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…drawing。
But now he was here； on the very spot where he sat in the dream； and he could still draw。
His jaw was set； his eyes wary； a shade darker than before。 Though he did not know it； he looked like a man who has taken blows but is now ready to deal some of his own。
He glanced down at his own sketchbook and for the first time really saw what he had just drawn； and all the hardness drained out of his face。 His mouth fell open； his throat slammed shut； tears started in his eyes。 Caffeine and adrenaline sizzled through his veins； made his heart carom against the walls of his chest。 He could barely remember drawing this。 It wasn't even how the story was supposed to go。
The cops were meant to show up with their nightsticks drawn； bash Bird and Brown around some； then haul them off to jail with bruises and bleeding scalps。 That was what had really happened。
But in this version； the cops never stopped bashing。
There were closeups of hard wood connecting with skulls； skin splitting and curling back from the edges of wounds； a freshet of blood coursing from a nostril； an eye gone to pulp and swollen tissue； a spray of broken teeth on the ground like splinters of ivory scattered on dark velvet。 Bird and Brown lay crumpled at the bottom of the final page like animals hunted down and killed for their pelts； adrift in a spreading pool of gore。
The gore was darkly shaded and looked slick； nearly wet。 Trevor could not remember drawing it。
The house and whatever lived here had cast some nightmarish pall across his vision； hypnotized his hand； ruined his story。
Or had it？
The true story as Trevor had intended to tell it would have been strong and affecting in an understated way。 Maybe this could be something splashier； stranger； and ultimately more memorable。 He envisioned an ending for this version。 The cops realize they've killed the musicians and sneak off； figuring they can blame the murders on niggers killing other niggers。 But； as white men have failed to realize for too long； people aren't stupid just because they're poor。 The black people of Jackson can read the death of their heroes like a bitter book whose pages are bound in dusky skin； writ large with blood spilled in hatred。
Jackson is not so far from New Orleans； cradle of dark religion and herbal wisdom from Africa； from Haiti； from the heart of the Louisiana swamp。 And hoodoo knowledge has a way of traveling 。 。 。
Trevor imagined the bodies of Bird and Brown rising back up； seeing dimly through smashed eyes； thinking dimly with smashed brains。 They would be only shells； drained of music； of life。 But like all good zombies they would be able to hone in on their killers。 And they would have help 。 。 。
In his mind he saw a full…page final frame。 The cops crucified and burning on their own front lawns； nailed to crosses of blazing agony； their blackening； yawning forms silhouetted against the rich texture of the flames。 It would have a crudely moralistic； E。G。 ics feel to it。 But he wouldn't ink it or color it； he would do it entirely in pencil； meticulously shaded and hatched and stippled； and it would be beautiful。
And he would sell this fucker； sell it to a market that could afford to print it right。 Raw maybe； or Taboo。 He loved Taboo； an irregularly published anthology of beautifully rendered； lovingly produced； weird and twisted ics printed mostly in stark blacks and whites； shot through here and there with a few pages of color alternately subtle； vivid； and disturbing。 Everything from Joe Coleman's mutilation paintings to the numerous intricate collaborations of Alan Moore had appeared in its pages； all printed on fine heavy paper。
Trevor's jaw was set again as he bent back over his sketchbook。 But now the emotion in his face looked more like strength than hardness。 If he did this right； it would be the best thing he had ever drawn。
He drew for four more hours in the harsh electric light； until his eyelids grew heavy and sandy； until his fingers could barely uncurl from the pencil。 Then he folded his arms on the tabletop and cradled his head and went effortlessly to sleep。
Sometime later the gooseneck lamp clicked off； leaving him in darkness broken only by the trembling； shifting moonlight that came in the windows； filtered through kudzu and twenty years of dust。
Trevor did not dream that night。
Chapter Ten
Kinsey Hummingbird woke on Monday morning hoping Trevor might have e back in the night； though he had not seen him all day Sunday。 Kinsey couldn't imagine anyone sleeping in that house。 But apparently Trevor had； at any rate； he wasn't here。
There were so many things Kinsey wanted to say to the boy…but he had to stop thinking of him as a boy。 Trevor was twenty…five after all； even if he had had reason to lie； the chronology was right。 Kinsey remembered the date of the McGee deaths well enough。
It was just that Trevor looked so young。 That scared five…year…old was still a big part of him； Kinsey thought as he got up and went to the kitchen； though some flintier core must have kept Trevor alive and sane。 There was an undeniable strength there； many people in Trevor's situation would have retreated into the numb fog of catatonia or blown their brains out as soon as they were able to lay hands on a gun。
But even for a soul of enormous strength； what would a night in that house have been like？
After the investigation of the McGee deaths was over… and of course there had been little investigating to do； the bodies told their own mute tale…the cops had locked the door behind them and the family's things had sat in the house； gathering dust in the silent； bloodstained rooms。 A FOR SALE sign went up in the scrubby yard； but no one saw it as anything other than a ghoulish joke on the realtor's part。 That house would never be rented again； let alone sold。
Browsing the aisles of Potter's Store one day deep in the summer of 1972； the FOR SALE sign outside the murder house already niggling at his mind； Kinsey found himself wondering what had happened to the McGees' things。 Potter's was a cavernous thrift establishment downtown； huge and dim and cool； its rickety rows of metal shelves crammed with chipped plates and battered silverware and obsolete （though usually functional） kitchen appliances； its cracked glass display case filled with strange knickknacks and costume jewelry； its bins heaped high with musty clothing。 Kinsey； with his love of junk； often spent long afternoons browsing here。
But he didn't think the McGees' belongings had ended up at Potter's Store。 He wasn't sure what he thought he should have seen： bloodstained mattresses； maybe； or splattered shirts and dresses woven through the pile marked MISC WOMENS CLOTHS 25 CENTS。 But there hadn't been any jazz records or underground ics either； and there sure as hell hadn't been a drawing table。 He supposed everything was still out there； moldering in the silent rooms。
The house on Violin Road never sold。 The FOR SALE sign was stolen； replaced by the realtor； whose optimism apparently knew no bounds。 The paint on the new sign faded throughout the long dry summer。 Tall weeds grew up