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His head slightly logy but full of ideas； Trevor rolled off the mattress； pushed open the door of his room； and walked down the hall toward the kitchen。
He saw the blood on the walls before he saw Momma。
It would e out in the autopsy report…which Trevor did not read until years later…that Daddy had attacked her near the front door； that they must have argued； that there had been a struggle and he had driven her back toward the hall before he killed her。 That was where he would have picked up the hammer。
Momma was crumpled in the doorway that led from the living room into the hall。 Her back rested against the frame。 Her head lolled on the fragile stem of her neck。 Her eyes were open； and as Trevor edged around her body； they seemed to fix on him。 For a heart…stopping second he thought she was alive。 Then he saw that the eyes were cloudy； and filmed with blood。
Her arms were a mass of blood and bruise； silver rings sparkling amid the ruin of her hands。 （Seven fingers broken； the autopsy report would say； along with most of the small bones in her palms； as she raised her hands to ward off the blows of the hammer。） There was a deep gouge in her left temple； another in the center of her forehead。 Her hair was loose； fanned around her shoulders； stiff with blood。 A clear fluid had seeped from her head wounds and dried on her face； making silvery tracks through the mask of red。
And on the wall above her； a confusion of bloody handprints trailing down； down 。 。 。
Trevor spun and ran back down the hall； toward his brother's room。 He did not know that his bladder had let go； did not feel the hot urine spilling down his legs。 He did not hear the sound he was making； a long； high moan。
The door of Didi's room was closed。 Trevor had not closed it when he looked in on Didi last night。 High up on the door was a tiny smudge of blood； barely noticeable。 It told Trevor everything he needed to know。 He went in anyway。
The room was thick with the smell of blood and shit。 The two odors together were cloying； almost sweet。 Trevor went to the bed。 Didi lay in the same position Trevor had left him in last night； his head burrowed into the pillow； one small hand curled into a fist near his mouth。 The back of Didi's head was like a swamp； a dark mush of splintered bone and thick clotted gore。 Sometime during the night…because of the heat； or in the spasms of death… Didi had kicked off his covers。 Trevor saw the dark brown stain between his legs。 That was where the smell came from。
Trevor lifted the blanket and pulled it over Didi； covering the stain； the ruined head； the unbearable curled hand。 The blanket settled over the small still form。 Where it covered the head； a blotch of red appeared。
He had to find Daddy。 His mind clung to some tiny； glittering hope that maybe Daddy hadn't done this at all； that maybe some crazy person had broken into their house and killed Momma and Didi and left him alive for some reason； that Daddy might still be alive too。
He stumbled out of Didi's room； felt his way along the hall； sprawled headlong into the bathroom。
That was where Momma's friends found him hours later； when they drove out to see why Momma hadn't shown up to model that day； she was so reliable that they became worried immediately。 The front door was unlocked。 They saw Momma's body first； and had nearly worked themselves into hysterics when someone heard the high toneless keening。
They found Trevor squeezed into a tiny space between the toilet and the old porcelain sink； curled as pact as a fetus； his eyes fixed on the body of his father。 Bobby McGee hung from the shower curtain rod。 It was the old…fashioned kind bolted into the wall； and had held his weight all night and all day。 He was naked。 His penis hung limp and dry as a dead leaf； there had been no last orgasm in death for him。 His body was thin nearly to the point of emaciation； luminously pale； his hands and feet gravid with blood； his face so swollen as to be featureless except for the eyes bulging halfway out of their sockets。 The rough strand of hemp cut a deep slash in his neck。 His hands and his torso were still stained with the blood of his family。
As someone lifted him and carried him out； still curled into the smallest possible ball； Trevor had his first coherent thought in hours； and the last he would have for many days。
He needn't have worried about accidentally ing upon the Devil's Tramping Ground； he realized。
The Devil's Tramping Ground had e to him。
From the Corinth Weekly Eye； June 16；1972
By Denny Marsten； Staff Writer
MISSING MILE…Grisly tragedy has struck just down the road。 Hardly anyone knew that the famous 〃underground〃 cartoonist Robert McGee was living in North Carolina until he bludgeoned two members of his family to death； then mitted suicide in a rented house on the outskirts of Missing Mile。
McGee； formerly of Austin； Texas； was 35。 His work has appeared in student and counter…culture newspapers across the country； and he created the controversial adult ic book Birdland。 Also deceased are his wife； Rosena McGee； 29； and a son； Fredric McGee； 3。 Surviving is another son； name and age unknown。
A state trooper mented at the scene； 〃We believe drugs were involved 。 。 。 With these kinds of people； they usually are。〃 Another trooper remarked that this was the first multiple murder in Missing Mile since 1958； when a man shot his wife and his three brothers to death。
Kinsey Hummingbird of Missing Mile repaired the McGees' car a few weeks before the murders。 〃I didn't see anything wrong with any of them；〃 Hummingbird said。 〃And if I had； it would be nobody's business。 Only the McGees will ever know what went on in that house。〃
He added； 〃Robert McGee was a great artist。 I hope somebody takes good care of the little boy。〃
No one would speculate on why McGee chose to let his eldest son live。 The child has been taken into custody of the state and will be placed in an orphanage or foster home if no relatives are located。
Twenty Years Later
Chapter One
As he walked to work each afternoon； Kinsey Hummingbird was apt to reflect upon a variety of things。 These things might be philosophical （quantum physics； the function of Art in the universe） or prosaic （what sort of person would take the time to scrawl 〃Robin Fuks〃 in a freshly cemented sidewalk； had they really thought the legend was important enough to be preserved through the ages in concrete？） but never boring。 Kinsey seldom found himself bored。
The walk from his house to downtown Missing Mile was an easy one。 Kinsey hoofed it twice a day nearly every day of his life； only driving in when he had something too heavy to carry…a pot of homemade fifteen…bean soup； for instance； or a stray amplifier。 The walk took him past a patchwork quilt of fields that changed with every season： plowed under dark and rich in winter； dusted with the palest green in spring； resplendent with tobacco； pumpkin vines； or other leafy crops through the hot Carolina summer and straight on till harvest。 It took him past a fairytale landscape of ku