Billy (16 page)

Billy did as he was told, until he was down to his briefs. "That's fine," Barton said. Billy stood waiting, miserable and afraid.

He still had creamy smooth skin, and the chest was healing with surprising speed. Well, never mind, the black room awaited. He would get Billy completely trussed up and then tell him what he was going to do to him.

That part of it was incredible. Timmy hadn't believed. Even when he was in the black room he hadn't believed. Then Barton started, and finally he believed.

Billy would believe right away.

Mom would say it over the dinner table: "I'm going to punish you after supper, Barton." He would have to eat every morsel and laugh if somebody told a joke and speak when he was spoken to, and then Mom would take him by the hand into the living room and his father wouldn't even glance up from the paper while she did it, even when it went on and on.

Then they would play cards, and he would have to play, too, even though it was excruciating to sit down.

He carried them down to the black room after he told them. Billy would believe and he would be as rigid as a child made of wood, his skin cool and dry, and would either be silent or whimpering.

"You know, Barton," Billy said in a shaking voice, "I guess I really am kind of glad to be here."

Barton had not expected this. It was obvious that Billy hated him. This boy was a failure.

"I had a rough time at home," Billy continued. "My dad beat me. You won't, will you, Barton?"

Was this for real?

Billy's mind was rushing from idea to idea. He had a very bad feeling about the way things were developing. There was something Barton was getting ready to do, and must not do.

"Your dad beat you?"

"Yeah. With a real whip."

Barton snorted with obvious disbelief.

"No, he kept it on a shelf in his closet. He beat me if I was late. And my mom drank and Barton, I'm really glad to be here."

Barton folded his arms. "That's not true."

"I'm homesick as hell, I admit that, but I know you want a boy and you're going to be nicer."

Barton went to the big picture window.

Saying what he said made Billy sick inside, but it was probably his only chance. If he didn't betray Mom and Dad he was never going to see them again.

"I hate them," he yelled. His voice sounded flat and insincere. Barton shook his head, said nothing. Billy tried to get some more feeling into it. "I hate them!"

Barton went to a built-in bookcase on the wall beside the couch. He opened it and took out a big, thick rope.

"Come here, Billy."

18.

 Father Turpin sat awkwardly in the Nearys' living room. Mark had given him coffee, and now watched him busy himself with cup, sugar and milk. Mark had not expected him. After Toddcaster left they had all gone back to bed. Despite everything Mary and Sally had gotten to sleep; Mark hadn't been so lucky.

Having a priest in the house brought back childhood habits of awkward and excessive courtesy. "Yes, Father, no, Father ..."

Mark's eyes went to the priest's black briefcase, then up to his face. Father Turpin sat on the edge of his chair, his saucer held in his left hand. With his right he raised the cup to his lips. His eyes, looking back at Mark's, seemed at first genial, surrounded as they were by wrinkles that might be laugh lines. When he smiled, though, seeing that Mark was regarding him, something baleful appeared. Mark was struck by how predatory he seemed, and how that appearance must hamper his work.

"I was hoping Mary and Sally would be able to join us."

"I'd wake them—"

"No, no." He leaned forward. "Detective Toddcaster called me." He fell silent, as if this statement had enormous importance. His expression became sly. "You're going hunting."

"This afternoon I fly to Las Vegas. I'll poster westward toward L.A."

The priest put down his cup. All geniality had left his face. "I've come to tell you that there's a little money for folks with major breaks. The Searchers cut a check for five hundred dollars."

Mark stared astonished at the check that was being offered him. "The Searchers are with you. I'm with you. The Lord is with you—at least, nominally."

"Father—"

"Bob. I'm Bob." He cleared his throat, put the check into Mark's hand. He opened his briefcase. "Now, I gather you're at the point of realizing just how little you know about conducting an investigation, and how important self-help is going to be."

"There isn't anybody else!"

"That isn't quite true. The police do a great deal, but you and Mary and Sally represent Billy's best chance of coming home." He glanced around the room. "I presume you can't afford a private detective."

"I'm a high school teacher."

"Well, there's a man in Des Moines. Richard Jones. He's a detective, and a good one."

"I cannot even begin to afford that sort of thing—in spite of this check. I've got a two-thirty flight and I'm exhausted and I have a hell of a lot of work to do before I leave."

Turpin held up his hands, as if defending himself. "Mr. Jones does this for free. No actual searching, mind you. But advice. You need it, especially now, before you hit the road."

Suddenly here was another thread in Mark's hand. "When can I see him?"

"We'd better leave as soon as possible if you're going to make a two-thirty flight." He withdrew a thick green book from the case. "You can borrow it."

Mark took the book.
Techniques of Investigation.

"It's a basic text on police science. The chapters on missing persons will be quite useful. You can use them to make certain the police are doing all they can, and that your own investigation is sensibly organized."

An image of Father Turpin's bleak cavern of a church rose in Mark's mind. How did it feel, week after week, to say Mass for twenty or thirty people in a nave meant to accommodate four hundred? That was this man's truth—and yet there was absolutely no sense of despair. None at all.

"I've gotta get packed. Give me ten minutes."

"I'm not the one in a hurry, Mark."

Mark went upstairs and threw some clothes into the ancient Samsonite two-suiter he took to teachers' conventions. Then he topped off the pile with a box of five hundred of their brand-new missing child posters. He woke up Mary and told her he was going with Turpin.

"He's here?"

"He brought this." He handed her the check. Without another word she got up and went downstairs.

"We need this so bad, Bob. We've only got a couple of thousand dollars to our names." There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

Turpin stroked her head, a clumsy gesture. In his eyes there was a sort of desperation. Sally came down behind her mother, like her wearing a robe over her nightgown. They stood on the front porch as Mark and the priest left. Sally waved a small wave. "I'll call tonight," Mark said.

Turpin's car was old, an enormous Chrysler from the mid seventies. "I share this tank with the Sacred Heart Convent," he said as he started it. "Five aged nuns who seem to have little to do but clean the damn thing with Q,-tips."

"It looks like it just came off the assembly line."

"Embarrassing, but I live with it. Wheels are wheels."

"It's sweet that they do it for you."

"I'm their confessor."

"Elderly nuns?"

"You'd be surprised. I've been hearing confessions for over forty years, and those sisters are about the only ones left who can still surprise me."

As soon as they were out on the highway, Mark began wondering. Had Billy been taken this way? Did he see these signs, this long, flat view, smell this air while he was in the hands of his abductor?

Mark closed his eyes. He tried to blank his mind, but his mind wouldn't stop. Had he been tied, gagged? Had he been trussed up on the floor of that white Aerostar, or simply sitting there too scared to move? Mark's thoughts left the realm of words, and he began to see his son, a bright shadow in a dark space. When shadow Billy said "Dad!" Mark started awake. They were halfway there; an amazing thirty minutes had passed. "Want some music?" Father Turpin said.

"Yeah." Mark started to look through his cassettes.

"I'm afraid they're all pretty schmaltzy. I'm a sentimental 
guy."

"Where from?"

"I'm a Mick from Queens. Irish heaven. And I've got the drinking scars to prove it. As well as the Clancy Brothers tapes."

Mark abandoned the cassettes.

"Want to talk?"

"About?"

"Whatever it is that's been making you moan in your sleep like that."

"Billy."

Turpin took an exit and moved through the center of town, stopping at last in front of a small office building. Mark followed the priest into a pink granite lobby.

It was all very modern and bland. There should have been an elevator with a rattling brass accordion door and an elderly operator with the name "Pete" embroidered on the pocket of his threadbare uniform.

As it was, Richard Jones's office was on the street floor. Father Turpin's fist had hit the door of the office once when it was pulled open. A gust of cold air poured out.

Jones was a tall man, heavyset, with a surprised expression on his face. It took Mark a moment to realize that this expression was permanent. He smiled at Father Turpin, then gave Mark a long look. "Sorry about your boy, Mark. Can I call you Mark?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I guess you've been given a lot of advice already." He stepped back into his pin-neat office and indicated a chair. "Make yourself comfortable. I know you have a time problem, so I'll keep this to an hour."

Jones dropped down behind his desk. "So you've talked to Toddcaster, the Searchers. Now me. You're hitting all the stations on the missing children underground. Next you'll be onto the foundations. First off, I will do things for you that you cannot do for yourself. I am a licensed private investigator, which means that I can find out certain things in the pursuit of my trade. Give me a license plate and I can make it for you.

Give me a name and I can get you an address—maybe.
If
you know the right state.

"Now let's talk brass tacks. You are the victim of a rare and terrible crime. Stranger abduction. Your son's been missing less than a week, yet you already have a major lead. This is very good news. But it might not go anywhere. Most leads peter out. Your genuine stranger abduction is a very hard crime to solve. It is often fatal. Face that." His lips became a hard line. "Be damned careful following up your lead. I'll be frank with you. There are satanist cults out there stealing kids for very nasty reasons. Why? Because they're jerks. Satan does not answer prayers. In this respect he is as bad as God. There are kiddie porn rings and kiddie prostitution rings. Your son could be sold to a pederast. You know what that is?"

"Yes, of course."

"Everybody has their pet theories. Toddcaster tell you about the 'complex abductor'?"

"He did."

"That's his pet theory. That, plus the fact that motivations can't be understood. Maybe not, except that sex and money and fear are all very understandable motivations, aren't they? Toddcaster thinks they're too complex to understand. I don't agree. People are motivated by the raw emotions—greed, anger, fear. Even love—at times." He smiled a rueful little smile. "I urge you, mister, don't settle on any one theory. Keep your mind open. Toddcaster may be right. But he may also be wrong, remember this. And another thing: the police have limited scope. They can only think locally, statewide. Their impact diminishes the farther you get from Iowa. You have to think nationally, even internationally if the clues lead that way."

"I'm leaving this afternoon."

"You want to make sure you stay behind your man. You don't want him to see the posters coming up ahead of him. This might be your boy's death warrant.
Comprende?

"I understand."

"Make sure the police are keeping up their end of the bargain. But you've got to do the work.
You
get the leads.
You
take 
them to the cops.
You
make sure they are doing their job right because
you
are on top of them. This is your boy, Mark."

"For the love of God, I know that!" The moment he heard the rage in his own voice Mark regretted his tone. Jones apparently didn't notice. Mark looked at Father Turpin, who was sitting silently, his fingers held in a tent.

Jones had what soon became a torrent of advice, so much that Mark found himself dashing off notes on a yellow legal pad. How to interpret clues, how to generate, follow up and network leads, where to put his posters, which foundations would help spread the word, which were active and which were wastes of time.

At the end of one hour almost to the second the meeting was over. Jones leaned across the desk. "It's a hell of a lot of work, investigating one of these cases. I just have one piece of advice: don't give up hope. And if you do, call Turpin."

Jones and Turpin gave one another a silent look. Mark thought that they must have gone through a great deal together.

On the way to the airport Mark Neary closed his eyes. Father Turpin saw the yellow pad clutched tightly in the man's hand. 'Lord,' Bob Turpin said, 'please give him back his kid. If you don't do it for him, do it for me, Lord. If I still have any pull with you, of course, in view of my empty pews.'

Part Four

_________

HER  IN  THE  DARK

19.

They'd been talking for what seemed like fifty hours and the rope was lying on the coffee table.

Billy was bargaining not to be tied up with it. He watched the afternoon light playing across the fat twist of its strands.

Then Barton started in again. "I'll be a good dad!" Why did he have to keep saying it, like he didn't believe it. Billy wanted him to be a good dad, he was all he had right now.

"Great," Billy said for the hundredth time.

"I'm going to show you the town. L.A. is incredible! You know how far it is from one end to the other? Nearly a hundred miles."

"Wow!"

"You're getting to like me, I can tell!" He shifted eagerly around in his seat.

Billy fought himself. By sheer will, he created a smile on his face. "You're cooler than my dad."

"I am your dad!"

Why did he smile like that when he talked? It wasn't a good smile. Billy could not help it, he still thought he was going to get killed. But he kept on anyway, gamely trying to project something like enthusiasm.

"I mean—you know. Than Mark." When he had to betray Dad it was terrifying. Dad always knew his thoughts. What if this was hurting Dad's feelings? Then would he never come?

Finally Barton stood. He now bustled around, cleaning up and chattering about himself. Billy listened. Billy felt the cool bite of the handcuffs around his wrists. He managed to get his 
shorts back on. When Barton saw this, he silently opened the handcuffs so that Billy could finish dressing. Then he closed them and returned to his cleaning. While Barton talked, Billy stared at the rope.

"I think I must have been too good—oh, look at this shirt, it's got—yuk—anyway, I was always highly obedient. My mother used corporal punishment. Slightly. It's not right, really. I mean, why do they do it? Punishing embarrasses me. It demeans you both. I mean, God, don't they realize that punishment simply
creates
punishers? It's obvious if people would just think, but they don't think. My parents were sweet."

He gathered up an armful of newspapers that Billy thought might have been used as toilet paper because they stank. "Oh, my, maybe you're thirsty! Are you thirsty?"

"I could live through a Coke."

"But you like Dr Peppers better. I looked in your fridge! Sure! I wanted to know just what you liked the most! I saw the squash in the crisper. You like squash?"

This guy
would
notice that stuff. "It's OK."

"I'm kidding. I know you hate it. All boys hate it. We were clean-platers at my house. You had to have a clean plate or you couldn't get up from the table. My folks were very loving. I also know you like Butterfingers. You see, I remember those things!" He came over to Billy. "Just look how smooth your skin is, son. May I call you son?"

"OK."

"You must be at least half Irish."

"I am. And my mother's Scottish."

"The Celts! The most beautiful people on earth. Such complexions, like you have. But I'll bet you don't feel smooth and pale, do you? You feel like a boy. Strong."

"In a manner of speaking."

"In a manner of speaking! Out of the mouths of babes! I love your command of English."

He started pulling at Billy's shoulders, trying to get him to stand up. Billy pressed himself down into the couch.

"Oh, come on, son." Barton began mincing backward, pulling Billy up. Billy was wary. He wanted to stay right here. "You have a bedroom, you know. It's nice, come and see!"

Slowly he stood up. Barton took hold of the chain between 
his handcuffs and drew him across the living-dining room toward a pale green door that stood open a crack. Billy didn't like that door, didn't like the darkness of the room beyond.

Closer they went to the door, and closer yet.

As they passed the kitchen Billy heard water dripping and smelled a smell of old grease. He could see dishes piled up on the counter, even on the floor. There was what looked like a pair of fireplace tongs stuck into a pot of water in the sink. The water was gray and had dark chunks floating in it.

"I'm going to go get you some Dr Peppers and us some supper, then I'll be back."

"I'll clean up the kitchen while you're gone," Billy ventured.

Barton's curls bounced as he shook his head with the vehemence of a toddler saying "No!"

Then he kicked the door open and thrust Billy in. Billy whirled, trying to get his foot in the jamb but the door was slammed almost instantly. "It's not a prison, son! I swear it's only your bedroom."

The deadbolt lock clicked. Billy almost panicked; he wanted to rush at that door, to kick it, to break it down! But he had to keep playing the game. If he didn't play the game, Barton would get mad and tie him up with that rope. Then Barton would—

"It's such a nice room, look at the walls."

There was wallpaper with fat little airplanes on it, like something from a nursery. "Yeah," Billy said, forcing lightness into his voice. The airplanes had faces, and all the little faces were smiling. The paper was yellowed, and in places there were rips. "It's real nice, Barton."

"Keen?"

"Really."

The door creaked, Billy heard breathing. Barton must be leaning against it. "Really, really?"

"It's a nice room!" Billy looked at the mattress on the floor, at the ugly black bars on the inside of the window, at the door with the screwheads showing from the deadbolt on the other side. "I'm gonna just love it!"

"Oh, I'm so glad! If you like it—that's very important to me. Son."

"Yeah."

There was another creak, then the sound of departing footsteps. Pulling nervously at his handcuffs, Billy went to the window. Behind the bars were closed blinds. Even pressing his fingers between the tightly spaced bars, he could barely manage to touch them. He couldn't raise them.

His skin crawled, a clammy feeling came over him. Then he noticed that there was another door, this one with a handle. He rushed to it, found that it opened.

It was a small closet. There was a pole, and on the pole were some coat hangers. One of them had a plastic cleaner's bag hanging on it, and another bore a white jacket that looked to be about Billy's size.

Moving his cuffed hands together, he took the jacket down and examined it. In one pocket was a crushed cigarette pack that had obviously been through the wash a few times. The other pocket was empty. Sewn into the collar was a name tag, "Timothy Weathers."

Billy sank to the floor, the jacket in his hands. He could barely breathe, he was so shocked by what he was seeing.

William Neary was not the first: Barton had done this before. And where was Timothy Weathers now? Billy listened, as if he could somehow drag the sound of another boy's presence out of the silence of the house.

He heard something, a sort of rapid, undulating buzz. Was it a wasp, or a pipe buzzing in the wall? It took him a moment to realize that it was a voice.

Was Timothy Weathers still here after all?

Dropping the jacket to the floor, he listened. When he stepped away from the closet, he didn't hear it anymore. But if he went inside, it was louder. He pressed his ear against the wooden planks that formed the back wall.

It wasn't another kid, it was Barton. He was talking in a wheedling, pleading voice. "I'm sorry, Gina, I swear it, it was just the most devastating sickness I have ever endured. I think it was the plane." There was a silence. Billy realized that he was hearing Barton talking on the phone. Then he started again. This time his voice was edged with desperation. "Don't say that! Don't say those words! No. Come on, Gina. You know they love Uncle Squiggly. It's a big draw, you can't tell me it isn't. Look I know you can get along without me, but what am 
I going to do, I've got to keep body and soul together! Please, Gina, I'm begging you, if you've already got another shop assistant OK, just let me do Uncle Squiggly. That's all I need! OK, look, I'll do it for half the money! Yes,
half!
Just don't fire me, Gina, I beg you!"

There was a long silence, punctuated by bursts of sugar-coated crap from Barton. He was really laying it on.

He'd obviously left work to go out and get Billy. He hadn't thought about the consequences and now he was pleading for his job.

Billy allowed himself to hope that Timothy Weathers had gotten away. Maybe even now he was leading the police back to this place.

No. If that was true they would already be here.

The wheedling voice started up again. "Oh, thank you Gina, thank you and thank God! I'll be in right away. Fifteen minutes! OK, thanks baby! Thanks from the bottom of my heart."

The receiver clicked and Barton's voice came through much louder.
"Fuckingshitty cunt-face bitch!"
When he stopped shouting Billy could still hear his breath, long, raging, ragged gasps.

Billy drew back from the wall. The way the guy shouted went right through him every time.

For fear that Barton would burst in and find him listening, he backed out of the closet and closed the door.

By the creak of his footsteps Billy tracked Barton's movements. He came out of his room, down the hall, paused before this door. Billy literally flinched at the click of the lock. But the door didn't open. He must have just tested the lock as he went past.

Then there came the distinct sound of the garage door rolling open. A car ground to life. It took a long time to get it started. That meant the Celica.

Again Billy went to his window. He pushed his fingers through the bars, but couldn't quite reach the blinds. He needed something—like a coat hanger. An instant later he was in the closet, then back with one in his hands. He could push up the blinds just a crack, but it was enough to see Barton's Celica disappear down the steep street. When it was gone silence settled on the house.

For the first time since this awful, awful thing had happened 
Billy felt a little bit safe. Tears sprang into his eyes. Then waves of sheer relief poured over him. He sank down bawling loudly.

Billy was young and full of vitality. He wanted to have his life!

The truth that he had not expressed consciously before now rushed forth: 'This afternoon I fought for my life.' He didn't know how to do that! Kids shouldn't have to!

He jumped up, lifted the blind again, peered hungrily through the crack. The sky was a glaring, bronzed blue, the light very hard and white. But there was a neighborhood out there! Houses meant people, and maybe somebody would hear him, maybe somebody would finally come!

"HEY HEY HEY HEY!"

The neighborhood was totally still and quiet. From this point he could see two other houses, one of them very modern, the other older and lower, like this one. Both had flowering trees in their yards. The modern one had a blue Mercedes in the driveway.

As he watched, a cat came along the street, sniffing at things in the gutters. Leaves moved on trees, but he couldn't hear a breeze. He tapped the thick glass with the end of the coat hanger. You couldn't make much noise like this. His throat began to ache for the freedom that conceals itself everywhere, and when lost proves to be as essential as air.

For a moment he felt calm, then all of a sudden he had to try the door. He kicked it, then kicked it again. Then he stopped, feeling it more carefully.

It was made of steel. "You dirty bastard!" He threw himself against it, kicking and screaming until he was hoarse. Finally he dropped down on the mattress, which stank faintly of urine and the sweet-nasty smell of unwashed sheets like Jerry sometimes had when his mother was on strike and refused to go in his room until it was—as she put it—"scraped."

Jerry! He hadn't thought of Jerry since the disaster. With all his might he wished Jerry was here right now. He could see him, could hear him cursing over Space Harrier, "Shit, it ate my quarter. I "It's not the game's fault, Jer. Your problem is, you're totally sucky."

You love people in a lot of different ways. You couldn't hug friends like Jer, so you kicked each other around instead. The 
more you fought, the tighter you got. "I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble, buddy." His own voice reminded him of the way Dad sounded when he talked. He was growing up; he was a lot like Dad, too.

All at once something he had been hiding even from himself burst into consciousness. He felt awful, vomiting anger, and he shouted it all for all the world and the bars to hear: "Dad, why don't you find me! Dad, where are you!"

His voice died.

He whispered, "Where are you?"

Despite his desire to never be asleep when Barton could sneak up on him, the silence and the dimness of the room were beginning to have an effect. He was alone for the first time since Barton, and his body began to sink of its own accord into the softness of the mattress. "Daddy," he repeated, but this time his voice was thick and slow.

Abruptly, he slept—and as abruptly awoke. He had no watch, he couldn't tell if he'd been asleep for a second or an hour. If he strained, he could hear the water dripping into the pot where the tongs soaked. What were they used for, barbecue or something? Who cooked with things like that?

Light was coming out from under the closet door, blue and baleful. The light was not normal. It seemed almost like a living thing, as if the brightness itself was full of feeling and need. It poured out into the bedroom. Billy watched, amazed. It was as if the whole moon had been stuffed into the closet.

A voice was singing,