Nobody else came down here, except him and his boys.
Then a face appeared in the gloom of black plastic, a sinister, glaring nymph.
"Who are you?" Barton asked. He was completely mystified by this unexpected presence.
"I'm me!" The boy came crawling out. He tumbled onto the floor. "Hi, Barton."
Barton held out the candy, a trembling sacrifice. Light was pouring from the child, as if the sun itself had entered him. The hand that took the Butterfinger was colder than the frozen candy.
With great solemnity the boy unwrapped the candy. He did not simply tear back the paper, but took the whole bar out and dropped the paper to the floor. Barton picked it up and put it in his pocket.
"I love them cold like this, Father, because you can eat the chocolate off first," Billy said. "Do you like to eat the chocolate off first?"
Barton was beyond words. The voice was gold in his heart, as if all love had entered there. He rocked back on his heels, clutching himself.
Glory poured from Billy's eyes. "Is this your hobby?" he
asked. He looked around the room, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Is it?" Then he nipped the candy bar, taking off a large slab of chocolate, exposing the brown interior. "You have to be careful doing it this way, because if you eat off all the chocolate, then the inside's not as good." He took a bite of the crunchy center of the bar. "So is it your hobby? Killing kids?"
Barton was silent. Words were not a fatal weapon.
"How many of us are there?" Billy asked. He chewed the candy, a frown on his face. "Enough to make a pretty big club, I'll bet. The kids at my school have clubs, but I'm not gonna get in any. I guess that's why I obsess over Kafka. You gotta have something that makes you special." A smile came into his face, and as suddenly disappeared.
Barton found himself moving toward Billy with the precision of a dancer. Gentle, invisible hands were guiding him. He felt a vast presence coming close around him, and had the sense that it was somebody he had always known and always forgotten. Yes, taking his hand, guiding it toward the boy's arm, and curling his fingers around the arm.
Billy threw back his head and cried the most sorrowful cry that Barton had ever heard.
Exquisite.
Mark had seen him, he'd seen Barton Royal! He'd come scuttling right into the kitchen like some prehistoric crab, opened the refrigerator, gotten something and slammed it again.
He had his proof, he was a witness and would swear that Barton Royal was definitely in this house. He wasn't going to take any more crap from the cops, his boy was here!
Be careful, for God's sake, man! If you are heard, if you fucking well make a sound, Billy is dead.
He shrank back, farther into the gloom beside the garage. The prudent thing was obviously to go for the cops. But as he turned he heard a new sound, one so terrible that even his dulled instincts told him that it was a desperate, terminal cry.
More than that, he recognized this voice: it was Billy.
He stepped out of concealment, marched up to the door of the house. From the inside he smelled an odor of coolness and
old food. It wasn't a clean house. In fact, it looked filthy. He tried the door. It was locked.
The scream came again, so faint and yet so very, very dark. It made him quail back, made him want to cover his ears, to run. But it also made him take out his keys and tear a hole in the screen.
Sticking his hand in, he felt for a deadbolt, encountered only another keyhole. The door locked on both sides. But how stupid, he simply tore out the whole screen and walked right in.
Barton Royal certainly wasn't expecting trouble.
Or was he? What about motion detectors?
Then the scream came again, a little louder now that he was inside the house. He clapped his hands to his ears, it was terrible to hear!
Billy, oh God help my boy, God help him!
Where was he? The sound was so faint—muffled. Then he recalled the bricked-up window. Of course, they were in the basement.
Heedless of the dangers, Mark plunged off into the house.
"Shut up!"
Billy knew he was supposed to be quiet but it was just very hard because he saw those straps. If he didn't see the straps it would be easier, but every time he saw them the screams just came out by themselves.
"Sorry, Father!"
"Get up there, Son, go on!"
"Father, please—"
"Do it!"
He tried, but his body would not climb up onto the table. He belonged with his brothers, he knew that, and the only way to join them was to get up on the table. The trouble was, his arms and legs wouldn't do what his head told them. He just stood there.
So Father had to pick him up and lift him onto the table. There, that was much better. Now all he had to do was lie down. Father would take care of the rest.
But when Father leaned over him to grab the buckle of the chest strap Billy was astonished to find himself striking like a
snake. The flesh beneath Father's chin crunched and tore and he reared back screaming. Blood spurted.
'I guess I did that,' Billy thought.
Then Father had a great big knife in his hands, and the blade was pale gray.
Mark heard that! Did he ever hear it! That wasn't Billy, that was a grown man and he was in pain. The sound was right underfoot! There was nothing but a throw rug on the floor of this bedroom. Mark turned it back and saw the trapdoor, its ring handle recessed into the floor.
He pulled the door open.
Billy was right there, lying on a table beneath a dim bulb. Beside the table stood the crablike man. In his hand was a machete.
Barton looked up, his eyes squinting against the sudden increase of light.
"Billy!"
Billy smiled a tiny, distant smile, and cocked his head in a gesture almost of apology.
Barton Royal raised the blade.
Mark did not know what in the name of God to do.
Imagining his real dad's voice brought Billy much comfort, even if it was only a dream.
Then all of a sudden a man jumped down out of the light. He was all sweaty and crazy-looking and he had brown fluffy hair and bent-up glasses. Was it Jesus? Surely they didn't send Jesus for every dead kid, so it must be an angel. Maybe God did send an angel! That would be really neat!
Father—no,
Barton
—made a funny noise, like he was pretending to be a lion or something. He swung the knife at the man. It went
sst!
The impossible had happened. And so suddenly, so completely unexpectedly. It was the father! Simply fantastic! Somehow he had been tracking them, he must have moved heaven and earth, he must be more cunning than he looked.
God, this kid was such a huge mistake.
No, it was all right. This wasn't the end. He just had to off this guy and get out of here, and then he would be safe. He had his absolute emergency escape route all planned. Two hours from now he could be in Tijuana, and from there down to Bogota, and back into the rain forest to hide until better days.
Again Barton swung the machete. The man cried out and jumped ineptly away, slamming into the wall behind him. Billy lay like a life-sized doll on the table.
"Why?" the man said. His face was twisted, his eyes bulging. "Why!"
"It was Billy! He wanted to come—and he was the first! I didn't hurt him. I've wanted a son all my life. I was good to him! There was just your Billy." He could not look at those anguished eyes, and turned his face away.
"You crazy, vicious bastard!"
Even though he was yelling Dad had tears in his voice. Billy did not like that. Dad was in big trouble!
There was an awful whistling sound and a snap and Dad was down. Then Barton was on top of him, snarling, and all of a sudden there was a terrible thud and Dad turned into something that looked like a pile of rags.
"Dad!"
There was no response.
He'd been smart, but Billy's father was no fighter. Now he'd finish off the child and be done with it.
But the whole closet was full of bodies!
Somebody else did that.
He chose his weapon. This would be simple, plain, quick: the butcher knife.
As he hefted it he became aware that there was something moving in the basement beyond the steel door.
Oh, God, it was opening!
A huge, masked shadow loomed into the room. Another dropped down the ladder. Their plastic eyes were glistening, their guns dark blue in the light. "Freeze! Police!"
Then the blade to the heart.
Part Six
________
THE BAND
OF BROTHERS
31.
Mark Neary takes a breath, it doesn't work, he takes another, it doesn't work, he feels dizzy, his head hurts, he is in deep trouble, he knows it. "Gotta catch my breath—call my wife— get my breath—call my wife—gotta get my breath!"
"Two cc's, get it in there, OK, you have brain tissue exposed, doctor. Bleeding in the wound."
I'm lying down Billy needs me I'm spinning.
Headache!
There were men on the other side of Barton's room. They had guns and they stood by the far wall. They blocked the door.
His heart was fluttering like it was made of paper. Even when he was very still it did not stop.
He was peace, he was the dove.
I am the white dove, the dove that spreads wing over the cathedral of sacred shit.
"There are too many tubes in my damn face!"
Then he saw movement, somebody coming through the line of uniformed men.
A woman, moving like a great, wary walking stick. Mother was so gray, so thin!
Her jaw was trembling. "I'm glad they got you."
You and me both!
Her arm came up, the flat of the palm, he turned his head away. "Fourteen, Barton, for God's sake fourteen innocent children!"
"Don't you hit him, lady!" The policemen crowded forward. "Just take it easy, ma'am."
"Fourteen!"
Stars exploded in his head. His face burned. The tubes came out and snaked around his face.
I'm sorry, Mother!
"Get her arms! Quick!"
They dragged her to the far side of the room.
My heart has fire in it.
Fire!
"The case was solved by a massive nationwide FBI-coordinated police investigation. The house was stormed on an emergency basis by tactical police force officers when it was learned that the boy's father had made an unauthorized entry."
'Momma they filled the bathtub up with blood, don't go splash in it, don't go boom! Momma I don't want no storm, it's blood! Open the drain it gonna go over my head! Momma don't go boom! Momma don't put my ferryboat in here! Momma I gotta die now, Barton says to!'
(Your brothers will help you.)
"In a related development all three are in serious condition at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Despite a self-inflicted stab wound to his heart, doctors are fighting to save Royal so that he can stand trial."
A woman is weeping. Her name is Mary Neary. She sits on a plastic chair in a waiting room with a gray linoleum floor and pale green walls. There are marks on the ceiling tiles from a long-ago leak. She clears her throat, takes a sip from a Styro-foam cup she is cradling in her hands.
Her daughter, Sally, is playing a word game with Dr. Richard Klass, a child psychiatrist on staff at the hospital.
The thing was, his heart didn't actually beat. It just sort of shook in his chest. If he so much as lifted his head, he began to lose consciousness.
He put out his hand, but Mother did not take it. "I've just been remembering," he said. "We sure had a great time in the old days, didn't we?"
"Son, why did you do it?
Why?"
He watched a fly circling the ceiling light.
"Mother, you should have seen one of my Uncle Squiggly shows."
As if she was suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself. Again she left.
"I bubble when I breathe, doctor."
The cardiologist smiled and nodded. He was thirty-six, he had five children, he was from Calcutta. He did not feel that his patient would live. For the press he remained guarded, but not blatantly pessimistic.
'Oh you opened the drain I am going down please Momma get me, get Billy, I gotta get outa here Momma, I gonna go down! I slipping, my head is in Momma, I gonna go down, my body is in, the blood is taking me Momma, I am in the drain, I am going down. Momma the devil gonna get Billy! He got claws they is long they gonna go all over me!'
(We are your brothers. We are here.)
"Mr. Neary?" "Yes?"
"Can you feel this?" "Needle in my foot!" "This?" "Tickles."
"Very good. Now, relax your neck, please. Good. Any pain?" "Jesus!"
There appears to be no lasting neurological insult to this patient, but the wound continues to heal slowly.
'Oh God why is he like this, he's like plastic, doctor, I can't get through to him, he just stares! Billy! Billy! Remember our lullaby? "Billy boy, Billy boy, where are you going, charming Billy." Sure you do, God in heaven help my poor baby!'
Barton peered into the blackness that had surrounded his bed. Had the room gotten dark, or was it him? A boy walked out of the shadows. He was an angry boy, a
familiar boy. Barton knew exactly why he was here. "You'll never get me,
never!"
Things were moving in the boy's eyes. How strange that looked. Barton tried to raise himself, to discern just what that was.
Worms!
Danny was this boy's name. He had long, long arms, and they opened for Barton.
No!
The boy embraced him. Oh, and it was almost like love!
(Why did you do it? Only the truth, please.)
"It was fun!"
Impaled baby.
Danny drew back and raised his hands and Barton got heavy, too heavy! His heart began rattling. Something was happening to gravity.
"This is an examination of William Neary, age twelve years and nine months, a traumatized child. The characteristic state of tonus called waxy flexibility is fully evident. The patient can be manipulated and holds postures. Mutism, stupor, apparent absence of will are all present. I do not believe, however, that this child is catatonic. I feel that this is a stress response so extreme that it mimics catastrophic psychosis. The prognosis is nevertheless doubtful."
'I gotta get outa here Momma, it dark, big spider man got his arms all around me, I do-do on myself, I goin' down the hole Momma!'
He sees his brothers for the first time. There is no recognition.
(We will help you.)
"Help him! You've got to help him! I know he's suffering terribly, you can see it in his eyes, Dr. Klass, please!" The doctor feels he should embrace the patient's mother in order to effect some transference of anxiety.
When Barton woke up again there were more boys in the room. They came closer and closer, their hair trailing behind
them, their fingernails scraping the linoleum, their faces as pure as purest light.
"Mother!"
(She went home.)
"She went home?"
"When can I see Billy?" "In a couple more days, honey."
"Christ, Mary, I'm fine. They've got me walking up and down the ward, you saw me!" "In a few days!" "Mary, what's the matter?" "Mark, please—" "He's not dead! Don't you dare tell me he's dead!"
"Sally, just hold my head for a while. I've been up—"
"Twenty hours, Momma. We can go back to the motel if you need some sleep."
"But it's helping! As long as I hold him, he seems to be better. Just let me get a thirty-second nap, just close my eyes . . ."
A sunken, wobbly remnant, she sinks elaborately to the couch.
"Doctor, she's out."
"Your mother is suffering from complete exhaustion. I think we should just let her sleep right here."
They get a gray blanket from the ward closet and tuck it around her. The life of the waiting room goes on, people arrive, sit and depart, lives are won and lost, tragedy strikes, joy descends, Mary sleeps through an entire day.
"Sir, what are you doing in here with an IV tree?"
"What room is William Neary in?"
"You can't come on the children's pavilion, you're an inpatient!"
"I'm his dad!"
"Psychiatric wing, room 2102."
Mark hurries along, pulling his tree of intravenous lines, his mind racing: psychiatric, psychiatric, psychiatric—he maneuvers himself down the corridor. Its long, waxed floors are
treacherous, it makes him dizzy to walk too fast. 'Forty-eight stitches I'm surprised my head wasn't cut in two where does this hall end Jesus.'
He is so tiny! Oh, just look, look how small he s gotten! He is so quiet!
"Billy?" Why doesn't he react, his eyes are wide open. "Billy!"
What's the matter here?
The spider opens up its mouth and this man comes out wearing robe of Jesus and he got a coat tree in his hand that's funny and where'd you get those dumb-dumb glasses Daddy?
Mark Neary cannot bear the sight of his broken child. His heart is sick with woe and suddenly he is very, very tired. Like a leaf he slips to the floor, barely noticing the IV tubes ripping from his arms. The lights dim. Then there are nurses. Then he is watching ceiling fixtures go past overhead.
It will be two days before he can leave his bed again.
Barton wanted to hear a Mozart symphony. He wanted to eat a blood orange.
Danny had a green Sohio truck with lights that really turned on. When he went with Uncle Barton he made sure to bring his truck.
(You laid us on the table!)
I didn 't do that.
(Our screams made you sweat with pleasure!)
Every act of life is etched forever in the flesh of the soul.
Mary is slumped by Billy's bedside with her head in her hands. She has cuddled him, she has talked to him, she has sung a thousand songs, she has poured her very soul into his empty gaze, and now the woman is spent.
Sally is stroking her brother's head. In a hoarse voice, she sings: