cb.booksofblood-第4部分

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they　passed　over　the　intersection。　At　length　Fuller's　own　soul　came　by　in　the　throng　and　glanced　down　at　the　flesh　he　had　once　occupied；　before　the　crowd　pressed　him　on　towards　his　judgement。
　　Upstairs；　in　the　darkening　room；　Mary　Florescu　knelt　beside　the　McNeal　boy　and　stroked　his　blood…plastered　head。　She　didn't　want　to　leave　the　house　for　assistance　until　she　was　certain　his　tormentors　would　not　e　back。
　　There　was　no　sound　now　but　the　whine　of　a　jet　finding　its　way　through　the　stratosphere　to　morning。　Even　the　boy's　breathing　was　hushed　and　regular。　No　nimbus　of　light　surrounded　him。　Every　sense　was　in　place。　Sight。　Sound。　Touch。
　　Touch。
　　She　touched　him　now　as　she　had　never　previously　dared；　brushing　her　fingertips；　oh　so　lightly；　over　his　body；　running　her　fingers　across　the　raised　skin　like　a　blind　woman　reading　braille。　There　were　minute　words　on　every　millimetre　of　his　body；　written　in　a　multitude　of　hands。　Even　through　the　blood　she　could　discern　the　meticulous　way　that　the　words　had　harrowed　into　him。　She　could　even　read；　by　the　dimming　light；　an　occasional　phrase。　It　was　proof　beyond　any　doubt；　and　she　wished；　oh　God　how　she　wished；　that　she　had　not　e　by　it。　And　yet；　after　a　lifetime　of　waiting；　here　it　was：　the　revelation　of　life　beyond　flesh；　written　in　flesh　itself。
　　The　boy　would　survive；　that　was　clear。　Already　the　blood　was　drying；　and　the　myriad　wounds　healing。　He　was　healthy　and　strong；　after　all：　there　would　be　no　fundamental　physical　damage。　His　beauty　was　gone　forever；　of　course。　From　now　on　he　would　be　an　object　of　curiosity　at　best；　and　at　worst　of　repugnance　and　horror。　But　she　would　protect　him；　and　he　would　learn；　in　time；　how　to　know　and　trust　her。　Their　hearts　were　inextricably　tied　together。
　　And　after　a　time；　when　the　words　on　his　body　were　scabs　and　scars；　she　would　read　him。　She　would　trace；　with　infinite　love　and　patience；　the　stories　the　dead　had　told　on　him。
　　The　tale　on　his　abdomen；　written　in　a　fine；　cursive　style。　The　testimony　in　exquisite；　elegant　print　that　covered　his　face　and　scalp。　The　story　on　his　back；　and　on　his　shin；　on　his　hands。
　　She　would　read　them　all；　report　them　all；　every　last　syllable　that　glistened　and　seeped　beneath　her　adoring　fingers；　so　that　the　world　would　know　the　stories　that　the　dead　tell。
　　He　was　a　Book　of　Blood；　and　she　his　sole　translator。
　　As　darkness　fell；　she　left　off　her　vigil　and　led　him；　naked；　into　the　balmy　night。
　　
　　Here　then　are　the　stories　written　on　the　Book　of　Blood。　Read；　if　it　pleases　you；　and　learn。
　　They　are　a　map　of　that　dark　highway　that　leads　out　of　life　towards　unknown　destinations。　Few　will　have　to　take　it。　Most　will　go　peacefully　along　lamplit　streets；　ushered　out　of　living　with　prayers　and　caresses。　But　for　a　few；　a　chosen　few；　the　horrors　will　e；　skipping　to　fetch　them　off　to　the　highway　of　the　damned。
　　So　read。　Read　and　learn。
　　It's　best　to　be　prepared　for　the　worst；　after　all；　and　wise　to　learn　to　walk　before　breath　runs　out。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　THE　MIDNIGHT　MEAT　TRAIN
　　
　　
　　LEON　KAUFMAN　WAS　no　longer　new　to　the　city。　The　Palace　of　Delights；　he'd　always　called　it；　in　the　days　of　his　innocence。　But　that　was　when　he'd　lived　in　Atlanta；　and　New　York　was　still　a　kind　of　promised　land；　where　anything　and　everything　was　possible。
　　Now　Kaufman　had　lived　three　and　a　half　months　in　his　dream…city；　and　the　Palace　of　Delights　seemed　less　than　delightful。
　　Was　it　really　only　a　season　since　he　stepped　out　of　Port　Authority　Bus　Station　and　looked　up　42nd　Street　towards　the　Broadway　intersection？　So　short　a　time　to　lose　so　many　treasured　illusions。
　　He　was　embarrassed　now　even　to　think　of　his　naivety。　It　made　him　wince　to　remember　how　he　had　stood　and　announced　aloud：　〃New　York；　I　love　you。〃　Love？　Never。
　　It　had　been　at　best　an　infatuation。
　　And　now；　after　only　three　months　living　with　his　object　of　adoration；　spending　his　days　and　nights　in　her　presence；　she　had　lost　her　aura　of　perfection。
　　New　York　was　just　a　city。
　　He　had　seen　her　wake　in　the　morning　like　a　slut；　and　pick　murdered　men　from　between　her　teeth；　and　suicides　from　the　tangles　of　her　hair。　He　had　seen　her　late　at　night；　her　dirty　back　streets　shamelessly　courting　depravity。　He　had　watched　her　in　the　hot　afternoon；　sluggish　and　ugly；　indifferent　to　the　atrocities　that　were　being　mitted　every　hour　in　her　throttled　passages。
　　It　was　no　Palace　of　Delights。
　　It　bred　death；　not　pleasure。
　　Everyone　he　met　had　brushed　with　violence；　it　was　a　fact　of　life。　It　was　almost　chic　to　have　known　someone　who　had　died　a　violent　death。　It　was　proof　of　living　in　that　city。
　　But　Kaufman　had　loved　New　York　from　afar　for　almost　twenty　years。　He'd　planned　his　love　affair　for　most　of　his　adult　life。　It　was　not　easy；　therefore；　to　shake　the　passion　off；　as　though　he　had　never　felt　it。　There　were　still　times；　very　early；　before　the　cop…sirens　began；　or　at　twilight；　when　Manhattan　was　still　a　miracle。
　　For　those　moments；　and　for　the　sake　of　his　dreams；　he　still　gave　her　the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　even　when　her　behaviour　was　less　than　ladylike。
　　
　　She　didn't　make　such　forgiveness　easy。　In　the　few　months　that　Kaufman　had　lived　in　New　York　her　streets　had　been　awash　with　spilt　blood。
　　In　fact；　it　was　not　so　much　the　streets　themselves；　but　the　tunnels　beneath　those　streets。
　　〃Subway　Slaughter〃　was　the　catch…phrase　of　the　month。　Only　the　previous　week　another　three　killings　had　been　reported。　The　bodies　had　been　discovered　in　one　of　the　subway　cars　on　the　AVENUE　OF　THE　AMERICAS；　hacked　open　and　partially　disembowelled；　as　though　an　efficient　abattoir　operative　had　been　interrupted　in　his　work。　The　killings　were　so　thoroughly　professional　that　the　police　were　interviewing　every　man　on　their　records　who　had　some　past　connection　with　the　butchery　trade。　The　meat…packaging　plants　on　the　water…front　were　being　watched；　the　slaughter…houses　scoured　for　clues。　A　swift　arrest　was　promised；　though　none　was　made。
　　This　recent　trio　of　corpses　was　not　the　first　to　be　discovered　in　such　a　state；　the　very　day　that　Kaufman　had　arrived　a　story　had　broken　in　The　Times　that　was　still　the　talk　of　every　morbid　secretary　in　the　office。
　　The　story　went　that　a　German　visitor；　lost　in　the　subway　system　late　at　night；　had　e　across　a　body　in　a　train。　The　victim　was　a　well…built；　attractive　thirty…year…old　woman　from　Brooklyn。　She　had　been　pletely　stripped。　Every　shred　of　clothing；　every　article　of　jewellery。　Even　the　studs　in　her　ears。
　　More　bizarre　than　the　stripping　was　the　neat　and　systematic　way　in　which　the　clothes　had　been　folded　and　placed　in　individual　plastic　bags　on　the　seat　beside　the　corpse。
　　This　was　no　irrational　slasher　at　work。　This　was　a　highly…organized　mind：　a　lunatic　with　a　strong　sense　of　tidiness。
　　Further；　and　yet　more　bizarre　than　the　careful　stripping　of　the　corpse；　was　the　outrage　that　had　then　been　perpetrated　upon　it。　The　reports　claimed；　though　the　Police　Department　failed　to　confirm　this；　that　the　body　had　been　meticulously　shaved。　Every　hair　had　been　removed：　from　the　head；　from　the　groin；　from　beneath　the　arms；　all　cut　and　scorched　back　to　the　flesh。　Even　the　eyebrows　and　eyelashes　had　been　plucked　out。
　　Finally；　this　all　too　naked　slab　had　been　hung　by　the　feet　from　one　of　the　holding　handles　set　in　the　roof　of　the　car；　and　a　black　plastic　bucket；　lined　with　a　black　plastic　bag；　had　been　placed　beneath　the　corpse　to　catch　the　steady　fall　of　blood　from　its　wounds。
　　In　that　state；　stripped；　shaved；　suspended　and　practically　bled　white；　the　body　of　Loretta　Dyer　had　been　found。
　　It　was　disgusting；　it　was　meticulous；　and　it　was　deeply　confusing。
　　There　had　been　no　rape；　nor　any　sign　of　torture。　The　woman　had　been　swiftly　and　efficiently　dispatched　as　though　she　was　a　piece　of　meat。　And　the　butcher　was　still　loose。
　　The　City　Fathers；　in　their　wisdom；　declared　a　plete　close…down　on　press　reports　of　the　slaughter。　It　was　said　that　the　man　who　had　found　the　body　was　in　protective　custody　in　New　Jersey；　out　of　sight　of　enquiring　journalists。　But　the　cover…up　had　failed。　Some　greedy　cop　had　leaked　the　salient　details　to　a　reporter　from　The　Times。