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And he put away java the way Terry's car chugged motor oil。 Terry wondered what Trevor was trying to stay awake for。
One thing was certain： Missing Mile had itself another live one。
Trevor stayed long enough to drink most of the second pot of coffee。 Terry finished the joint and ran his mouth in what seemed like a friendly way； talking about music； the town； even ics once he found out Trevor drew them。 Trevor didn't usually talk about it； but Terry asked so many questions that he couldn't help answering some。
At least Terry didn't mention Bobby McGee； but then Birdland probably wasn't his sort of thing。 He liked the Freak Brothers； predictably； but most of his other favorites featured guys in capes and long underwear beating up guys in black。 （There was an awkward silence here； then Trevor； unable to help himself； mumbled 〃I hate that shit。〃 Terry just shrugged。）
Terry seemed kind enough； still Trevor could not shake the idea that he was being surreptitiously examined like some three…headed sideshow attraction。 In few other places had people seemed as curious about him； as interested in him； as here。 It was as if they sensed that he was a hometown boy； or nearly so。
Finally Terry stood up and stretched。 Trevor saw a flash of bare belly beneath his T…shirt： the skin lightly tanned； with the barest beginnings of a roll of fat and a thin line of pale brown hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans。 〃Guess we better get moving。 You want a ride somewhere？〃
〃Violin Road。〃
〃Pretty dead out there； man。 You sure？〃
〃That's where I'm staying now。〃
Terry glanced at Trevor； seemed to wrestle with something he wanted to say； evidently decided it was none of his business。 〃Okay。 Violin Road it is。〃
The rain had stopped but the day was still overcast。 The air felt heavy and moist against Trevor's skin； like an unwanted kiss。 The Rambler gunned through town and bumped over the railroad tracks。 It was Sunday afternoon； and nearly everything seemed to be shut down； doors locked tight； windows dark and shaded。 Freak subculture or not； Missing Mile was still in the heart of the Bible Belt。 The thought of his lambs being able to buy a tube of toothpaste or get a cup of coffee on Sunday was surely a terrible affront to the Lord。
Then they were turning off Firehouse Street onto another gravel road； one that changed to rutted dirt after half a mile or so。 Violin Road。 Trevor felt a loosening in his chest； a hot ribbon of excitement uncoiling in his stomach。 The scrap heaps and rusted hulks of automobiles； the unpainted trailers； the castle…like spires of kudzu slipped past； less substantial than blurry images in old photographs。 His eyes swept the roadside。
Then； suddenly； there was the house： his hell； his Birdland。
It was set farther back from the road than he remembered。 The porch and the peak of the roof were barely visible through the rioting growth that had taken over the yard。 A weeping willow at the side of the house had not been much taller than Momma's head； now its pale green fronds caressed the roof。 A verdant tangle of goldenrod and forsythia； Queen Anne's lace and pokeweed and brown…eyed Susans ran right up to the porch steps； which were partly crumbled。 Kudzu was draped over everything like a green blanket； tendrils twining between the porch railings； through the broken windows。
〃You can let me out here。〃
Terry slowed the Rambler to a crawl； looked around。 This far out； Violin Road was sparsely populated； there was no other house in sight。 〃Where？〃
〃Right here。〃
〃The murder house？〃
Trevor didn't say anything； waited for the car to slow enough so that he could jump out。 Terry seemed to have forgotten that his foot was on the gas； the Rambler inched along at ten miles per hour。 〃Oh shit；〃 he said。 〃I think I know who you are。〃
〃Yeah； I'm starting to feel like a local celebrity or something。 Thanks for the ride。 I'll see you at the Yew。〃
Trevor grabbed his bag and pushed the passenger door open； prompting Terry to apply his brakes at last。 Trevor's sneakers hit the scrubby grass at the side of the road； then； before he could think about it； he was sprinting toward the house。
〃Be careful； man！〃 Terry yelled。 Trevor pretended not to hear。 Then the Rambler was speeding up； disappearing down the road； throwing mud in its wake。 It rounded a bend and was gone。
Trevor stood alone in the yard； panting； staring at the house。 A few patches of weathered wood and broken glass were visible through the growth； other than that the face of the house was mostly hidden。
The grass just brushed his knees。 As he pushed through it； sparkling drops of water scattered to earth； grasshoppers whirred away from his invading feet。 He ducked under a dripping bower of vine and was there。 No more obstacles lay between him and the house。 The steps were mostly intact； and he thought the porch would hold him。 The front door was barely ajar。 Beyond that was dusty darkness。
Trevor closed his eyes for a long moment； heard the sigh and hush of leaves； the high shrill drone of insects； the distant conversation of birds 。 。 。 and beneath that； a subliminal voice whispering to him； making itself heard over years of absence and decay？
He was afraid so。 He hoped so。
He opened his eyes； took a deep breath of sunlight and the verdant smell the rain had left； and put his foot on the first step。
Chapter Nine
The air in Birdland was golden as slow syrup； green as the light that filtered through the kudzu； weighted with dampness and rot。 The cool decaying scent of a house abandoned for decades； made up of many things： the black earth under the floor； the dry droppings of animals； the drifts of dead insects sifting to shards of iridescent chitin beneath shimmering tapestries of cobweb。 In the random shafts of sunlight that fell through the lattice of roof and vegetation； dust motes slowly shifted； turned。 Each one might represent a memory Trevor had of this house； a particle of the universe charged with the terrible energy of years。
He moved deeper in。 Here was the living room； the husks of the ugly chair and old brown sofa that had e with the house moldering in a corner； reduced to skins of brittle colorless cloth stretched over skeletons of wood and wire。 The rain had e in through the holes in the roof； and the room smelled of slow damp decay； of fungal secrets。 Here were the remains of the stacked milk crates where the records had been stored。 Most of the records were gone； probably stolen by kids who had made it this far in； though by the end of that summer the magical vinyl wheels would have been as warped as if they had spent two months in a slow oven。
A few fleeting images of album covers came to him： Janis Joplin's Cheap Thrills with art by R。 Crumb； the psychedelic hologram of the Rolling Stones' Satanic Majesties Request that could induce dizziness if he stared into it too long； a photograph of Sidney Bechet that had scared him a little to look at； because the muscles of the jazz saxophonist's cheeks and neck were so developed that his head appeared swollen； elephantine。
Here was the doorway leading into the hall； where Momma had died。 Her blood had long since faded to a barely discernible pattern of streaks and spatters on the wall； not much darker than the shadow and grime around it。 But here and there the wooden frame had been splintered by hammer blows that missed。 And in two spots； one on either side of the door； Momma's fingers had dug into the wall hard enough to leave gouges in the plaster。 That must have happened when Bobby didn't miss。
In the autopsy report was a list of substances found under her fingernails： wood； plaster； her husband's blood and her own。 And little divots of Bobby's skin； strands of Bobby's hair。 She had fought him off hard。 She had died in intimate contact with him。
Cause of death： blunt trauma。 Victim had fifteen separate wounds made by a claw hammer； five to the head； three to the chest area； seven to the arms and hands。 Three of the head wounds and two of the chest wounds could in and of themselves have been fatal。
Had Momma died quietly？ This was something Trevor had wondered about for a long time。 She might have wrestled with Bobby in a desperate silence at first； not wanting to wake the boys and scare them with another fight。 But once she realized that Bobby meant them harm； Trevor thought； she would have started screaming。 She would have tried to hold Bobby off long enough to let them get out of the house。
And the injuries she had taken before her death： seven broken fingers； a splintered collarbone and a shattered tibia； three cracked ribs； a blow sunk so deeply into her chest that it penetrated the breastbone。 Could she have remained silent through those？
Trevor didn't think so。 He probably could have slept through anything that night。 He remembered the bitter…tasting grapefruit juice Bobby had given him before bed； the dull loginess of his head the next morning when he woke。 And a notation in his file at the Home said there had been Seconal in his blood when he was brought in。
Bobby had drugged him； which meant he had planned the murd