5.
Barton lifted the storm door, went halfway down the steps and pulled it closed behind him. Admirably soundless.
He stood in careful silence, not even breathing. When he took a breath it was to test the odors in the room for what information they might impart. The air smelled of cool concrete, with a faint undertone of mildew. Ordinary basement smells, nothing to worry about.
He was surprised at the intensity of his feelings. This was a luscious moment. It was also extraordinarily scary. Sometimes he thought he could best understand himself as a dark element of God sent to haunt the world.
He padded into the center of the basement. He was hunting for the stairs with his penlight when he heard a distinct footfall above his head. It was faint, but very definitely there. He listened, but the sound did not repeat itself.
An instant later he was appalled to find himself standing in a flood of light.
Billy turned on the basement light from the pantry. He went down, his eyes on the Amiga. The quiet made the basement mildly creepy. It was a familiar sensation, and he would have ignored it except that it caused him to remember those legs he had seen earlier outside the window.
Dad had been wearing khakis. None of Billy's friends wore gray slacks in the middle of summer vacation. Had it been an extremely subtle trick played by his sister, to get back at him for eating her sandwich? No, she wasn't that subtle, at least not
usually. There was, of course, the time last February she had taped the matchbox full of fruit flies from the bio lab inside his guitar. He'd noticed the change in tone, torn out the box and inadvertently released the tiny flies. He hadn't even noticed the bugs . . . until ten days later when their reproduction rate had caused his room to suddenly become a jungle hell. Given that he was owned by parents who did not believe in insecticide, getting rid of the flies had been a pretty major pain in the ass.
Well, there certainly wasn't anybody out there at this hour, unless it was some kid. By ten-thirty you could hear the lights changing from one end of Lincoln to the other. Kids at slumber parties would sneak out in the nude at midnight and nobody would see them. Once, according to Jerry, he and Dick-the-Prick Davis and Fo-Fo Garr had met up with Cynthia Stales, Rebecca McClure and Sue Wolf on Endower Lane, and both groups were nude.
Lying bastard.
He sat down at his computer and flipped the switch. The opening screen came up, followed by his hard disk icons. He went into his birdsong files. He plugged his earphones into the small amplifier he used with the computer, and unhooked the speakers. Instantly he was lost in the wistful, perfect music of the bird.
Barton breathed carefully, with infinite softness. He lay under the boy's workbench, his elbows grinding into the hard concrete floor. The child's bare feet were not eighteen inches away from his face. It would have been so easy to just reach out and grab one of those sleek ankles. But the boy would scream the house down.
Initially Barton had been so stunned by the light that his mind had gone blank. Fortunately instinct had prevailed and he'd dived under the table just in time. Gradually, he recovered his composure. His breath came more gently, the sweat dried on his face. He forced himself to think calmly and clearly. Things were by no means out of control. There were still lots of options.
If he could figure some way to get out from under this damned table and work his way around behind the boy, he
could put him to sleep in a few moments. Barton was a powerful man; the child had no chance of getting away before the ether overcame him.
Billy labored happily, but not for very long. He had to admit that he was a little tired, and digitizing a tape was a complicated process. Working with sound on a computer was slow, exacting and technical if you were interested in doing it right.
He killed the program and sat staring at the blue opening screen for a short time. When he thought about it, he wasn't so tired that he couldn't play Dungeonmaster for a while. And why not? Life wasn't supposed to be all work.
He loaded his Dungeonmaster disks and pressed the red resume button beside the great black door that appeared on the screen. In a moment he was deep in level ten.
Barton edged his way out from under the end of the workbench farthest from where the child was sitting. In the shadows ahead stood a fat old converted coal furnace with an evil grate.
He slid along inching like a great worm, until at last the furnace was between him and the boy. He pulled himself to his feet and peered out from amid the tentacles of ducts.
The boy was still playing with the computer. If this was going to work Barton would have to move like lightning. He opened the ether and crouched down.
Tensing his muscles, bracing, he prepared to leap.
The last thing he did was to soak his felt in the chemical. Its medicinal stench filled his nose, its coldness made his hand ache.
What was that smell? It was raw and fresh. Billy had been tapping his feet, tipping the chair back as he played. Had he somehow crushed a dropped tube of glue? He checked under the workbench. There was considerable debris down there, including that missing Amiga User utilities diskette. He retrieved it and put it into his diskette box.
There was no glue, and yet the whole basement reeked of the stuff. There was also another smell, a human smell. Billy sniffed his own underarms. It wasn't him. Could it be Dad, or his
sister? No, neither of them stank. And the glue smell—it just didn't make sense.
Upstairs was suddenly very far away.
He decided that he'd had enough for one night. He turned off the computer, slid back his chair and left the basement. Although it wasn't a usual thing for him to do, he locked the basement door behind him. He also left the light burning. Burglars, he thought, don't like light.
But what would a burglar be doing fooling around with glue?
Too late Barton had realized his mistake. The boy had sniffed, looked around. Obviously he had smelled the ether. And then fear had entered his face. He'd hurried off, locking the basement door behind him.
After the door had closed there was no further sound from upstairs. Barton was left alone in the light.
That might just mean that the boy was waiting and listening. Barton contemplated violating a cardinal rule and leaving a trace of his presence: he considered locating and cutting the telephone wires.
As he looked for the telephone company's incoming service he glimpsed his own reflection in one of the basement windows. It startled him and he jumped back.
Beyond those black windows he couldn't see a thing. A coldness spread through him as he realized that the boy could be going outside to examine the room from a position of safety.
Never mind the phone wires, he had to get out of here.
At first Billy had tunneled into his sheets, hidden in his familiar bed with his beloved stuffed Garfie snuggled close to his chest. But that didn't work. Not being able to see out increased his feeling of vulnerability. He threw the sheets off and looked around him. The room was as always. He sniffed. No unusual odors here. He listened. No strange noises.
He knew what he'd smelled in the basement, though. He was almost sure that another human being had been in there with him, somebody who was sweating and—for whatever weird reason—using glue. Whoever it was hadn't made a sound.
Billy decided he might have been having a nightmare while
he was awake. Could that happen? He wasn't sure, but he thought maybe it could.
He decided to check out the rest of the family. Maybe he'd find the explanation in one of the other bedrooms.
Barton had withdrawn from the house very, very carefully. It had taken him a good five minutes to convince himself that the boy had indeed stayed inside.
Except for the basement, which blazed with light, the place was dark. He looked at his watch: one-fifteen. At least he had plenty of time left. He decided to return to his spot under the tree and wait.
The bird's song had drawn Billy to his window again, and from there he'd seen a bulky black shadow moving across the lawn. He could hardly believe it. When he understood that this was completely real, that he was wide awake, a cold shock flashed through him. Somebody really had been watching him while he was in the basement. That person must have been the source of the smells. And earlier—had he been the one in the gray slacks?
The thought of the weird guy who'd played RPM with him in the video arcade flashed through his mind, but that was too crazy even for Billy Neary. The guy would have had to have followed him home, for God's sake.
The prowler had moved with a sort of rolling scuttle, almost crablike, quickly disappearing beneath the twisty limbs of the oak. Billy waited for him to come out the other side and go off down the sidewalk, but he did not come out.
This was serious and he had to tell Dad. He went into his parents' room. They were so tangled up together in their four-poster bed that they seemed like one body with two dark heads.
"Dad?"
No response. He looked down at them. How would it feel to sleep bundled so close to a woman? He wasn't sure he was ready to spend the night without Garfie.
"Dad."
"Mmm? Hah—"
"There's a man in the yard."
"What?"
"I was looking out my window and I saw a man go under the oak."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Dad and Mother came untwined from one another and sat up. Dad looked angry. He swung out of bed and went to the window. "Where?"
"You can't see him now. He's under the oak."
"Maybe you should call the police, Mark."
"Let me take a look." He went over to their dresser and got the flashlight out of the bottom drawer.
Feeling a lot safer, Billy followed his father down the stairs.
Barton saw a glimmer of light touch the stained glass above the front door. It was only the slightest flicker, but it caused him to stand up and step back into the shadows. Then the door opened and the light jabbed like a needle into the dark yard.
With a single quick step Barton put the tree between himself and the flashlight. Obviously the boy had waked up his father and now they were searching for him.
As soon as he could get out of here he was going back to the van. He should never have tried this breaking and entering routine, it was just too risky.
But he had to have this boy!
He stood absolutely still, holding his breath, hardly daring to watch them lest they feel his stare. As if his thoughts could in some way control their actions, he willed them to stay on the porch.
Their voices drifted across the silent lawn. "There's nobody out there now, Billy."
Billy, his name was Billy.
"I saw him, Dad. He was right over there." He pointed straight at the tree. "He was fat."
"I don't see a soul."
"It was very scary, Dad."
So Billy had not only noticed his presence in the basement but also seen him as he moved across the lawn. He'd never
dreamed he'd been under observation then. This little boy was sharp. He was also kind, and intelligent and beautiful. No matter the dangers, Barton could not abandon him. Billy.
6.
Barton's watch started beeping at exactly three-forty-five. Real sleep hadn't come, only a light nap. He opened his eyes into the warm blackness of the van. It was stuffy and the windows were fogged. He crawled up into the driver's seat, put the key in the starter and turned on the battery. When he lowered the windows the cool, rich night air brought him to full wakefulness.
The question was, should he go back? He already knew that Billy's father hadn't called the police; he would have picked up the dispatch on his scanner. There hadn't been anything, except when the one patrolman on duty made a routine check with the dispatcher.
The father must have decided that whatever his son had seen was innocuous. Even so, there was still great danger in going back tonight. But Barton couldn't risk waiting another day. There were too many imponderables.
While he'd been lying in the dark van, Barton had decided that he had been searching for Billy for all of his adult life. He just hadn't known it until now.
Barton Royal would give that child just a wonderful, wonderful life. There was so much love in him, so much giving, so much caring. Maybe Billy wouldn't believe it at first, but in the end he would love his new father so much the past would be completely forgotten.
He gripped the steering wheel as if it was the edge of a cliff. He told himself to breathe deeply and evenly. He was calm, alert.
Again he inventoried his supplies: ether, felt, duct tape, plastic cards, wire. The hammer, meat and plastic bag he could leave behind. Had there been a dog, it would have come out onto the porch with its master.
Billy, the little master.
You will be my soul's guide, Billy. I give you myself. I pray to you: dear Billy, open my eyes, guide me to the light.
He started the van. Ten minutes later he was passing the Burger King. Then he was on Hicks, then on Oak.
And there was the house. Thankfully, the basement light had been turned out. Dear old Dad must have noticed.
Barton imagined the conversation between father and son.
Dad: "I know what happened to you. You got the heebie-jeebies down there in the dark."
Billy: "I saw a man, Dad."
Oh, Billy, I pray you deliver me. Be the one who is stronger!
He cut his lights and engine and rolled into the driveway. The tires hardly crunched on the concrete driveway.
Then he stopped the van. A glance at his watch: four-oh-six. He would take no more than ten minutes in the house. He went back in through the storm door, working quickly and efficiently. This time the basement stayed dark.
As he passed the workbench and its litter of computer disks and equipment, he noticed a Butterfinger wrapper. So Billy liked Butterfingers. Duly noted.
The door at the top of the stairs was locked with only a knob button, but nevertheless it slowed him down. He fumbled with the plastic cards that you were supposed to work into the crack between the door and the jamb.
There was quite a scraping noise, so he stopped. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the door. Carefully, he probed more delicately with the edge of the card. Finally he found the tongue of the lock. He twisted the card from side to side.
Quite suddenly the door swung open.
Every movement, every breath counted now. He could imagine the father lying still and silent, could imagine his eyes opening, glittering in the dark. Every creak and drip in the house echoed with hidden significance. He heard the clocks ticking, the breeze moving the kitchen curtains, the scuttling of a roach on the floor.
He took his ether from the knapsack and put it with the felt into his side pocket. The silent house before him was deeply disturbing. He smelled a fragrance of apples and, very faintly, the hint of Pine Sol. There was a faint scent of pecan divinity.
That odor carried him to his depths. In his neighborhood the older sisters used to make pecan divinity. They would gather into a muttering, unapproachable tribe and eat it in somebody's backyard. If Barton drew near, they'd scream "Fat Royal" and throw a rock or two.
When he stepped from the pantry into the kitchen proper he smelled bread. Now there was one of the best odors in the world. When they'd been baking at the Wonder Bread plant you could smell it up and down Mariposa.
A large white appliance stood in the middle of the kitchen table. Barton recognized the thing as an automatic bread baker. He'd wanted one, but he wasn't sure it would work.
Now he'd go ahead and make the purchase.
This was such a nice kitchen. It smelled wonderful, its curtains were fluffy and pretty, it was clean except for that one roach. Family life was such ordinary magic, but he was
not allowed!
He ran his finger along the warm top of the bread maker, careful as always not to leave prints. Then he took out his rubber gloves and put them on. They were the kind with reinforced fingertips. He had read that new techniques could read a print left through a surgical glove.
Even though he was on a tight schedule, he did a quick inventory of the pantry and refrigerator. It was important to know what Billy liked. He'd already found that Butterfinger wrapper and a Bud Dry behind the workbench in the basement. From now on there would be plenty of Butterfingers in Billy's life. As for beer, Barton would introduce him to Anchor Steam and Dixie and Cold Spring Export.
There was Carnation Instant Breakfast in the pantry, and Tang. There were LaChoy Chinese dinners and Chef Boyardee spaghetti with meatballs. It was surprising how many kids enjoyed that stuff.
Adults starve quietly; children scream and pace and plead.
In the freezer he found Old El Paso enchilada dinners and MicroMagic cheeseburgers and shakes, and Aunt Jemima mi
crowave pancakes. There were Dove Bars, vanilla with milk chocolate coating, Tabatchnick vegetable soup, Birds Eye frozen orange juice. (He'd stun Billy with fresh-squeezed.) In the fridge he found Coke Classic and Dr Pepper, Hi-C Fruit Punch, a package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs, sweet relish and French's mustard. He ignored the potatoes and lettuce and fresh squash in the crisper. The boy would consider them penitential foods. There was Pepperidge Farm toasting white in the breadbox, and he noted Double Stuf Oreos in the cookie jar. The peanut butter was Jif Super Chunky, and there were Smucker's peach and raspberry preserves in the fridge. As small a thing as the right kind of peanut butter sandwich could be an important ice-breaker.
Leaving the door to the basement open, he went through the dining room into the front hall of the old house, and began to mount the stairs. To reduce the chance of a creak, he took them three at a time, testing each step by slowly rolling his weight forward. Then he was in the upstairs hall. He didn't know who was in which bedroom. He had to guess, which was nerve-wracking.
Two of the bedroom doors were closed, one open. It made sense to look first in the open door, simply because that was the least risky.
He peered into the room. Against the far wall there was a window glowing with the thin last light of the moon. A bird's clear, lonely song pealed through the night. Under the window there was a bed, and on the bed a figure. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Billy sprawled in sleep.
Moving as carefully as a rat he crossed the floor, thinking of it as a dance. He was a good dancer. Mel Powell's Dance Studio, fox trot, rumba, swing, jitterbug, 1955.
He approached the bed. Swiftly he opened his ether, soaked the felt, laid it on the boy's face. The child was still for a moment, then he tried to turn his head. Barton was ready and bore down hard. A rush of movement went through the little body. There came a stifled sound, a cry of surprise. Billy's mouth opened, he tried to bite the cloth. He shook, his arms came out and flailed. His hands grasped and slapped. He made stifled gobbling sounds.
"Good, good," Barton whispered.
The boy shook and drummed his feet. The bed thuttered with a perverse echo of passion's tattoo. Only very gradually did his breathing become heavier, his movements slower.
Barton sang to him, sang in his sweet ear, "Where are you going, Billy boy, Billy boy, where are you going, charming Billy . . ."
Finally the child became unconscious.
Barton resoaked the felt and put it into a plastic sandwich bag, ready for instant use if needed. Then he scoured the room for precious belongings. He found a guitar, but it was too big to bring. The stuffed toy that the child slept with he left behind. Weaning Billy away from that would be hard, but necessary if he was ever to put his present life behind him.
He took clothes, of course. The boy's wardrobe was not stocked with fashionable things like Gotcha and Ocean Pacific and Mexx. His clothes ran to plain jeans, shorts and T-shirts.
If this child was going to live in the Hollywood Hills with Barton Royal he would have to dress more fashionably. Once he was tamed a trip to some of the Melrose boutiques would be in order. But in the meantime, his old clothes would have to do. Barton stuffed the knapsack, then gave Billy another dose of ether and drew down his sheet.
How superb.
Barton pressed his face close to Billy's neck and smelled the natural sweetness of his skin. Why ever did boys turn into men? What a terrible curse! He lifted Billy in his arms and carried him out to the hall.
"Goodbye," he whispered on Billy's behalf, "goodbye to my dear old home." As he went downstairs, stepping because of his burden even more carefully than before, he felt almost like he had the moment Dad died, sad and yet joyous, his soul shot with sorrow even as it leapt free.
He was fully and completely aware that this was the most evil most hurtful crime he could commit. But what about him? He needed somebody, too.
He swept through the basement, a great black bird dragging prey, a fat man in the lost middle of his life, sweating under the weight of his stolen burden. He carried Billy across the front
yard to the van. He had left the side door open, and he put Billy inside on the bunk. Then he strapped his wrists and ankles to the frame. Last, he sealed his mouth with gray duct tape.
One final time, he left the van. Returning to the house, he raised the garage door as quietly as he could. It rattled like hell but there was nothing he could do about it except pray.
Quickly he wheeled the boy's bike out and stowed it in the van. He already knew that he would ditch it in the Platte River outside of Lincoln. It was too old to keep and took up too much room in the van. Obviously, he didn't want Billy to have a bike, but its disappearance would make the police think this was a runaway.
He returned to the driver's seat, paused and thought. He inventoried everything. Penlight, felt, plastic cards—he'd left nothing behind.
He pulled off his rubber gloves and put them in the map case between the seats. For a long moment he looked at Billy, who lay very still on the cot behind him. Suddenly nervous, he leaned close to the boy. It was all right; he was breathing fine.
His fingers hesitated over the key. Then he grasped it, turned. The crystal silence of early morning was fractured by the starting of the van.
He drove off down the dark street.