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matter。
After a few minutes he tried to speak。 The words came like slow drops of blood from a ragged wound。 〃I 。 。 。 I tried to call her a couple of times。 Hung up when she answered； real cool。 Then I got Simon； and he wouldn't let me talk to her。 She asked him to screen her calls； I guess。 I guess I fucked up pretty good。〃
〃I know；〃 said Ghost。 〃I know how things were。〃
And you probably do； too； Steve thought。 You probably know everything that ever happened to us； the hot nights and the sodden…silk texture inside her； the weeks when things were starting to go bad； the ether of betrayal； the look on her face； and the moment of absolute shock； like falling into deep icy water； when I realized I had really for chrissake raped her。
He pulled away from Ghost。 He felt his face contorting； but he would not cry； he would not cry。
For a long time they sat in panionable silence。 Steve felt his drunkenness receding to a fortable buzz； and Ghost opened his bottle of scuppernong wine to catch up。 They were booked at the Sacred Yew the following night； so Steve dragged out his guitar and they ran haphazardly through their set； knowing it didn't matter。 They had played the Yew hundreds of times。 They might play there a hundred times more； and their little group of fans would e to drink and dance； and nothing would matter except the exuberance of playing。
〃Let's listen to the tape；〃 Steve suggested。 He thought he ought to remind himself what the songs really sounded like。 Ghost stumbled to the stereo； and soon Lost Souls？ filled the little house； the guitar hard…edged and gloriously mad； Ghost's words bittersweet； with a visionary longing。 〃We need the roots but you can't dig up the tree 。 。 。〃 Ghost sang along with his own golden…gravel voice。 〃So walk the mountain roads with me and drink some clear water 。 。 。〃
Steve sang along too； strumming the guitar。 Those were the words of a visionary； weren't they？ Those were the words of somebody who remembered what magic was。 There was magic left in the world； there had to be。 Steve banged at the strings。 Beneath the noise he heard a fiery； chiming melody。
Ghost lifted his head and sang louder。 His voice soared high and found its way through cracks in the windows and walls； out into the sparkling night； down to the road that led past the house。
At the sound of that voice； an old passing drifter looked up and remembered a train track he had hiked along down to Georgia some thirty years ago。 A train track flanked with rioting kudzu and towering pines and the bewitching scent of honeysuckle； a train track that made a two…bit bottle of wine taste of nectar and cool shade。 The drifter； whose name was Rudy； lifted his face to the chill cloudy sky。 A mile down the road he would find himself in the arms of Christian； whose hunger by now overshadowed his taste for thin children in black。 But the last few minutes of Rudy's life were spent in sweet memory。
Back in the house； Steve stopped playing and smacked his forehead。 〃I forgot。 Some mail came for you。 Our first fan letter； I guess。〃 Steve dug through the clutter on the floor and found a postcard； creased and dog…eared； its colors muted with the grime of small…town post offices。
Ghost read it： 〃'You don't know me； but Dylan Thomas drank eighteen straight whiskeys on November ninth； 1953； and I am drinking one for you。〃 He looked up at Steve。 〃It's signed 'Nothing。'〃
〃What's it about？〃
〃Who knows？〃
〃Why don't you hold it to your forehead and find out？ Go on； tell me to fuck myself。〃
〃Suck my aura；〃 said Ghost； and swigged the last sweet drops of his wine。
Chapter 19
〃WAKE UP！〃 said a loud voice that seemed to reverberate from the center of Nothing's brain。 〃WE'RE HERE！〃
Nothing opened and shut his eyes several times。 〃I wasn't asleep；〃 he said。 〃How could I sleep？〃
Zillah had placed another hit of Crucifix on his tongue sometime between midnight and dawn； and since then Nothing had not known where he was； or who he was with； or why he had ever bothered to wonder。 He roamed the corridors of his mind； hopelessly lost； unable to find his way back to the familiar voices he could hear faintly； faintly…arguing and laughing outside his skull； and his body jittered like a skeleton on a string。
Yet maybe he had slept； for he thought he had dreamed strange dreams。 Dreamed of sucking at a hot torn pulse； splashing in blood that still pumped in weak spurts from the vein with each beat of the dying heart。 Dreamed of rubbing his gory hands over Zillah's face； licking blood off Zillah's eyelashes； drinking it from Zillah's lips where it tasted sweeter yet。 He had dreamed of Molochai and Twig wallowing in blood； sudsing it into each other's hair； rolling in it half…naked； their pallid skin streaked sticky red。 Why was there so much blood？
Because your teeth weren't sharp enough； a voice in his mind answered。 There was nothing neat about it。 Don't you remember how you had to tear chunks of his throat away before you could lap up that sweet blood？ Don't you remember Zillah's face buried in the ruin of his crotch like a sadistic lover？
Nothing shied away from that voice。 But he could not forget the music of screams that died away to a tired confused whimper of pain； then to silence。 He had dreamed of standing in front of a culvert somewhere； a dank concrete pipe choked with weeds； kudzu； highway trash。 It was dark； souldark in this hour long past midnight and far from dawn； but Nothing could see。 He could see clearly in the dark： the acid； or some new vision refining itself？ Slung over his shoulder he held a limp little bundle； a bundle of stained rags and skin gone paler than before。
〃Put it in there；〃 Zillah had said； and Nothing stuffed the bundle deep into the culvert。 Looking back； he caught a last glimpse of feathery white…blond hair straggling from a blue bandanna。 Wet threads of scarlet ran through that hair 。 。 。 and for a moment Nothing stopped； struck by the enormity of what had happened。 Of what you did； his mind amended。 The blood would never get washed out of that hair； except by rainwater and runoff from the highway。 No one was going to shampoo that hair or give it a fresh blond dye job ever again。 Perhaps for a while it would keep growing； dark roots pushing slowly up through the cold waxy scalp。 Then it would loosen and separate and scatter； washed away strand by strand； stolen even as Laine's bones would soon be。
But he had dreamed； surely he had dreamed。 He must have dreamed。 〃Oh God；〃 he said； and shuddered。
〃Who？〃 Molochai； hovering over him； looked honestly puzzled： Do you remember how we slaughtered your friend and half…tore him apart； or are you just hung over？ Molochai's eyes glittered through enormous smudges of black eyeliner。 Nothing smelled something sweet on Molochai's breath； some buried childhood odor。 Twinkies。
〃What's wrong； kiddo？〃 Twig asked from the front seat。
Nothing didn't answer。 Instead he sat up； put his arms around Molochai's neck； and buried his face in the dirty black cloth of Molochai's jacket； cloth that smelled of sweat and sweets； of sex and 。 。 。 blood。 Laine's blood。 Nothing knew it