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ach thought through the pain。 That was my chance and I blew it and now he's just gonna kill me worse。 He could already taste the dirty boot heel plowing into his mouth； his teeth splintering； blood spraying over his tongue。
But instead of stomping his face； Joe reached down； grabbed Zach's arm； and pulled him back up。 It was obvious that Joe would be perfectly willing to yank his shoulder out of its socket if Zach resisted。 〃You're smart enough to get into places but not smart enough to know when you're not wanted；〃 he hissed into Zach's face。 His breath was scented with peppermint and rotgut gin。 〃You're meddlin' here and I'm gonna stop you。 Don't fight me or I'll put out one of your eyes。 I swear it。〃
Zach believed him。 He remembered a time just before he had left home for good that Joe had thrown him against the wall and held a lighted cigarette less than an inch from his right eye； threatening to burn it if he blinked。 Evangeline had snatched the cigarette； taken a slap across the face that knocked her down； then cussed Zach to ribbons for having provoked his father with some smartass remark。 Later he had noticed that his eyelashes were singed。
Joe pulled out the poor man's weapon he had always carried on the streets of New Orleans； a knotted sock half full of pennies。 The black wool was stiff with dried blood。 He slapped it against his palm thoughtfully； then grinned and swung it around his head； winding up for the blow。
Trevor； Zach promised silently； if I see you again…no； WHEN I see you； I'm taking you away to the cleanest； whitest； bluest； warmest beach you ever saw； and I'll buy you all the paper and ink you want； and we'll keep each other as sane as we want to be and love each other as long as we're alive。 We'll let go of our pasts and start making our future。
Then his father's slap plowed into his skull。 Joe hit him so hard that the sock split right open。 In the instant before his mind went out； Zach saw its contents raining down around his head； shimmering； sparkling。
Not pennies。 Tiny diamonds。
Trevor kept following the street he had chosen。 It led him deeper into the factories where he wasn't sure he wanted to go； but there were no cross streets anymore； and he would not return the way he had e。 There was nothing in those bars for him； nothing but the bottles frosted with dust and filled with poison； nothing but Skeletal Sammy's crumbling bones。
He passed a shining； bubbling pool of black liquid enclosed by a chain…link fence； a vast decrepit building with white steam billowing from hundreds of broken windows； a railyard where rusty boxcars lay scattered like children's blocks。 There was a weird toxic beauty to the landscape。 Like alien terrain； Trevor thought at first； but this desolation was peculiarly human。
His fingers itched for pencil and paper。 He could actually feel the satisfying sensation of the graphite tip gliding over the page； the slight textured catch of the paper's grain； the minute sympathetic vibration in the bones of his hand。 He thrust both hands into his pockets and walked on。
The street began to curve away in a strange perspective； as if the horizon line didn't quite mesh with the sky。 He saw the corner of another empty lot up ahead； then realized it wasn't empty after all as the edge of a building became visible； set back farther from the street than the others。 Something else was odd about the building； and after a moment Trevor realized what。 It was made of wood。 The structure he saw was a wooden porch； here in this industrial wasteland of steel and concrete。
It cast a flat black shadow on the ground； the shadow of a peaked roof and spindly railings； like any of a million porches on a million rambling old farmhouses。 You saw them plenty driving around rural areas of the South。 You didn't see them much； though； in the industrial sections of vast gray deserted cities。
A few more steps and his conscious mind saw what his back brain had known all along。 It was the house from Violin Road； set down stark and solid in the middle of this necrophiliac dreamscape； the same as it had ever been； hardly looking a part of the world it now inhabited。
If not the seed of Birdland； the house was surely its rotten core； if not an actual part of this dead world； the house was surely its source。 Trevor knew he was going back in there now。 If he died this time； it would be as if he had never lived these twenty years。 If he didn't； then the rest of his life belonged to him。
And to Zach； if he still wanted any part of it。 It's the house where you lost your virginity after a quarter century； too； Trevor reminded himself。 But that was another source of its power over him； as visceral as the deaths。
Remember； he thought dreamily； you still have plenty of time to get down to Birdland 。 。 。
But now there was no more time。 Now he was all the way down。
Without its yardful of weeds and green veil of kudzu the house looked stark； broken…backed； sculpted of splinter and shadow。 The windows rippled with opaque colors； reflecting some light Trevor could not see。 As he crossed the featureless lot they flared violet； then faded to bruise。
He mounted the steps； pushed the listing door open； and went in。 The living room was just as he remembered it： ugly chair and sofa sagging but not pletely gone to mold and mildew； the turntable surrounded by crates of records。 His heart missed a beat as he saw another figure in the dim room。
Crouching near the hall doorway was a slender woman in a loose white camisole and a red skirt with matching elbow…length gloves。 Long black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back； rippling with unearthly blue highlights。
Her head swiveled and her face tilted up to him： pale； sharp…featured； startlingly lovely。 Her enormous dark eyes were slightly tilted； smudged with shadows。 Trevor realized three things at once： the woman looked just like Zach； she was holding something in her cupped hands； and she was wearing only a white one…piece shift； no gloves。 The skirt was so stained with blood that he had thought it a separate piece of clothing。 Her arms were swathed to the elbows in gore。
She raised her hands and showed him what she held。 Trevor saw a gelatinous glob of blood shot through with dark veins； the black dot of an eye； five tiny curled fingers。
〃I didn't have the money for a doctor；〃 she said； 〃so I hit myself in the stomach until it bled。 I just wanted the damn thing out of me。 Do you hear？ Out！〃
Trevor advanced on her； stared her down。 A quick hot vein of anger pulsed in his head。 Zach had suffered unforgivably at the hands of this woman。 〃You did not；〃 he said。 〃You didn't want him but you had him anyway； and you two tortured him as long as you could get away with it。 That was nineteen years ago and your baby's doing fine。 Where are you now； you fucking evil bitch？〃
The woman crumpled back against the door frame。 The bloody mess slid out of her hands。 Trevor had to resist the urge to scoop the lonely detritus into his own hands and sob over it。 That mangled thing wasn't Zach； couldn't be。 It was only a neverborn phantom。
He remembered that Zach's mother was na