Billy by Whitley Strieber
Silence followed the outburst. Dad seemed frozen in his chair, like Sally too astonished to make a sound.
Scuttling like a coolie, Mother hurried to pick up the pieces. "Don't anybody else move, you'll get glass in your feet!"
"What about your feet, Mom," Sally said. She went down to help. Together they picked up the larger pieces of glass while Mark sopped up coffee and slivers with paper towels.
Sally watched as her father finished, then came over and enfolded his wife in his arms right there in the kitchen. They seemed so small, and so much older than Sally had ever before noticed. She got up, slowly backing away from them. She wished they wouldn't keep revealing themselves as little and helpless—but they were, just look at them.
"We can work as a team," she said, trying to interject a hopefulness she did not feel. Her parents seemed hardly to hear her. They were on their feet now, Mom sobbing, Dad holding her in painful silence. "We can work as a team," Sally repeated, this time a bit more loudly.
Dad was so haggard; right now he looked like a total stranger.
To cover her disquiet Sally kept talking, her voice fast and thin. "We can, if we organize. We'll buy a book, learn how to be detectives. We'll become a family of detectives."
Mom blinked, and suddenly her face softened. Sally and Mom had many long talks. At the best moments, they were sisters. But usually Mom was on her case. "This isn't one of those young adult mystery novels."
"I don't read that junk anymore, as you well know. I just think we can accomplish something—realistically. I do."
"Maybe I don't! Maybe that's why I threw the mug! I'm so damn frustrated, I could just tear my hair out!"
"We can try your idea, Mary," Dad said. Sally watched her father as he continued to awkwardly caress her mother. Then they went together in a kiss. Usually they were casually affectionate but never extremely intimate in front of her and Billy. She didn't know what to do, lower her eyes or what. She was delighted.
Just then they all heard a sound outside the open kitchen window. All looked. The moon had set, and the window was black. Instinctively they drew closer together. Sally's eyes went to the rack of knives.
There was a knock at the door. It was more as if a branch was tapping against the frame. There was none of the firmness of the human hand.
Dad went to the door. "Who is it?" Sally stepped closer to the knives—and as she did it, she discovered a truth about herself. Neither of her parents had so much as thought about getting a weapon. And why should they? Neither of them would dream of using one.
Sally could do it.
Then Dad swung the door open and there stood Detective Toddcaster blinking in the sudden light. Sally must have gasped, because he turned toward her, his expression full of apology. "I saw the lights on," he said. He stepped heavily into the kitchen, dominating it with his large, clumsy body, his stale-cigar reek and his wrinkled, intense face.
"You've been here—how long?"
"I just came over. I drove by. I guess maybe I'm glad I saw lights. I have news. Billy is alive. He called the operator from a pay phone in Estes, Nevada, at eight-fifty-one their time last night."
Sally felt a shock go through her body as if somebody had slapped her across the face. Mother cried out. Dad went to the detective and grabbed his shoulders. "Is he OK?"
"He's alive."
Her mother was shaking, twisting her hands together, moaning, "He's alive, he's alive."
Sally saw that all along she hadn't believed it. Hidden behind her brave words had been a secret certainty: Billy was dead. And Sally knew that she had thought so, too. She had thought her brother was dead. But he wasn't, he was somewhere, he was alive right now, breathing and hoping and wanting to be home. Sally just could not bear that thought, it hurt so terribly, it was like fire raging in every soft place of her soul. She went the two steps to her mother, her arms out, seeking embrace. They fell together and then Dad was on them both.
Not until Toddcaster cleared his throat did Sally remember that he was there. He stood squinting at them, as if their bodies gave off light. "We have a description of the vehicle he was in and the man driving it."
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 motivation. 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 c
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 s
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.