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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 murders。 But had he planned to leave Trevor alive； and drugged him so he would sleep through it all？ Or had he drugged both boys； planning to kill both； and changed his mind about Trevor for some reason？
And what about Didi？ Trevor wondered if his brother had seen his death ing。 He had found Didi curled on his belly； ruined head burrowed deep into the pillow； as if Bobby had killed him in his sleep。 But unless Bobby had given him Seconal too； Trevor didn't think Didi could have slept through the sounds of his mother dying。 Bobby could have killed him sitting up in bed…or cowering… and then arranged him back into the peaceful sleeping position as if trying to absolve himself。
Fredric D。 McGee； Box 17； Violin Road； male Caucasian； 3 yrs； 2…6； 25 pounds； blond hair； brown eyes。 Occupation： None。 Cause of death： blunt trauma。 Victim had approximately twenty…two separate wounds； all in head/neck area。 Cranium and brain were pletely destroyed 。 。 。
Trevor imagined Didi's eyes as the hammer descended。 He squeezed his own eyes shut and slammed the heel of his hand against the door frame。 A rain of dust sifted down。 The pain in his hand…his left hand； of course； he didn't hit things with his drawing hand…made the image of Didi fade。 And； in a far corner of the living room； a crumpled sheet of newspaper suddenly rustled； then tore。 The sound was nearly heart…stopping in the silent room。
Trevor turned away from the doorway； walked over to the corner and nudged the paper with his toe。 He could see no mouse or insect； nothing that could have made it move； let alone tear。 He picked it up and smoothed it； and the headline screamed off the page at him。 〃I HAD TO DO IT；〃 SAYS KILLER。 The word killer was ripped neatly in half。
Trevor examined the paper more closely and saw that it was a Raleigh News and Observer dated October 1986； years after he had left Missing Mile。 The headline story was about a man in Corinth who had give