pzb.lostsouls-第52节

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　　〃Wait　till　we　get　to　New　Orleans；〃　Ghost　said。　〃You　can　buy　me　a　bottle　of　Night　Train。〃　His　hand　crept　across　the　seat；　found　Steve's　hand　and　held　it　tight。　Steve　thought　he　could　feel　a　message　flowing　into　him　through　Ghost's　warm　fingers：　You　get　yourself　killed；　Steve；　and　that's　it。　That's　the　end　of　the　game　for　me　too。　I　know　you're　bummed　out　and　you　think　I'm　the　only　person　in　the　world　yon　can　trust；　but　I　need　you　too。　So　you　better　keep　your　ass　safe。　I　need　you　too。
　　
　　Sometime　closer　to　dawn…but　not　too　close；　not　dangerously　so…a　battered　silver　car　drove　along　the　same　road　that　Steve　and　Ghost　had　left　behind　an　hour　ago。　A　Bel　Air。　Zillah　hadn't　wanted　to　wait　for　Christian　to　gas　up　his　car　and　give　Kinsey　Hummingbird　his　notice；　so　they　had　all　arranged　to　meet　in　the　French　Quarter　the　following　night。
　　Christian　had　forgotten　to　turn　his　headlights　on。　For　him　the　road　was　lit　well　enough　by　moonlight　and　the　faint　glitter　of　the　stars。　And　there　were　no　other　cars　on　the　highway；　not　this　late　at　night。
　　At　least　there　had　been　none。　But　as　he　rounded　a　sharp　curve；　a　pickup　truck　screeched　out　of　a　side　road　onto　the　highway　behind　him。　Its　headlights　burned　a　blinding　bar　into　his　rearview　mirror。　Its　horn　blared　as　the　driver　saw　Christian's　car　too　late；　and　braked　too　hard。　Then　the　pickup　was　skidding　off　the　road；　smashing　down　a　short　embankment；　rolling　over　and　over。　At　last　the　truck　came　to　rest　against　the　trunk　of　a　massive　pine。　The　windshield　was　cracked；　blood…smeared。
　　Christian　pulled　off　the　road　and　left　his　car。　He　picked　his　way　carefully　down　the　embankment。　The　passengers　in　the　pickup　were　dead；　or　nearly　so；　he　could　smell　that。　There　was　no　oily　tang　of　gasoline；　no　smell　of　heat；　the　truck　would　not　catch　fire。　There　was　only　the　heavy　scent　of　blood；　rich　and　laced　with　alcohol。
　　Christian　knew　the　accident　had　been　his　fault。　After　all；　he　had　left　his　lights　off。　But　he　had　not　meant　to。　And　the　truck　had　been　going　much　too　fast。
　　And　he　was　hungry。
　　The　truck's　passenger　must　have　died　instantly。　His　features　were　smeared　across　his　face　in　a　blur　of　bleed　and　bone　studded　with　broken　glass。　The　driver　was　still　alive。　His　body　lay　twisted　across　the　seat；　his　scrawny　legs　pinned　somewhere　beneath　the　dashboard；　but　he　was　conscious。　Blood　soaked　from　under　his　mesh　cap；　beaded　his　colorless　hair。　The　driver　moaned　when　he　saw　Christian；　and　when　Christian　bent　to　the　passenger's　torn　throat；　he　tried　to　scream。　But　he　could　not　open　his　mouth。　His　chin　had　struck　the　steering　wheel　with　crushing　force；　and　his　jawbones　ground　together；　pulverized。
　　As　Christian　lapped　the　dying…blood　off　Charlie's　lips　and　chin　and　throat；　Willy　could　only　watch。
　　
　　　Chapter　25
　　
　　Everybody　else　had　a　car　to　drive；　or　a　bunch　of　loud　panions；　or　at　least；　like　Christian；　a　radio　to　play　all　night；　brave　rock　and　roll　occasionally　exploding　into　bursts　of　static；　whispering　in　voices　that　almost　formed　words。
　　Ann's　decrepit　Datsun　would　never　make　it　all　the　way　to　New　Orleans；　she　had　no　car；　no　panion；　and　she　had　sold　her　Walkman　to　another　girl　at　work　so　she　could　see　R。E。M。　play　at　Duke　University　last　month。　She　couldn't　even　listen　to　her　Cocteau　Twins　tapes　on　her　way　to　meet　her　love。
　　By　the　time　she　got　home　that　night；　she　knew　she　was　going　to　New　Orleans。　It　had　been　easy　enough　to　stand　there　in　the　trailer　yard　talking　to　the　tall　bartender；　telling　him　she　would　follow　Zillah　anywhere。　But　when　it　came　right　down　to　going…well；　that　had　to　be　thought　out　for　a　while。
　　At　work；　waiting　tables　in　the　Spanish　restaurant　whose　gold　flocked　wallpaper　and　red　pile　carpet　passed　for　elegance　in　the　North　Carolina　slicks；　she　thought　it　out。　By　the　time　she　left；　she　was　able　to　phrase　a　note　to　the　kitchen　manager　explaining　that　there　was　a　sudden　illness　in　her　family　and　could　the　balance　of　her　pay　please　be　forwarded　to　Ann　Bransby…Smith；　General　Delivery；　New　Orleans；　Louisiana：　She　didn't　really　expect　to　see　that　money。　Maybe　when　Zillah　saw　how　she　truly　loved　him；　he　would　provide　for　her；　the　purple　silk　lining　of　his　coat　spoke　of　wealth。
　　She　had　thought　it　out　carefully；　but　she　was　still　scared　by　her　decision。　Leave　Missing　Mile？　She　had　never　done　that；　not　even　to　go　to　college。　After　high　school　graduation　she　hadn't　applied　to　any　schools；　telling　herself　she　was　taking　a　year　off　to　concentrate　on　painting。　Steve　and　Ghost　were　going　to　State。　If　they　thought　college　was　worth　anything；　then　she　might　go。　But　the　year　turned　into　two。　Steve　and　Ghost　got　disillusioned　and　came　back　home；　fell　back　into　their　dream　of　being　rock　stars。
　　She　couldn't　talk　to　Steve　now；　didn't　think　she　ever　would　again。　But　there　was　still　Eliot；　only　ten　miles　down　the　highway；　who　knew　nothing　about　her　night　with　Zillah　outside　the　Sacred　Yew。　She　could　see　him　any　day　after　work。　She　admitted　to　herself　that　she　hadn't　wanted　to　see　him　much　lately。　He　wouldn't　smoke　pot　and　was　a　little　shocked　that　she　did。　He　even　wanted　her　to　quit　smoking　her　unfiltered　Camels：　〃Can't　you　at　least　switch　to　one　of　the　low…tar　brands？〃　he'd　asked；　and　hadn't　understood　why　Ann　burst　out　laughing。　Eliot　couldn't　even　outdrink　her。　What　kind　of　man　got　sleepy　after　drinking　three　Lite　beers？　The　only　thing　Eliot　really　liked　to　drink　was　his　loathsome　gin…and…Cokes。
　　She　couldn't　pretend　that　Eliot　mattered　anymore。　He　had　tried　to　make　Ann　jealous　last　weekend；　telling　her　his　ex…wife　was　ing　to　town。　〃She's　got　no　place　to　stay；〃　Eliot　had　said　innocently；　〃Do　you　think　I　should　offer　to　put　her　up　here？〃　Ann　didn't　give　a　shit。　She　had　not　stayed　in　Missing　Mile　for　Eliot。　She　had　not　stayed　for　Steve。　She　had　stayed　because　of　her　father。　Simon's　strangeness　had　kept　her　here；　kept　her　worried　enough　to　postpone　her　life。　Now　it　was　the　final　thing　that　drove　her　away。　If　Simon　found　out　she　was　pregnant　。　。　。　well；　he　would　think　she　was　stupid。　And　Simon　did　not　suffer　fools　gladly。
　　But　none　of　those　men　mattered　now。　Steve；　Eliot；　Simon　…they　were　just　names　receding　into　her　past；　names　with　none　of　the　susurrant　magic　of　Zillah。　She　whispered　his　name　to　herself　constantly。　It　was　like　the　smooth　taste　of　whipped　cream；　like　a　deep　tongue　kiss。
　　She　drove　out　to　Violin　Road；　but　the　trailer　was　dark。　The　black　van　and　the　silver　Bel　Air　were　gone；　and　there　was　an　air　of　emptiness　about　the　trailer：　already　it　looked　as　if　no　one　had　lived　there　for　a　long　time。　They　were　on　their　way　to　New　Orleans；　then。　Soon　she　would　be　too。
　　Simon's　car　wasn't　there　either；　when　she　drove　home。　She　wanted　to　see　him　one　more　time；　but　she　was　afraid　to。　This　was　how　it　had　to　be。　She　began　to　pack。　What　should　she　put　in　the　one　small　bag　she　would　be　able　to　carry？　She　wished　she　could　take　the　new　series　of　paintings　she　had　begun。　All　of　them　were　unfinished；　all　were　of　faces　with　sly　pink　smiles　and　iridescent　green　eyes。　But　those　would　have　to　stay。　She　wouldn't　need　them　in　New　Orleans。　Instead　she　packed　her　black　lace　underwear　and　two　pairs　of　old　pink　cotton　panties。　Her　toothbrush；　her　cigarettes；　her　little　wooden　pipe　and　her　film　can；　which　contained　three　pinches　of　marijuana　she'd　cadged　off　Terry。　She　might　need　to　sneak　a　toke　in　some　bus　station　bathroom　between　here　and　New　Orleans。　Somewhere　in　the　swamps。
　　There　were　a　few　crumbly　leaves　left　in　the　bottom　of　her　bowl；　so　she　sneaked　a　toke　now。　It　put　her　at　loose　ends。　She　stood　staring　around　at　her　possessions；　suddenly　feeling　unable　to　leave　anything　behind。　Her　mourning　hat　with　the　little　black　veil；　her　record　collection。　The　R。E。M。　poster　on　the　wall　stared　down　at　her。　Stipe's　eyes　were　like　loss。　Peter　Buck's　were　like　dark　fire。　How　could　she　leave　her　posters；　her　clothes；　her　canvases　and　paint　box？
　　Frenziedly　she　snatched　at　a　black　lace　scarf　and　tied　it　around　her　throat。　That；　at　least；　would　go　with　her。　She　put　on　a　string　of　ebony　beads；　a　gray　sweatshirt；　a　skirt　with　a　torn　silk　lining。　She　was　caught　in　the　mirror；　adding　lipstick　and　silver　eyeshadow　（in　just　eighteen　hours　or　so　she　might　see　her　true　love　again；　she　must　look　beautiful）；　when　she　heard　Simon　at　the　front　door。　She　snatched　off　her　beret　and　with　the　side　of　her　foot　shoved　the　suitcase　under　the　bed。
　　Ann　heard　him　stepping　carefully　through　the　mess　in　the　living　room。　Picking　his　way　through　the　piles　of　books　and　newspapers；　emphasizing　how　untidy　the　room　was。　He　dragged　the　books　off　the　shelves；　he　read　the　newspapers；　but　she　was　supposed　to　keep　the　house　picked　up。　That　was　one　of　her　duties。　Simon　was　very　big　on　duties。　Sometimes　she　wondered　whether　he　didn't　strew　his　things　around　just　to　make　the　absence　of　liquor　bottles　more　obvious。　He　said　he　had　not　taken　a　drink　for　five　years；　six　months；　and　twenty　days；　and　Simon　was　never　wrong。
　　Here　he　was　at　the　doorway；　small　and　spare。　His　hair；　unbed　for　days；　flared　wildly　about　his　head。　It　was　thick　and　snow…white；　his　skin　was　almost　phosphorescent　in　the　gloom　of　the　hallway。　In　the　summer　Ann　worried　about　her　father's　health。　He　had　e　over　from　Dorche