Billy by Whitley Strieber
"Daddy! Daddy!"
He twisted his arms, tried to break his legs loose. The chest strap had give in it, but the others were totally tight. There was no way out. Finally he lay still and tried to think it out. He'd gone to bed last night, everything normal. He'd had his day, spent time at the mall, played Space Harrier and Afterburner with the guys. Then a queer had played RPM with him and after that he'd taken off. He'd worked on his Amiga. Later he'd gotten the bird to reply to him. They'd talked in the moonlight.
At some point he'd seen a man in the front yard. He told Dad, but there was nothing there when they looked. But no, that couldn't be. This was an ambulance, he was hurt. But he didn't feel hurt, and why these straps?
If this wasn't an ambulance, if he wasn't hurt, then—
A sudden realization made him slam himself against the straps. He knew who'd been in the front yard. It's the weirdo who was at the mall!'
Terror descended.
"Help, oh, help me! Somebody help!" But there was nobody—except him. Billy screamed. It was not the fearsome noise he had expected, but the fragile piping of a boy, as shrill as the sound of a mouse being tortured by a cruel child.
The noise was like fire. It radiated absolute human terror. Nobody who heard a sound like that could mistake it for anything other than what it was. They would know for certain that there was a child in this van, and that child was desperate.
The windows were all closed but the traffic had slowed down again and there were cars both to the left and the right.
People must hear it. God, yes! If only he'd put the gag back when he'd knocked Billy out. But he couldn't do that now, there was nowhere to stop.
Then it occurred to him to drown out the screaming with music. A fast hand jammed a new tape into the cassette player and turned the volume up to full. It was Lily Pons, one of his treasures, singing "Un Bel Di" from Madama, oh God, and the moon rode low on the horizon and the traffic moved in clotted anguish on the hard-lit road, and Billy screamed as a soul must scream when death first sunders it from the world.
His head bobbed, his teeth clattered and tore as he gnawed at the quilt that obscured his vision. The thought of that man up there driving made a thick, nasty taste rise in his throat.
Opera was blaring out of the radio and streams of memory poured up from deep within Billy's soul, recalling when last year his dad had taken him all the way to Cleveland to see Carmen and he'd loved that trip so much, it had been such a happy, happy time. After the opera they'd bought a ton of Kentucky Fried Chicken and eaten it all in their motel room.
He touched this memory like a thread in a maze and then it was gone and he was back here strapped to this cot. He lay jerking his head hopelessly, chewing at the quilt that covered his face. Warmth spread around his thighs and legs. At first it scared him, then he realized what it was and felt ferocious delight.
He was glad he had wet the bed, and he realized that he could do much worse. In all of his life he had never shat a bed. But he did it now and it seemed awful and also gloriously savage and effective. The stink of it soon filled the close atmosphere under the quilt, and to his pleasure he found that he could also vomit.
The aria wailing out of the radio seemed to deepen and change, becoming something else: a mother singing as if to her child while he slips into dream.
Barton was trying to deal with his map, looking for some back road, some escape from the steel lights of the freeway. Behind him the boy lurched and twisted, shaking the whole van. A horrible stench filled the air: Billy had defecated. Anger flashed through Barton. This was an unneeded and undeserved complication.
If Barton Royal had made a mistake like that he would have been thoroughly dealt with.
He suddenly heard retching, liquescent heaves. The boy had vomited. The odor was so thick it greased his mouth with its foulness. Lily Pons sang on. "Sempre Libera," from La Traviata filled the cab. Then the map got away from him and he swerved and there was a dry thump and another car was honking its horn. He'd hit them, God help him. It was a Taurus, green, full of people. It pulled in front of him, and wouldn't you know there was now a convenient shoulder. He had to stop; they could get his license number, description of the van.
Billy heard a grinding thud, felt the car waver a little. Then it began to slow, finally to stop.
Maybe they'd stopped at a gas station. But no, there'd been that thump. Flat tire? No, Dad had plenty of flats and they caused an unmistakable flapping sound. So OK, it was an accident, but not a bad one.
The man addressed him in his sweet and evil voice. "Please, Billy, I know what you think, that I'm a monster. But I am not a monster. Very far from it! I have such hope for you. Yes, hope! You think you know what's happening, but you don't. Just give me a chance. One chance is all I ask."
Billy heard him leave the van. How do you escape if you're all tied up? Billy thought of Indiana Jones. How would he do it? Break the straps, but they were too strong! What would James Bond do? He had all that high-tech stuff.
Billy had nothing. He told people he was a black belt, but the truth was he couldn't even get out of Jerry's headlocks. A kid couldn't get away from a grown man.
About all a kid could do was scream.
The love in Barton's heart welled up until he was almost weeping. Poor little Billy. It was so natural for him to be afraid. Poor little fella. He felt, though, that he had really communicated just now. Surely Billy had heard the warmth and decency in his voice and that was going to calm him down, get them both through this first great crisis.
The people in the other car looked like zombies looming out into the yellow sodium vapor lights. Barton opened his door, carefully leaving his engine running. As he closed the door he checked to be absolutely certain it had remained unlocked.
The driver of the Taurus came around to the back of his car. Barton's heart sank. He could see damage—the taillight was smashed, the bumper was buckled, and there was a gash in the fender. His own fender had only a smear of green paint on it.
"What're you gonna do about it, asshole?" The driver was tremendous, wearing an ancient Doors T-shirt, stinking of cigars and beer.
"I'll pay."
From the van there came a terrible shriek. Barton battled the instinct to run for it. The others turned slowly, perhaps drunk-enly, absorbing the impact of the sound.
"My child must be having a nightmare," Barton breathed.
"That sounds weird, man."
Barton returned to the van. The two-percent solution, the two-percent solution, find it, find it! He pulled the little bottle out of the glove compartment, opened his needle case—and heard the car door click.
The other driver was there, his yellow eyes glaring. He reached in and took Barton's keys. The van shuddered to silence. "After we work out our problem you get 'em back."
"Help me, I'm being kidnapped! Help me!"
The man paused, looked toward the back of the van.
"Please, he's evil, he's a monster!"
"No, no son," Barton said, speaking gently, insistently. He drew solution into the syringe and crawled into the back of the stench-choked van.
Why didn't the other man listen? He was out there, Billy knew it. So why didn't he listen? "Call the police! Help! Help!"
"What's goin' on in there?" At last!
"He's having a nightmare!"
"No! He's a kidnapper! He's killing me!" The sound of his own voice terrified him, and a scream burst out of him. It was involuntary and it confused him; he had not known that instinct had a voice. He surged against the straps like a fish on a line, strong and vital and seeking to be free.
Barton struggled with the needle, trying desperately to evacuate air bubbles, then to find a bit of white skin that was motionless enough to inject. He lifted the quilt and then with his free hand pulled down Billy's pajamas. The skin was like milk, it stopped Barton's heart.
Billy's shrieks were unlike anything Barton had ever heard before. They were so high and yet so amazingly fierce,
"What's the matter with that kid, man, you gotta give him a shot?"
"Epilepsy! And nightmares!"
A gasp, crackling, shuddering, then a bubbling whisper: "Police!"
"Yeah, son, I'll do that. I'll call the police."
"No! He'll be fine! This shot'll do it, you'll see." "No, man, let the paramedics give the shots. Stop that, man."
Barton choked back his own gorge, striving to maintain control. Sparks were dancing in his eyes. Deep breaths, one, two, come on, search the pale skin and there, just where the thigh was strapped down, he could hold the leg, prick the shining skin.
Whispering started in Billy's mind. Only he couldn't quite understand the words. Ripples were spreading, dying, the sun was setting inside his mind.
No! You have to scream! "Please. I—am—being—kidnapped! Get the police!"
Suddenly the quilt fell away and Billy could see. He was in the back of a van, and there was a bloated, ugly troll squatting beside him. His eyes were bulging, sweat was streaming down his face, his nose was full of pores. In his white, fat hand there was a syringe.
"He was in the mall! I remember him, he was in the mall!"
"Hey, man, that kid's in real trouble!"
"He's merely upset!"
"I'm gonna call the police."
Billy saw, suddenly, that the troll was wearing a blue shirt, and this seemed extremely important. "Officer, he was wearing a blue polo shirt. And he was crying. Yes, crying. I was crying, too."
Barton drew back, watching Billy's head shake from side to side more and more slowly, watching the tautness go out of the straps, the fists unclench and the eyes roll. Barton backed out of the van, climbed down and stood before the drunk, shaken man from the Taurus.
"See, he's gonna be OK."
"Jesus H. Christ, man, you sure?"
"Oh, yeah. It often happens like this. Then we give him his shot and he's OK."
"Look, man, if it's all right with you, I think we oughta call a cop anyway."
"No. I haven't got time. I want to get my little boy home. He's sick, as you saw."
"You got a doctor, man?"
"Yes! Sure! Dr. Ledbetter. A fine doctor. He's why my son's not in a home. Wonderful doctor!"
"Listen, I got five hundred dollars damage to my car. I know, sounds like a lot but these damn bumpers cost on these cars. Repairs are high. So I think we oughta get a cop. Otherwise, you kiss the insurance goodbye. And somebody oughta take a look at that kid. Besides you, if you get my drift."
"I do and I'm not sure I like it—"
The driver called to one of his companions. "Mikey, get the Highway Patrol on the car phone. This guy's got somethin' funny workin' back here." He turned to Barton. "You stink, and your van stinks. It smells like you got an open sewer in there." He peered into the van. "That's just a little boy."
"He's had an epileptic seizure. He'll be fine. Now if you'll let me—" Barton's tongue scraped the roof of his mouth, making a sound in his head like the scaling of a fish. He drew all his cash out of his pocket.
"Hey, man, that's money."
"Yeah, look, I'll give you the five hundred. That'll cover your damage and what say we just let it go?"
"That kid—"
"My son is fine! I don't want him frightened by the police. He's sleeping now, and if he's not bothered he'll sleep the rest of the night. When he wakes up, he won't even remember this happened."
"You got five hundred there?"
"Are we bargaining? Here." Barton counted out the bills. "You got it."
"That makes me feel better, man. I feel like getting back in my car now."
The traffic, the lights, the noise, all became a dream, frightful, glaring, but a dream and in the dream Barton was released. He moved to the front of the van. The other driver had put his key back, and he turned it.
Music burst forth, Lily Pons so loud she sounded like a banshee.
He jabbed at the button and killed the cassette player. Sudden silence, only the hiss of traffic behind the closed window of the van. He started the engine. As he pulled into the traffic he sang, "Glory, glo-ry," and imagined that an angel had taken him and his beloved burden under a golden wing.
Barton and Billy, alone at last.
11.
The first night in hell: red dreams.
In Mary's dream she was at a party. It was not a fun party, and not a good dream. There was a woman there she was afraid might be her mother even though her mother was dead. No matter what she did, Mary could never get this woman to face her. The woman always had her back turned. She was wearing a green silk dress just like Mother's. She was terrifying.
Mary's dream-self knew these things: that a child's soul is as fragile as dew, and souls can be murdered.
Then, in her dream, it was a day in October, a day as gray as old metal, a day worthy only to be thrown away. It was October 12, 1987. That day.
Dad died of heart disease in March of 1976, just a few days before his seventy-fifth birthday. Now Mother had also reached seventy-five, with sunken cheeks and drool and a bobbing head. Her eyes were as if sheened with mineral deposits.
She once had said, "My dear, what's happened to your chest? You're concave." Mary had been bending because of a tennis accident.
"Mother, please. Flat-chested I can handle. But if a woman is concave, she might as well give up."
Mother had stared back as if to say, "So, give up." Instead she said, "Mark is giving up in a way, isn't he?" And yes, it was true, she had seen it. They both knew a secret, that any life—all lives—must be constantly healed by soaking torrents of love. We are as dependent upon such healing as the plants in the fields are upon rain.
A thousand years ago Dad had been very successful, a Chevy dealer in Morristown, New Jersey. The Chevy dealer. They'd had a maroon Chevy, a blue Chevy, a tan Chevy. They'd had radio ads. "Give the Morristown Chevy toot." So whenever they saw another Chevy on the road, they dutifully tooted. Mary would reach over and hit the horn with her fist.
The woman in the green dress whispered, "It was your fault, dear. You and that hopeless husband of yours. No burglar alarm. Not even a lock on the door! Now look!"
Two tall men were carrying a little boy through a thick, ugly woods. One carried him by the shoulders. The other went comically along with Billy's legs in his hands like the handles of a wheelbarrow. Billy was naked.
If his abductors did not kill him and he could not escape, he would eventually surrender and start trying to make something of his new life. Kids were like that, they adjusted, made do with the present.
If only she'd explained more to him about the dangers of abduction. But how did you do that and preserve the joy of childhood?
Even if a miracle happened and Billy got back home,, his childhood would be shattered.
His voice came in her dream, clear and fast and high: "Momma, will you bathe me tonight?" She had done it until he was seven. It was like a sacred act, so much fun with the rubber ducky song playing and the wonderful toy ferryboat from Germany full of cars and the little frogman who really swam, and they made storms in the tub, and the ferryboat would toss and she would go cra-a-ack and bo-o-om for the thunder and hit the water with her fist where the lightning struck.
"My dear daughter, you might as well have given that child away. Given him away!"
"We were asleep! We didn't know!"
In her dream the two men stopped. She could smell the night flowers, hear the roaring of the cicadas, see moonlight dappling a glade. In that dappled glade the two men sat speaking in low tones. Billy was before them on the ground, trussed like a pig, not even struggling anymore. They took no notice. She floated above them, and saw that they were eating candy bars.
She saw this with total clarity. One man was eating a Hershey bar with almonds, the other a Clark bar. The sounds of their eating involved crunching and sticky slurps and the crackle of candy wrappers. There were tears on Billy's face and she wanted to wipe them bu
For a long time Sally had watched the night. She sat on her bed and put her elbows on the window sill with her chin in her cupped hands. In her memory she heard her brother playing in his room, talking to himself under the covers. What was he saying? If you went anywhere near he got quiet.
At eleven-thirty the sound of taps came faintly on the wind, all the way from Fort Stevens down south of town. In her mind she drifted across the oceanic prairies, and farther south to the rolling hills of Kentucky, drifting in the cloud-choked sky, past clouds of American spirit and American dream, and also her own dreams, when a boy would at last notice her and when she would go hand in hand with him and they would laugh together and he would turn to her and lift her chin with his forefinger and thumb and say, "May I kiss you," and she would open her lips a little.
They played taps at midnight, not eleven-thirty. And she couldn't possibly hear it this far away, no matter how the wind was blowing.
A dog or a coon humped across the front yard.
"Where are you, Billy," she said. "You might be dead, brother. You might know the secret. Do you know it, have you died? And did you go to God, or turn into a star, or are you just rotting there in a culvert where he left you?"
She started to think about how a man would do it with a boy, but then she couldn't.
Mark Neary listened to the night around him, the distant sound of a train heading west, far above a jet full of sleeping people. A car whispered down the street and he found himself tensing to its sound. But it went on past.
Beside him his wife of sixteen years sighed in the bed. His great anguish had paradoxically intensified his interest in the familiar mystery of her body, as if the weight of his suffering drove him to seek the old refuge of the flesh.
How dare he—his child was being raped, brutalized, tortured. He knew it with the certainty natural to his careful mind. The bright, happy, vital child who had been taken from this house was either dead or being destroyed right this second.