　left　temple；　the　center　of　her　chest。　All　had　bled　heavily。　From　the　head　wounds　had　also　trickled　some　clear　substance…　cerebral　fluid；　he　supposed…that　cut　pale　tracks　through　the　blood。　Trevor　noticed　that　unlike　himself　and　Skeletal　Sammy；　Rosena　was　not　in　forties…noir　costume；　she　wore　the　same　embroidered　jeans　and　cotton　dashiki　top　she'd　had　on　the　night　she　died。
　　What　the　hell　did　that　mean？　What　the　hell　did　any　of　it　mean？　He　suddenly　wanted　Zach　here　with　him　as　badly　as　he　had　ever　wanted　anything。　Zach　could　unravel　intricate　patterns　of　logic；　perhaps　explain　them。　And　if　there　was　no　logic　in　Birdland；　then　Zach　could　hold　him；　give　him　somewhere　to　hide　his　face　so　he　would　not　have　to　keep　looking　into　his　mother's　bloody　eyes。
　　No。　This　was　what　he　had　e　for。　He　had　to　see　everything。
　　Rosena's　body　blocked　half　the　doorway。　Trevor　edged　by；　careful　not　to　let　his　leg　brush　her。　He　could　picture　the　stiff　sprawl　of　her　limbs　if　he　were　to　knock　her　over；　could　hear　the　hollow　sound　her　head　would　make　hitting　the　floor。　When　he　was　nearly　past；　he　could　also　imagine　how　it　would　feel　if　she　reached　out　and　wrapped　a　hand　around　his　ankle。　But　Rosena　remained　motionless。　He　could　not　believe　that　she　would　ever　harm　him。
　　He　pushed　open　the　door　of　Didi's　room　and　looked　through　the　crack　but　did　not　enter　the　room。　There　was　a　tiny　body　sprawled　on　the　mattress。　Even　in　the　dim　light　Trevor　could　make　out　the　dark　stain　surrounding　the　head。
　　Had　Bobby　drawn　Didi　after　killing　him　too？　Maybe；　but　Trevor　didn't　think　so。　It　would　have　been　getting　very　late　by　then；　and　Bobby　didn't　want　to　see　another　dawn。　But　where　had　he　gone　next？　Straight　into　the　bathroom　with　his　rope；　or　somewhere　else？
　　So　many　questions。　Trevor　was　suddenly　disgusted　with　himself　for　asking　them　when　there　seemed　to　be　no　answers。　What　the　fuck　did　it　matter　what　Bobby　had　done？　What　difference　could　it　make　to　him　now？　He　should　never　have　eaten　those　mushrooms；　should　never　have　catapulted　himself　over　into　Birdland。　He　had　left　Zach　behind；　and　he　didn't　know　how　to　find　his　way　back；　and　everything　here　seemed　like　a　senseless　dead　end。
　　Maybe　he　was　hallucinating　it　all。　This　world　seemed　as　tangible　as　the　other：　he　had　felt　the　sting　of　Sammy's　needle　going　into　his　arm；　smelled　the　fresh　blood　and　raw　sewage　stink　of　the　bodies。　But　he　was　on　an　unfamiliar　drug。　Who　knew　what　could　happen？　Maybe　he　would　enter　his　bedroom　and　see　his　own　body　asleep　on　the　mattress；　curled　around　Zach。　Maybe　he　could　get　back　through。
　　You　came　for　answers；　he　reminded　himself。　Did　you　think　they　would　be　written　on　the　walls　in　blood？　Are　you　really　ready　to　go　back　to　the　real　house；　to　the　empty　house？　Are　you　ready　to　stop　trying　to　fit　yourself　like　an　odd　piece　into　the　puzzle　of　your　family's　deaths；　to　fly　away　with　Zach；　to　start　your　own　life？
　　He　didn't　know。　There　seemed　to　be　an　invisible　barrier　between　him　and　all　he　saw；　as　if　the　house　were　letting　him　look　but　not　touch；　telling　him　You　were　never　a　part　of　this　as　if　he　needed　to　hear　it　again。　The　dead　were　linked　in　a　terrible　intimacy；　and　Trevor　was　the　living；　the　outsider。　You　never　had　anything　to　do　with　it。　Bobby　left　you　out　pletely。　They　all　left　you。　Go　back　to　the　one　person　who　cared　enough　to　stay。
　　Trevor　found　himself　standing　before　the　closed　door　of　his　own　room。　He　felt　as　if　he　were　walking　a　thin　line　between　his　past　and　his　future。　If　he　fell；　he　would　have　neither。　Balance　was　everything。
　　As　if　in　a　dream；　Trevor　saw　his　hand　reaching　out；　his　fingers　closing　on　the　knob。　Very　slowly；　he　opened　the　door。
　　The　man　sitting　on　the　edge　of　the　bed　looked　up。　His　eyes　locked　with　Trevor's；　ice…blue　irises　rimmed　in　black；　pupils　hugely　dilated。　His　gaunt　face　and　his　bare　chest　were　smeared　with　blood。　His　ginger　hair　was　matted　with　it。　In　his　right　hand　he　held　a　rusty　hammer；　its　head　glistening　thick　sticky　red；　its　claw　a　nightmare　of　tangled　blond　hair；　shredded　skin；　pulverized　brain　and　bone。　Slow　rivulets　of　blood　ran　down　the　handle；　coursed　in　dark　veinlike　patterns　over　his　arm。
　　Trevor　was　dimly　aware　of　someone　else　in　the　room；　a　small　still　form　on　the　mattress；　breathing　deeply；　shrouded　in　covers。　But　he　could　not　focus　on　it；　the　membrane　seemed　to　shimmer　and　grow　opaque　at　that　point；　like　a　wrinkle　in　the　fabric　of　this　world。
　　For　a　long；　long　moment　he　and　Bobby　simply　stared　at　each　other。　Their　faces　were　more　alike　than　Trevor　had　remembered。　Then　Bobby's　trance　seemed　to　break　a　little；　and　his　lips　moved。　What　came　out　was　a　broken　whisper；　hoarse　with　whiskey　and　sorrow。　〃Who　are　you？〃
　　〃I'm　your　son。〃
　　〃Didi　and　Rosena…〃
　　〃You　killed　them。　You　know　me；　Bobby。〃　Trevor　advanced　a　few　steps　into　the　room。　〃You　better　know　me。　I　haven't　stopped　thinking　about　you　for　twenty　years。〃
　　〃Oh；　Trev　。　。　。〃　The　hammer　fell　out　of　Bobby's　hand；　landed　with　a　heavy　thunk　on　the　floorboards　less　than　an　inch　from　his　bare　toes；　but　Bobby　didn't　flinch。　Trevor　saw　tears　coursing　down　his　face；　washing　away　some　of　the　blood。　〃Is　it　really　you？〃
　　〃Go　look　in　the　mirror　if　you　don't　believe　me。〃
　　〃No　。。。　no　。。。　I　know　who　you　are。〃　Bobby's　shoulders　slumped。　He　looked　ancient；　desolate。　〃How　old　are　you？　Nineteen？　Twenty？〃
　　〃Twenty…five。〃
　　〃Do　you　still　draw？〃
　　〃Goddammit！〃　Trevor　remembered　the　drift　of　shredded　paper　on　the　mattress；　the　pillow；　their　bodies。　〃You　ought　to　know！〃
　　Very　slowly；　Bobby　shook　his　head。　〃No；　Trev。　I　don't　know　anything　anymore。〃　He　looked　up　again；　and　Trevor　saw　by　the　naked　pain　in　Bobby's　face　that　it　was　true。　A　terrible　suspicion　drifted　like　a　cold　mist　into　his　mind。
　　〃Why　didn't　you　kill　me？〃　Trevor　asked。　He　had　been　waiting　so　long　to　say　those　words。　Now　they　sounded　flat　and　lifeless。
　　Bobby　shrugged　helplessly。　Trevor　recognized　the　gesture；　it　was　one　of　his　own。　〃I　just　kept　sitting　here；〃　Bobby　went　on；　〃looking　at　your　drawings　on　the　wall；　wondering　how　in　hell　I　could　hit　you　with　that　thing；　wondering　how　I　could　bury　that　chunk　of　metal　in　your　sweet；　smart　brain；　thinking　how　easy　they'd　been　pared　to　you。　They　were　like　anatomy　lessons。　The　body　is　a　puzzle　of　flesh　and　blood　and　bone　。　。　。　you　understand？〃
　　Trevor　nodded。　He　thought　of　th