"Jesus, help me," he breathed. "Jesus help me," a gasping litany. He pumped along making stifled little screams because of the pain caused by the sharp stones.
After what seemed to him a long time he stopped and turned around. He could see into the house. The living room was empty. But there was no flashlight bobbing along behind him.
Stones or not he flew down that canyon. The ground got steeper. Down he went toward the lights. He could even hear cars now, the great whisper of the city. A helicopter chugged across the night sky. Billy waved as he ran—he never knew, they might see him.
Then, quite suddenly, the ground was flat and smooth. Surprised, he stopped. He reached down, felt warmth and hardness. The road, he'd reached the road! "Thank you, Jesus," he said. "Thank you, Jesus." He was trotting now, moving easily downhill. Then he saw car lights ahead. They glowed, faded, glowed brighter as the car came around one bend and then another.
It was over. He'd won, he was safe. Tears sprang to his eyes. He shook them away as the car came around the last bend. Taking no chances, he went right out into the middle of the road and waved both arms.
The car stopped, the lights boring into him. "I got kidnapped and I got away," he said. He talked loud, between gasping breaths. "Please take me to the nearest police."
As he ran around to the side of the car his heart almost stopped: it was a brown Celica. But it was being driven by a woman, he was still OK!
He got in the car. "That was a dangerous stunt," she said.
"I had to stop you, a man got me and took me to his house—"
"A man?"
She sounded so happy, why did she sound happy? She started the car. "Take me to the police station," he said.
"Oh, that's ten miles away. Why don't I take you to my house? We'll call 911 from there."
As the car began to move, he again realized he was free. That meant he was going to live, he was going to see Mom and Dad again! He hugged himself, moaning with delight and relief.
They went round and round on the curving road. "Where do you live?" he asked.
"Not far."
She was a thick, mean-looking woman with lots of blond hair. Her dress was loose and her hands were pudgy. Billy could smell liquor on her breath.
They kept going round and round, one street after another. He thought to himself, 'I'd better catch the names.' "Is it much farther?"
"Be quiet and let me drive!"
"OK, sorry."
They were on Mount Crest, then Ridgeway. Then they went around two other corners, up and down steep hills, around another corner where there were houses on stilts. One of them had a number, 314. 'Where am I?' he wondered. The drunk woman was taking him on a dizzying journey into total confusion. The tires squealed, the gears clicked as she shifted up and down the range.
Suddenly the car whipped into a driveway so fast the wheels must have left the pavement. They came to a screeching stop inside a garage. "We're ho-o-me," the woman shrilled. She pushed a button on a remote control clipped to the visor and the garage door rumbled down, leaving them in total darkness. For a moment the only sound was the woman's furious breathing. Then her door clicked and opened, and dim light filled the car. Barton's Aerostar was parked in the other bay. Seeing it, Billy simply screamed.
The woman threw back her head and laughed a high, shrieking laugh. "Come on," she said, "I think you've finally earned some serious punishment, you
fucking little creep!''
Part Five
________
THE GOD DAMNED
25.
It was the most delicious, special feeling, like invading the soul of your mother and making her do evil deeds. "All right," he said and it was her voice, oh, it was her! And how the little boy scurried. Look at his eyes, as big as plates, look at his pale face in the hard garage light. "Barton is so-o nice, isn't he, my boy? Well, I am not nice! Get in that house this instant!"
Off he ran. "Barton, Barton," he cried. He didn't know, he really
didn't know!
This was lovely. Never before had it been like this. The others had seen right through the layers of makeup to the man beneath, but this child was much more innocent. The idea of cross-dressing had probably never occurred to Billy.
Barton marched into the house, went down the narrow hallway to the guest room and stood in the doorway, folded his arms. "Barton won't be answering you tonight, my boy. He's being punished too, for letting you escape again. The very idea!"
"Who—who—"
"I am Death."
When he saw the absolute horror on that face he couldn't contain himself a moment longer. He slammed the door and gave himself over to silent, agonizing mirth. Then he marched down the hall and into his room. He pushed back the rug and opened the hatch.
He'd only had time for the wig and the dress and a load of powder. For this occasion he was going to make himself up perfectly, using all the magnificent array of toys he possessed:
the jars of foundation, the lovely powders and rouges, the eye shadows with their glorious names, Aziza, Revlon, Charles of the Ritz. He adored that last one, the way it clicked like a spike heel upon a marble step. The Ritz,
Ritz,
RITZ!
He went directly to his makeup table and turned it on. The lights were merciless, revealing the face in the mirror just as it really appeared. He was drunk, yes, but he could still see the great ape of a man behind the sloppy powdering he'd given himself. He poured some water from the pitcher and splashed in it until his face was clean. Then he covered his beard with Nair and went to work adjusting the wig. First he took it off and slicked his hair with oil so that it would take the fit perfectly. He daubed spirit gum around his forehead and sideburns and along the back of his neck.
Now he put the wig on properly. Once he'd pulled a few ringlets down here and there it was perfect, impossible to distinguish except at closest range. It should be perfect, he'd shoplifted it from an exclusive Rodeo Drive boutique. Indeed, all of his lovely collection was stolen either from the best boutiques or from dear Gina's extensive collection of goodies. It was soon time to take off the depilatory, which he did with a bladeless razor. Now his face was as lovely and smooth as his hands.
What Barton did was not transvestism, it was disguise. He had nothing against gays, but he himself was totally heterosexual. He would never allow himself to be one of those vile, disgusting lechers that touched boys—
Men like that ought to be killed.
'You have to understand,' he would tell himself, 'that what you do is ritual magic' For example, the dress was a disguise intended to evoke one of the unconscious selves hidden within him, as indeed the powerful mother of childhood is hidden within all men. The difference between him and ordinary people was that he expressed the unconscious and they didn't. They were scared, he was not.
When they saw him in his ritual clothing more than one of those other kids had screamed with laughter. But only at first. Then they had just screamed.
Barton went to work on his face, applying foundation, then
powder, blush, rouge, then finishing around the lips and eyes. He painted on his lovely Summer Rose lip blush with quick, snapping movements, then applied Mystic Sea eye shadow, a beautiful, metallic turquoise.
The effect was simply magical.
He was always raptured by her. If only he could kiss her, swoon at her feet, give himself to her!
A blonde with vivid lips and exotic, pouting eyes stared out at him from the mirror. The eye shadow, however, had drawn the pain in those eyes to the surface. The sadness of his expression was his least fortunate feature. He corrected it with a little adjustment. Alter the line of the mascara, build up the lashes a bit—like magic, sad was sexy.
All the while Billy was waiting and worrying. He had reason to worry, too! He was about to get just exactly what he needed, and get it good and proper. The fun was over, the game was ended. Now the serious part had begun. Watching that little fucking scum acting his heart out, that had made Barton incredibly mad. Did he really think his inept hamming had convinced?
They'd tried the canyon before. You just drove around to where it opened onto Monarch and waited. The walls were too steep to climb, so there was no chance at all you would miss them.
It had happened so consistently with the other boys that Barton now looked forward to the canyon run. It was fun.
Dear little Billy was going to leap to the least snap of fingers from now on. He would worship the very ground Barton Royal walked upon; he would learn it was a privilege to obey a truly awesome human being to the letter.
He went down into the black room and selected the leather strap. He turned out the light, closed the trapdoor and covered it with the rug. Now he had to pause and prepare himself. This took consummate strength, perfect acting. He had to feel her, enter her, be her in all her glorious femininity and sternness. And she was so stern. Once she had set her will to it, there was absolutely nothing that would stop her. You could plead—and they had, God knew—but it made no difference. You could even lie, if you dared. Nothing stopped her.
With exaggerated care he hefted the strap with his right hand, holding the end of it loosely in his left. He walked down the hall, making sure his feet creaked the boards so Billy would hear. He paused outside the door to put an edge on the boy's fear.
The sobbing that started within the room was a deep music, marvelously stirring. His whole body began to tingle, and the more Billy sobbed the more delightful the sensation became. When finally he felt ready to intensify his delight, he unlocked the door and threw it open. Billy gasped as he stepped into the room. His eyes were fixed on the strap. His mouth dropped open. Then, no doubt imagining the pain, he squirmed where he sat.
"You're getting ten," Barton said in his best voice.
"Ten what, ma'am?"
He slapped the strap against his hand, and nodded his head.
"Please," Billy said, "I don't think I can stand it, ma'am. I've never had it done to me before."
"Most of them can't talk at this moment. You are quite a brave boy. For your bravery, I'll add three more."
Billy rushed to the closet. What was he going to do—try to hide?
Barton grabbed the handcuff still dangling from the child's wrist and dragged him back to the center of the room. "It's a slow thing, I'm afraid," he said. "Thirteen blows with this thing will basically take you apart."
He pushed Billy face down onto the bed. "Drop your pants. Can you manage?" When the child fumbled Barton yanked them roughly down around his knees. Billy put his hands to his head. His face was buried in the sheets. He was clutching his hair, pulling convulsively. Barton had never seen this before: the boy appeared to be tearing out his hair.
Fat Royal snapped the strap against his palm again. Billy gave a little kick. "Please, lady," he said, "I just wanted to look at the stars."
Barton's response was the first blow. It was smart and nicely delivered across both buttocks. There was a single, solid crack.
Billy bounced. He made a sound of surprise. No doubt it had hurt more than he had imagined possible.
The second blow was placed just above the red stripe made by the first. It was so hard that the strap whistled on its way to contact, and the moment of connection caused a spattering sound. Immediately the skin turned white and puckered. Then the blush started.
Billy cried out.
If this had been the black room Barton would have done a really thorough job. Given the soundproof window you could have some screaming up here, but he had to take care.
The third blow would be placed below the first, which was now a well-raised, fiery red stripe exactly across the center of both buttocks. He raised his arm until he felt the strap lightly touching his own back. A tide of anger flowed in him, directed at this willful, arrogant child.
The third blow landed with the sound of a pistol shot. Billy threw back his head. Some garbled words came out, "Jesus" or "Sorry," or something. There was no way to tell, and what's more, Barton didn't care.
This had always been what it was about. He didn't want a son to love, he wanted the sweetness of this. People did not understand that. They did not understand that a soul could reach beyond good and evil, to regions where suffering and pleasure were the same.
"Billy?"
"Yes ma'am!"
"How do you feel?"
There was no reply.
"Now listen to me, I'm waiting for the welts to come up properly. Then I'm going to do the ten and it's going to drive you mad with pain. Have you ever been mad with pain?"
Billy made a high noise, a sort of keening.
A moment later the welts were properly livid. Barton delivered a quick, vicious series to the center of the buttocks. Billy shrieked more with each strike. Then he began to squirm away, twisting from side to side, using his hands to ward off the blows. His will to appease with compliance had broken down. He was on his way to becoming a squirming, squalling animal.
The fury came upon Barton then, velvet and fire in his head. He attained a rhythm, up and down, up and down, until flecks
of blood and skin began to fly up, forming a sort of haze around the leaping flesh.
At last Billy lost everything. His back arched, his eyes became teary, wrinkled lines, his screams pealed. Now, if they were in the black room, Barton would have let go completely, would have transported himself by the torment he was inflicting into heaven itself.
There was a last flash of rage and a final, brutal slash of the strap, and he was finished.
It was as if he had just awakened from hypnosis. The velvet in his mind was gone, the extraordinary calm that had formed its base was changed to sorrow and disgust.
What was he doing in these ridiculous clothes, hurting this poor child? My God, look at him, look at what had happened to Billy!
Throwing down the strap as if it was crusted with filth, he turned and rushed from the room. He closed the door. Maybe he should also have cuffed the poor creature and locked the lock, but what was the point? Barton knew from experience that Billy would be unable to move when he returned to consciousness. Sometime in the night the child would wake up in severe pain, and cry himself to sleep. Tomorrow morning there would emerge a quiet, compliant boy, walking stiff-legged. In his eyes there would be something of the rat.
Walking into his own bedroom, Barton glimpsed himself in the floor-length mirror that hung on the back of his closet door. Instantly he looked away, but it was too late. He knew what happened when he did this, and yet he did it every time.
"No," he said, trying to force himself not to look again. But he did look, he could not help looking.
There stood a fat, middle-aged man loaded with lurid makeup. His underarms were soaked, his spike heels wobbling absurdly. By the time he'd lurched into the bathroom he was sobbing.
This mirror was worse, the fluorescent light made him look like a ghoul.
The lips were fat, the eyes glaring, mad. He was so incredibly, totally screwed up. He was worse than that, he was completely psychotic.
He had just maimed another human being and would almost certainly end by visiting him with a horrible death.
You cannot stop, you cannot prevent yourself!
All his justifications were lies. Nothing explained him, not even his hard childhood. He did what he did because he got pleasure from it.
That makes you evil.
Evil, he was evil! He was an ugly, vicious, evil swine!
A huge roach crawled slowly out from his dress and up his face. He could feel the tickle of its claws, the faint, frantic scratching as it made a trench in his makeup.
When he clapped his hands to his face the makeup came off like sodden clay. He wiped at it, making little screams in his throat, his whole body twisting with the loathing he felt for himself. There was no roach under his hand. He ripped off the dress and stood naked, a sweated lump who stank of his ugly labor.
He fell to his knees, he crouched down, drove his fists into his eye sockets until he saw bursts of red and yellow. His mouth opened, he gagged, he felt something awful and black within him slither to the surface.
A snake was flipping on the floor, slick and wet as if it had been coiled in his gut. He fell down moaning and as black sorrow closed upon him he wished with all his heart that he would be free.
Billy was a dot of light in the middle of the forever dark. He'd been killed, he thought, whipped to death. "Momma," he said. "Momma?" It was so still, so very silent.
The whipping was a red memory.
"I don't want to be dead!"
Such a great agony assailed him when he moved that he flew into panicked thrashing. His screams were broken and soft, pitched to the tone of small wind. He was completely unfamiliar with great physical pain, but nevertheless he finally managed to calm himself down.
The overhead light was still on, filling the room with its hard, yellow glow. Billy was lying in a wet spot on the bed. Slowly, he slid to the side. With trembling fingers he felt his buttocks.
The skin was lumpy and covered with something sticky. When he looked at it, he saw that it was blood.
The sound of his own moaning made him feel so sad that he forced himself to stop. Nobody could ever be bad enough to deserve what he'd just been given. It wasn't possible to be that bad.
Billy was a good person, with a natural desire to find good in his fellow man. His innocence, which had so disadvantaged him until now, came to his rescue by preventing him from understanding the hopelessness of his situation. Beneath his suffering there was fresh water flowing, the very water of life. It bubbled up in him no matter how hard his fortune, and would not run dry.