Billy (15 page)

Sally listened to his rough, sullen voice. She had never before met a man so tough-sounding.

"Thank you," Mom said. "We were just—despairing—I mean, we don't know
what
to do—"

"The Searchers—"

"Oh, God, they're as bad off as we are."

"It was a pretty grim scene," Dad added.

"You have work to do now."

"Tell us," Mark said.

Toddcaster's expression changed. Was there a hardening around the eyes, a twinge of pain or even anger? Sally wasn't sure. "Do you want coffee?" she asked, breaking away from her mother's taut grasp.

"If I don't have to lick it off the wall."

Mary laughed. "One of my discoveries this week is that I have a temper. If Mary Neary ever gets near this guy, you are going to see what a real mad woman can do to a real bad man."

Sally poured him a mug of coffee.

"So tell us!" Her mother's voice teased like it always did when she wanted something, but now there was also a high, scary note of terror.

Toddcaster pulled back a chair, sank into it. His chin on his chest, his mug crouching in his big hands, he looked like a man who had suffered some catastrophe of the skeleton. "What you need to do is canvas IH 15 from the point of the sighting all the way to L.A. Take your posters."

Dad put his hand on his cheek, caressing it as if the skin had become hypersensitive. "That's thousands of miles!"

"Start at Las Vegas and work west."

Sally did not like the guarded sound in his voice. Wasn't this all incredibly good news?

He had pulled out a cigar and was alternately sipping the coffee and gumming it, in what Sally thought must be a rhythm that he found comforting. "Lemme tell you about these cases. They are hell to solve, unless you get a break. Well, we have something of a break. No question. But your man is also very clever. I will tell you a little bit about your man. Clever man. This is not knowledge, you understand. We don't know these things. This is experience. Voice of experience. You have basically four kinds of people who do stranger abduction. First, they kidnap for ransom. Rare. This is not that, not the son of a teacher. Then there's the political kidnapping. You're a controversial guy, Mark. But let's face it, the controversy is not a large one. Then there is the sexual kidnapping. Pederast. Usually, though, these are impulse crimes. A kid goes out to the convenience store and never comes back. Also, usually younger kids than Billy. These are people who can't confront their own sexuality. They want kids who are too young to understand. Fourth type, the complex abductor. Maybe he is searching for his own lost childhood. Maybe he is deeply angry. Mentally ill. Certainly a psychopath. Could be a sadist. Any damn thing. This guy will be a loner, a bachelor. For whatever reason he needs a child."

"So he steals one."

"For him this is acting out a fantasy. He hardly troubles himself about issues like kidnapping, is it wrong? He just acts. All of a sudden, he's doing his thing. Shrinks talk about motiva
tion. The hell. The horrible truth about being human is that we can't put our real motivations into words. We don't know why people do what they do. We don't even know what the hell we are, any of us. We're just here.

"But remember, this man is psychopathic, and there's very special meaning attached to that word. It means that he has trouble understanding the consequences of his own actions. Time has no meaning for him. It's all now. Yesterday is gone forever. Tomorrow—who ever thinks about that?"

It was so hard to listen. The guy could do anything, that's what Toddcaster was really saying.
Anything!

As if he was himself caught in a relentless wave, Toddcaster continued. "Odds on this guy is a complex abductor. He thought about it. He planned it. Then he executed the plan.

"Tell you what's gonna happen. You get out there with your posters. Keep me informed as to your whereabouts, and any information you come up with. We'll follow up by requesting incident reports on a white Aerostar all along their probable route of march. Did he get a ticket, have a fender bender? Maybe we'll get lucky. But it ain't a perfect world. Cops don't necessarily 
file
incident reports. The hell, you'd be filling out forms until you died."

He took a long pull of coffee. "That beats the hot acid they dispense at Donnie Doughnut. Look, I'm gonna go home and console my wife for a couple of hours. At last report she'd given me up for dead." With a long, groaning sigh he launched himself from the chair. "Gravity," he said, "not my friend."

Sally followed him to the back door, watched as he went down the flagstone walk into the dark. Moths were fluttering around the dim light, their shadows dancing on the tiny concrete porch.

Far in the west she could see a glow, all that was left of the moon. Her mind returned to her nightmare. In it she'd seen, just for an instant, a face as pale as the moon.

Billy had probably had just such a nightmare. Only in his case, it turned out to be real.

"Brother," she whispered. It was an unaccustomed word. She hadn't called him that; she hadn't even used it much. But now it was precious. It was all she had left of him.

She watched the fading sky. "Brother?"

17.

Barton had driven until four a.m., then slept once again in the back with Billy. It was now Thursday and they were both riding up front. Billy's seat belt was clasped over his arms, which were cuffed together. They were not far from home.

Billy hadn't had a good night. Barton could see that he was fading. His cheeks were sunken, his hair stringy. He sat crouched forward, silent. He wasn't beautiful now. Barton had been thinking that maybe he couldn't handle this child.

The other boys had never really tried to escape. They'd been possible to tame, at least to a degree; fundamentally this was because they were very unhappy children to begin with. Their ambivalence about their home lives made them somewhat compliant.

Billy's midnight dash through that forest had been daring and courageous. Facts had to be faced: Billy was probably a mistake of a new and different kind. Because he was a well-loved and cared-for child, he was much more desirable. But that also meant he was far less cooperative.

Barton also saw that he should have stayed in California. He could have gone up the coast north of San Fran. There were lots of perfect small towns up that way. Then he would have been closer to home, and gotten his boy back with a lot less wear and tear, not to mention the reduced risk. The long hours in the van were what had turned Billy into the stringy, sullen thing that sat beside him now.

Too fucking bad!

* * * 

Barton caught Billy's attention when he sucked his breath in hard. He watched him grip the steering wheel until it twisted. He was so strong that it was weird.

His temples were covered with beads of sweat, his eyeballs were popping out. Obviously he was furious, but why? Not a word had been said for hours.

Billy didn't like this at all. Barton acted mad and disappointed. 'I'm not good enough,' Billy thought—and suddenly there appeared the miraculous possibility that he might be freed.

"If you want to let me go," he said, "you don't have to take me back to Stevensville. I'll be OK."

Slowly Barton's head turned until he was facing Billy full, not looking at the road at all. "No," he said. Then he jerked back, quickly returning his attention to the highway. In his voice there was a menacing sweetness which Billy did not want to hear.

But he did hear, and he was pretty sure he understood.

Barton's mind whispered its secrets. 'You really shouldn't think about the black room. No, you should not.' It was so awful and stuffy in there. The kids didn't like it.

He remembered such moments there . . . 'So
I
go, "You don't come out of the black room." And he goes, "What if I have to take a piss?" Timmy, the big genius.'

In the black room, Barton could take his time. They weren't coming out, there was no hurry. You had to know anatomy. You had to understand the nervous system. There was no way they could escape, there was no way anybody would hear.

There was a corner of heaven under Barton Royal's house, called the black room. In that place and in that place alone he was fully himself.

They were getting into heavier and heavier traffic when Barton suddenly pulled the van onto the shoulder. His face, which had been dark and empty while he was driving, was altered by a smile. "You gotta go in the back. I'm really sorry, but you must understand."

"Yeah, sure," Billy said aloud. 'Don't cross him,' his mind warned. He had to be very, very careful.

"I'm sorry, son, but we're coming into a city. Get on the cot."

Not that! "Oh, come on, Barton. I won't try to run away anymore. I promise."

Barton's smile got even wider. "Get on the cot." His low, sullen tone made the smile seem all the more eerie.

"Barton, look, I don't think I can stand the straps anymore. I'm sorry, Barton, but please, you have the handcuffs, and I could just sit back here with them on—"

"Get on that cot, you
fucking little scum!"

Billy had never been yelled at like that before, never even heard anybody yell like that except maybe in a movie. He hopped right up and put his hands rigidly to his sides, waiting for the straps. He tried to fight the sobs but he couldn't, he was just too tired. As Barton strapped him in he was wracked by waves of blackest despair.

As Barton tightened the straps down he tried to be pleasant, even affable. No need to panic the little creep. He would have him in the black room within the hour, then he could let it
all
out.

The little shit was going to have a hell of a time in the black room. It was eleven. Given traffic, they'd be home by twelve— twelve-fifteen. Then he'd have to call in, God knew, maybe he didn't even have a job left, it'd been a week since he was due back from Hawaii. More than a week.

No, Gina might be mad, but she'd never get rid of Uncle Squiggly. Tiny Tales needed him.

'Gina Roman, you bitch, you better not fire me. I had the flu! It wasn't my fault it happened on Maui.'

He'd make it up to her, do a show every Saturday without fail from now on. They had forty kids a week last month, at five dollars a head. That left her one hundred fifty dollars a week clear, you take out his fifty. Uncle Squiggly would get that Squiggle Box cranked up until all the little boys and girls would be laughing and laughing and laughing, the
little pieces of shit!

The van continued along the highway for about twenty minutes,, then it slowed and Billy knew they were taking an exit. This time there was no question of screaming. Not only was he strapped down, his mouth was taped up tight. He tried to pray.

'Hail Mary,' he thought, 'womb of Jesus—' He was too scared to remember the words.

The van was moving up and down hills, Billy could tell that. Up a long hill, curving this way and that, then down and then a sharp turn. Even though it was useless, Billy struggled.

If only.

If only he could just get out of this van, he could run fast enough to beat fat Barton.

If only!

Familiar old L.A.: a sea of convenience stores punctuated by an occasional mass of houses. He made his way down Santa Monica, turned right at Hugo's, scene of many a breakfast of omelet, fresh-squeezed o.j. and that great coffee of theirs.

L.A., West Hollywood, the Hills. This was his town and he loved it dearly. Just for fun he turned on Fountain so he would pass Tiny Tales. The store was open, Gina was in the window putting out the display for that new Pat the Bunny reissue. So the point-of-sale stuff that had been promised last month had finally come. She was doing Barton's work for him—and let her. Let her wonder. For what she paid she didn't deserve employees who were reliable.

"I had the flu. My mother had the flu. The whole fucking
world
had the flu, Gina!"

Mrs. Worden said people could go out of their bodies. Maybe if he got out he could fly home and tell Mom and Dad where he was. But how do you do it? She sat on the floor and went "Ommmmm" and said she'd been to the Pleiades. What is the female word for dork?

If only that phone operator had told somebody! Probably she thought, 'Just a kid playing another prank.' They were all so dumb!

He couldn't bear the straps another second. Every sinew strained against them, strained and could not stop straining. Behind the gag he was screaming. His head was bobbing.

For a time he was lost in his terror and in the choking claustrophobia of the little cot that was his prison.

Then something happened. He did not know what it was, 
could not have known the power of the reserves that lie within us, that by grace and need may be briefly tapped.

Souls can fly from bodies, withered legs can carry us again, empty eyes can recover sight, the dead can rise in silence—but not often, not often at all.

What Billy found in the well of miracles was clarity.

'You have to charm him,' his inner voice said. 'Win him over. Make him love you.'

How? Adults were incredibly good at telling if you lied. Plus he didn't know how to be an actor.

He'd better learn.

They reached Sunset, passed the lovely St. James Club with its wonderful suites Barton could never possibly afford, then the Mondrian where he sometimes had supper when he was feeling flush.

When he turned onto King's Road and began going up into the Hollywood Hills themselves he was oppressed by a sense of looming menace, as if the whole escarpment was going to slide down into Sunset and bury him. The tranquillity of King's Road replaced Sunset's zipping traffic.

He wanted to stop at the video store and rent Cabaret for later. He also needed to go to the liquor store and get a bottle of that '84 Mouton-Cadet if it was still on sale. Sally Bowles and fine claret were a ritual after the black room.

Billy noticed that the van was going slower. There was no traffic anymore. They were climbing a hill that was steeper and longer than the others. Hill, Los Angeles: didn't they have a place called Beverly Hills? He must be in Beverly Hills, California!

'God,' his heart said, 'give me the strength I need. Please, God.' But, did he really believe in God? He'd had his doubts. But not right now. Right now, he decided, he believed totally. 'And God, if I've been asking too many questions, please don't mind. It wasn't a big deal, I'm just a kid with a lot of questions. Still, the business about the loaves and the fishes—if you calculate the size of the crowd and the amount a single man could eat, you had to create loaves and fishes at the rate of about a 
hundred and sixty of each per minute, which is amazing. And also, why do you have
fishes,
God, when we have just plain fish? Were yours something special, like maybe a bunch of minnows?'

No, Billy, shut up! 'God, I believe all the miracles! Really! I love Jesus, and that is
really
true! I'll put up His statue in my room, pray every day. I'll be an altar boy like Dad was. Oh, God save me!'

It was surprisingly cool for an August day in L.A., sunny and hardly more than seventy. This was the kind of weather that had drawn the millions to this place.

By four the smog would be almost unbearable, but Barton would be safely sealed up where no smog could penetrate. He shuddered deliciously, thinking that he'd be doing it at four. By then they'd be a couple of hours into it. He'd be sweaty and possibly even a tad bored. The fucking thing that was eating his heart right out of his body would at last be getting quiet. Billy would be almost unrecognizable.

Tonight would be a blessed night. Wine, the stars, and Cabaret. Sally Bowles, his love.

When the engine went quiet Billy really started squirming. There was a short silence, then the rumble of a garage door closing. It got dark.

"We're ho-o-me," Barton sang out. "Welcome to my world, Billy boy!"

Barton rolled the side door of the van open. Despite everything Billy was eager to see the mansion. He loved big houses. If he'd been in control of things, Dad would have made more money and they would live in a huge house with columns. Instead of the old wagon they would have something incredible, like maybe a bright red Bentley Turbo, zero to sixty in six and a half seconds, top end a hundred and sixty, the fastest production sedan in the world.

"I'm just going to take in our stuff," Barton said. "Then I'll be back for you."

When the smell of the strange garage came into his nose, Billy's fevered thoughts went quiet. He felt sad. Unexpectedly, 
he remembered the way he'd dropped his bike on top of Sally's the last time he'd come home.

The last time!

"OK, my boy, now for the big moment." Barton crawled up into the van and unstrapped him. Immediately Billy pulled off the gag. Barton cocked his head, smiled. "Now, did I tell you to do that?"

Billy began at once to carry out his plan of good behavior. "I'm sorry, Barton."

Barton tousled his hair. "No problem. C'mon, let's take a look around."

There was a second car in the garage, but it was no Mercedes. Billy saw an old tan Celica with a taped-up window on the passenger side.

They went into a tiny, filthy kitchen. It stank in here! Barton was whistling. "Here is where I prepare meals fit for royalty. All I have to do is dig down and start cooking!" He chuckled.

This was no mansion. Barton had lied, he was poor. The only new thing he had was that van.

Barton realized that he'd left rather a mess. He'd been eager to get away after doing Timmy. He'd wanted another child so bad he could hardly stand it!

This place did not smell too good. Timmy had taken a lot more out of him than he'd admitted at the time. They'd been together for two months. Jack had lasted even longer, almost half a year.

Billy was going to be a record in the opposite direction. It was really very sad to get a new boy only to do him right away. But God, the black room was thrilling.

Barton bustled around all happy. He kept looking at Billy, though, and his eyes said he was completely and totally crazy. But of course he was crazy, look at what he had done and how he lived! He probably didn't even know this wasn't a mansion.

The kitchen opened onto a small living-dining room. Barton hadn't misled about one thing, the view was pretty neat. They were at the top of a high canyon. Below them there was a long gully full of brush and exposed sewer pipes. Billy could see a 
glimpse of a road, and beyond that the vast Los Angeles basin.

"Do you know where you are?"

Billy didn't think he ought to admit it, but it was so obvious that they were overlooking L.A. "I—I'm not sure."

"You know damn well, don't you?"

Billy nodded.

"Sure you do. Now you're going to have to get undressed."

Billy didn't like this. Why would he want him naked, except to do something bad?

"Can't I wait until bedtime?"

Barton laughed, deep and rich. When Billy started to laugh too, Barton grabbed his shirt and pulled him almost off the floor. "You'd better learn right now to obey me, Billy. You don't get second chances around here!"