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Chapter Eleven
Kinsey was mopping up the last of the water as the early evening barflies began to drift in。 Terry was closing up shop at the Whirling Disc and wishing Steve Finn were in town。 The new guy had fucked up an invoice and ordered twenty copies of Louie's Limbo Lounge； an obscure album of exquisitely bad strip…club music； instead of the two Terry had meant to special…order。 Now they could hear such classics as 〃Torture Rock；〃 〃Beaver Shot；〃 and the amazing 〃Hooty Sapper…ticker〃 by Barbara & the Boys whenever they so desired。
Terry started to call Poindexter's in Durham to see if they wanted any； but decided fuck it and went instead to buy his girl a beer。 A gaudy sunset bathed the downtown in red and purple light； and the slowly darkening streets glistened with the rain that had fallen all afternoon。
One by one the streetlights flickered on。 Terry remembered a summer two or three years ago when there had been a plague of Luna moths。 The huge insects beat against windows and swarmed around streetlights； their broad fragile wings catching the light and making it shift strangely； their color like nothing else in nature…the palest silver…green； the color of ectoplasm or the glow of radiation。 You could find drifts of them tattered and dead in the gutter； their fat furred bodies shriveled to husks。
Soon a flock of bats descended upon the town； roosting in the treetops and church bell towers by day； swooping out at night to catch the Luna moths in their tiny razored jaws。 If the show at the Sacred Yew was boring； the kids would congregate on the street and watch the shadowplay of leathery and iridescent wings； strain to hear the high needling squeal of the bats over the churn of guitars and percussion from the club。 One night Ghost had mused aloud that to the bats； the moths' blood must taste like creme de menthe。
Terry wondered what had bee of the new kids。 He thought Zach might have just hit the other side of town and kept driving； that boy looked like he might have someplace to be in a hurry。 And he guessed Trevor was still out at the murder house。 Hell of a thing； Bobby McGee's son ing back after all these years。
Well； Kinsey would know the lowdown。 Terry hastened his step toward the Yew； toward friends and music and the taste of a cold beer in his favorite bar on a summer's evening。
By ten o'clock Terry had had five cold beers and had forgotten all about Zach。 But Zach had not hit the other side of town； had not even returned to his car except to check the locks and pull it around to the side of the house。 He had found a place he liked； and he had every intention of setting up camp here for a few days unless Trevor objected。 But he didn't think Trevor would。
When they came in from the rainstorm； Trevor excused himself to put on dry clothes and disappeared down the hall。 Zach followed a few minutes later and found him sprawled on a bare mattress in one of the back bedrooms。 Naked and almost painfully thin； long hair spread out around his head like a corona； he was already deeply asleep。
Zach watched him for several moments but could not disturb him。 Trevor had spent the last three nights sleeping on a Greyhound bus； a couch； and a drawing table； he deserved some bed rest。 Zach got one of Kinsey's blankets and covered him。 As he did so he saw gooseflesh shivering across Trevor's chest； water droplets still caught in the cup of his navel and the damp tangle of his pubic hair。 He imagined the salty taste those droplets would have if he were to bend down and lick them away。
Now you want to molest him in his sleep。 It was Eddy's voice； out of nowhere。 Christ； Zach； why don't you just buy a blow…up love doll on Bourbon Street and be done with it？
Fuck you； Eddy。
As he turned away from the bed he noticed drawings tacked to the walls。 Monsters and fanciful houses； unfamiliar landscapes。 And faces； all kinds of faces。 A child's drawings…but a child with obvious talent； with an eye for line and proportion； with an untrammeled imagination。 This was Trevor's own room。
Zach left Trevor to sleep and started exploring the house。 At the end of the hall was the bathroom where Bobby had died。 There was no window in this room； and Zach did not think to try the switch。 He stood on the threshold staring into the unlit chamber； saw porcelain gleaming dully beneath layers of dirt and cobweb。 The shower curtain rod was bent； almost buckled。 Zach wondered if Trevor had seen that yet。
Something about the bathroom's geometry seemed wrong； as if the angle at which walls met ceiling were slightly skewed。 It made Zach feel dizzy； almost nauseated。 He turned away and went into the room across the hall； which was the studio。 He saw Trevor's sketchbook lying open on the drawing table and slowly flipped through the pages。 The drawings were very good。 Zach had read one issue of Birdland； and he thought Trevor's style was already technically better than Bobby's。 The lines were surer； the faces finer and more subtle； with layer upon layer of nuance lurking in the expressions he captured。
But Bobby's work had always had a certain fractured warmth to it。 No matter how sordid and vile his characters were…the junkies and glib beatniks and talking saxophones who got laid more often than their human counterparts…you always felt they were pawns in an indifferent universe； butts of an existential joke with no punch line。 Trevor's work was harsher； icier。 His universe was not indifferent but cruel。 He knew his punch line： the crumpled； bleeding woman in the doorway； the broken bodies of the musicians； the burning cops。
And others； as Zach paged back through the book。 So many others。 So many beautifully drawn dead bodies。
He checked out the master bedroom and its walk…in closet； saw little of interest…the parents hadn't brought much of their own stuff； probably； after fitting Bobby's art supplies and the kids' things in the car there wouldn't have been much space left。
He crossed the hall to Didi's room； stopped dead on the threshold and stared at the huge dark mass boiling through the window； then realized it was kudzu。 Zach wondered how long it would be before the vines filled the room from floor to ceiling。 He took in the bloodstain on the mattress； the spatters high on the wall。 Trevor said the hammer had appeared in the opposite corner； next to the small closet。 Zach looked at the area； even prodded the kudzu with the toe of his sneaker； but found nothing unusual。
He had heard of objects instantaneously being transported from one place to another； they were called 〃apports〃 and were supposed to be warm to the touch； as Trevor said the hammer had been。 Zach wasn't sure he believed in apports； but he couldn't think of another way it might have gotten there。 If it was the same hammer。
But if it wasn't； where had the dried blood and tissue e from？ Zach didn't even want to wonder。 It had to be the same one； that made more sense than thinking Trevor had bought another one and smeared it with sheep brains or something。 Zach was not an implicit believer in the supernatural； but he didn't believe in scaring up improbable natural explanations just to