Billy was a pretty bright kid. Surely he wouldn't have agreed to go with some man who came to the house in the middle of the night.
Her brother was also a total innocent when it came to certain things. You could give him an Oreo loaded with tabasco sauce and he'd pop it into his mouth every time. But he wouldn't let himself get kidnapped.
The arrival of the police alerted the neighborhood for the first time to the existence of a possible problem at the Nearys' place. People noticed the green and white car cruising slowly along, watched it as it came to a stop in front of the teacher's unkempt yard. Because they were recent arrivals most of their neighbors did not know the family; some of them didn't even know the name. Mark knew that the appearance of the police car would bring uneasy questions.
He felt queasy, watching the officer come up the walk. A curious distance imposed itself. The policeman approached as if he was a phantom coming up an unreal front walk, beneath a sun as bright as memory. How strange that Billy was not there wanting to see his gun. As he came swiftly across the porch through the door the percolator started rattling. Sally went back to the kitchen.
She went to the percolator, leaned into the steam and inhaled.
"Coffee's ready," she said as she entered the living room. The young policeman smiled.
He asked questions about Billy. His age, his looks, did they have a video to run on television?
Mark was horrified. A video! Television! Billy was gone, really and truly gone. He wasn't in the basement, he wasn't out visiting, he wasn't at the mall.
Mary's impulse was to run somewhere and seek him, shout his name, make more phone calls.
"We don't have a video," Mark said.
"But there are pictures," Mary added. She was sick inside.
Just because they had no video didn't mean that Billy was lost forever, but that was how she felt.
"If you get TV they'll run a video a little more than a photo."
Listening to the man, realizing that Billy was truly gone, Mary could have screamed her guts out. But she didn't do that sort of thing, it wasn't her style.
She crossed her legs and leaned forward. She understood nothing about the black storming ocean within her. Life had so far never brought her a suffering such as this. Not even Mother's death compared to it.
She found herself ally to the parents whose children were torn from their arms at Auschwitz, to those who saw their little boys hanged at Tyburn for the theft of a button, to those whose children were raped by the passing Huns or Teutons or Romans, to all who have stood helplessly by while their innocents were caught in the mayhem of the world.
But she sat quietly.
The policeman noted how self-possessed the family seemed. His training had barely touched on missing children. There were certain realities, though, and he was aware of them: Most missing children were found within twenty-four hours; most were runaways. When they were done violence, it was most often at the hand of a parent or another family member. When they were abducted by strangers, they were most often found dead, or never found at all.
There were indications that this child had run away. The bicycle was gone, for one thing. According to the mother there were clothes missing.
"We call in a detective from Wilton in missing child cases. He's had a lot of experience with these cases. I just have to get the preliminaries, so we can put out a bulletin and get the picture over to KKNX. I'm sure they'll want it for the ten o'clock news."
"Billy's been kidnapped." Mary Neary's voice was smooth with terror.
"Well, ma'am, we assume the worst, hope for the best. That's how we do these things. But with his bike gone and the clothes obviously taken, this is very apt to be a runaway. Very apt to be."
"He left his watch behind,'' Sally said. "He never leaves his watch."
"I don't want to get your hopes up, but we've never lost a runaway here in Stevensville."
At first he thought he was hearing a distant siren. It took a moment of listening for him to understand that the sound was coming out of Mary Neary. Slowly it got louder. He glanced at the husband, who looked perplexed. Then the man's face went pale. As if she was a figure in a dream, the daughter's closed fists slowly came up to her cheeks. Her mother's eyes screwed shut, her arms whipped around her breasts and her whole body seemed to snap.
The sound of her anguish was made more painful to hear by her efforts to stifle it, not opening her mouth, throwing her head back, and all that tortured noise coming from her nose.
Afterward there was a stunned hush.
Sally ran out to the kitchen. She turned, her posture that of a soldier at the edge of the battlefield.
"The coffee's getting cold," she said in a shrill voice. She closed her eyes. In that moment she was wounded as certainly as if somebody had cut her with a whip. For the rest of her life she would be exquisitely sensitive to those sudden hushes that can stop a moment. And she would forever think, when they came, that somebody she loved had just been lost.
8.
At five o'clock in the morning Barton had passed through Des Moines. He had seen only one other vehicle on Interstate 235, a pickup truck going north, its headlights cutting the last of the dark.
He had left the interstate and driven through the streets hunting for a place to get a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Around him the city was drifting toward morning. This was the hour of last dreams, and the quiet was made more true by the dull hum of air conditioners and the slippery sound of an occasional passing car.
The public nakedness of a sleeping city would have thrilled him ordinarily, but this time it only added to his unease. He had expected to be exhilarated by his victory, but he felt an altogether different emotion. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was deeply and terribly wrong, that he had made some mistake so basic he simply could not see it.
Without finding a place to get a doughnut he returned to the highway.
As the van sped westward the sun rose. It first sent the Aerostar's shadow far ahead, then caused it to contract. He thought of the shadow's astonishing cargo. Charming Billy.
What have I done wrong?
From the bed in the back Billy moaned. Barton heard an edge of consciousness in the voice. He would pull into the next rest area and do a heavy needle on the boy, put him out for eighteen hours.
Again there was a sign of consciousness, a thick, muffled word that was probably "Dad."
"Dad'll be here in a minute."
The reply was another moan.
Barton didn't want to stop on the roadside for fear some state trooper might offer help.
Dull thumps emanated from the back of the van. Billy was awake all right. He was struggling against the straps. In the rearview mirror Barton could see the quilt heaving. "It's just a nightmare, Billy!"
"Mmm . . ."
Sleep, little boy, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon . . .
"Mmmfff!"
"It's a nightmare!"
"Hh—mmmff!"
Come on, come on, doesn 't Iowa believe in rest stops!
The road stretched out straight and empty. Behind him Billy jerked and moaned. Barton gripped the wheel, pressed the gas pedal as far down as he dared.
Five minutes passed, then ten. All the while the boy struggled. Finally, after twenty minutes, a rest stop appeared. Thank you oh dear God who loves your Barton. He pulled in toward the picnic tables and outhouses, then past a long line of parked eighteen-wheelers, finally stopping near a little grove of trees at the far end of the picnic grounds.
Quickly he opened the glove compartment and took out the black wallet containing syringes, alcohol and a small bottle of diazepam formulated for injection. He'd chosen the drug after reading medical textbooks. It was safer than a barbiturate and had, in addition to inducing sleep with a sufficient dose, the property of reducing anxiety.
He put some alcohol on a cotton ball and drew two cc's of the drug into one of his syringes. Then he climbed over the seats into the back, pushing past the bicycle and the bag of clothes, to the bed where the boy lay strapped and moaning.
The moaning became a high-pitched wail as he dug beneath the soft quilt and found Billy's arm. Billy's head jerked from side to side. He was trying to push the quilt away from his eyes.
His arm quaked when Barton touched it, but Barton was strong and quick. He swabbed the skin and delivered the drug. But it wouldn't go to work at once and the word coming from behind the gag was now distinct: "Dad! Dad!"
"You're in an ambulance, son!"
"Dad!"
"Dad and Mother are fine. Your sister is fine. There was a fire. Sleep now, son."
There were more sounds as Billy struggled to respond. In a moment he was going to be conscious enough to understand that he was gagged. Barton decided to take the risk of a scream and remove the tape, try to calm the child down. As he pulled it off, Billy smacked and coughed. Then he spoke.
"A—fire?"
"You're going to be fine. Sleep now."
"Did I get burned?"
"No, son, just a little smoke."
"I can't move . . ."
"So you won't fall off the stretcher. You're in an ambulance. You're very sleepy now. Go to sleep."
At last the breathing changed, grew ragged and then long, and Barton closed his own eyes and let his own breath sigh slowly out.
"Ether is a relatively short-duration soporific that was administered in gaseous form as an anesthetic during the early history of anesthesia."
They had been on the road nearly two hours. Barton should have given Billy the diazepam on the other side of Des Moines. To punish himself for his stupidity he slammed the empty needle into his own thigh. Stupidity must always be punished. Everything had to be plan-perfect.
"Ether is a short duration soporific," he said as he yanked the needle out.
To Barton's surprise Billy's hand was dangling. His struggles had been so extreme that he had freed it, something Barton had never seen any boy accomplish before.
Barton threw back the quilt and loosened the strap that bound the child about his midriff. He returned the hand to Billy's side, really touching him for the first time, holding his soft skin and feeling a rush of hurting desire. Despite the abrasions resulting from the child's effort to free it from the strap, it was a lovely hand, pale and silky.
He wanted to kiss it, to somehow meld with its beauty. He looked at the skin, now burnished by a shaft of sunlight. It was
so exotic, so perfect down even to the dusting of fine hairs that came down from the wrist and spread along the outer edges toward thumb and little finger. That they would thicken and darken seemed impossible to believe: and yet this perfect being would soon be cast down the cliff of manhood.
Barton bent toward the hand, his lips parted ... it would be a sign of love, of respect, even of awe . . . his secret . . .
Inwardly, he made demands of himself. 'Don't! It's ugly and perverse and wrong.' But he longed to, he could hardly bear not just once touching his lips to that soft skin. 'It's monstrous! Don't!' He trembled. 'It isn't you, Barton. You're a decent, lonely man trying to recapture something pure, you are not a filthy lecher!'
He gripped the limp hand hard. Then he dropped it. He watched the sleeping form. Billy's slimness made Barton feel like a big, fat lump.
He wanted to give Billy a father's warm kiss, and feel him return it, and then Billy would be bound by the rich and healthy love that flourishes between father and son.
Laughing a little to himself, Barton climbed over into the driver's seat. He backed the van up to the outhouses and dropped the black curtain that hid the rear area from anybody who might look in the windshield. He didn't really need to use the facilities, but he knew better than to pass up a chance. He couldn't risk leaving the van while he was getting gas, and he didn't feel safe in rest stops during the day when they were full of meddling children and watchful parents.
Outside he breathed deeply of the early morning air. He was feeling better and better. This thing was going to work, he could sense it. At first it would be hard, but Billy would find that Barton Royal could show him such love, such attention. It would be quite beyond what he had known before. Their life together would be wonderful.
The outhouse was full of busy flies and had an oily, chemical stench. To Barton's surprise, some little creature screeched as he stepped in. Wriggling beneath his foot was a mouse. Involuntarily Barton jumped back, but the little animal was so damaged it could barely drag itself away. It was horribly injured. Probably it had already been weakened by poison before
he stepped on it. Barton's first impulse was to use another outhouse, but then he thought he ought to put the little thing out of its misery.
With the intention of stomping on it he raised his foot. But then a sort of hesitancy entered his mind. He brought his heel down carefully, just pinning the creature. Its screams filled the tiny room. They were surprisingly loud. Bit by bit he increased the weight on its back. He could feel it writhing.
Kill it!
He slid his foot back and forth. The tail twisted and turned in the dust beside his shoe. A delicious warmth filled his body. As the mouse screamed, he hummed.
At last he decided that it was time for the creature to die. By inches he increased the weight on its back, until finally there was a crunch and the screeching stopped. He finished his business and returned to the van.
It was just a mouse, for God's sake.
He rolled down the windows and let the wind flood the van. Cotton clouds rushed up from the south. They were colored pink and gold against the sky. Before him stretched the road to the mountains and the wide western deserts, and finally home, his house tucked into its own very private quarter-acre of the Hollywood Hills.
He was within fifty miles of the Nebraska border when a state trooper suddenly pulled in behind him. For some time he'd been watching the police car coming up on his left. It was no more than two car lengths back when it shifted into his lane.
He checked his speedometer: fifty-eight. Not fast enough to warrant a ticket, not so slow as to be suspicious. The trooper came closer and closer, until he was less than twenty feet away. Inside the car Barton could see a shadowy, expressionless young driver, an older man beside him. He gulped air and tried to think. What could possibly have drawn them to him?
What indeed: he was engaged in an incredibly risky enterprise. For all he knew a neighbor had seen his van at the Nearys', seen him hurry across the lawn with the boy in his arms, seen him wheeling the bike into the back of the van.
He had no reason to feel secure. Safety was an illusion. He was the worst imaginable sort of criminal—a child abductor—
and he was on the run with a drugged twelve-year-old trussed up in his van.
This trooper was about to catch a monster, and maybe that would be best. The authorities would paw him, chain him, put him in prison ... or worse.
Barton Royal was not insane!
He should have used back roads, gotten out of the state that way. It had been stupid to cling to the interstates.
Why did the trooper just stay back there, watching? Why was he playing games? He hadn't had to piss when he was at the rest stop, but he had to do it now, his whole body was tensing, every muscle tightening, every sinew straining against bone and cartilage. His mouth had gone dry, his eyes felt like they would burst out of his head.
"Get it over with, you bastards!"
Wait, he had options. He remembered the scanner.
Turn it on, fool! Turn it on and keep it on!
He watched out of the corner of his eye as the little red dot raced up and down its face, seeking for some snatch of dialogue.
Silence. The trooper wasn't on the radio. Of course not, not now, fool! He's already done that. He's just waiting, watching, hoping for something more than the description, something that'll give him probable cause to enter the van.
He was trying to break Barton's nerve, that was it. If he took off the trooper would chase him down. That would give him his right to search.
God, God, please help your child Barton. You made me, God, now you help me! I'm going through hell here!
The trooper's light bar started flashing.
Oh, God, please don't let it be now.
He wanted just a month with Billy, then he would willingly die! Yes, die for thirty happy days!
He sat up straight, became prim. "Pull the van over," he told himself, "be as proper as a schoolgirl in church." The trooper followed him. He tried to calm himself, get some spittle into his dry mouth. 'OK, Barton baby, here he comes. My, what a clean-shaven face that trooper has. I wonder if he needs to shave at all?' He blanked his mind, cranked up a smile. His
voice was calm, concerned, perfect as he said, "I don't think I was speeding, officer."
"Driver's license, please." The voice was calm and clear.
"Yeah, I have it, just a second." Barton tried not to tremble as he pulled out his wallet.
"California license, Mr. Royal?"
The voice had dropped an octave. Suspicion.
"Yeah. I have my summer place in Utah."
A long silence. Here it came. They would utter the murderous formula: "We'd like to have a look in the back."
"Your plates are expired."
Oh, no, not stupidity again. Fool, fool fool! But wait. How could that be? On the way to Iowa he'd stopped at the mail drop in Salt Lake, gotten the renewal. He'd put on the sticker.
"No, I don't think so."
"No sticker."
It was on the front plate. Wasn't that what he was supposed to do? "It's on the front."
Please, Oh Lord of heaven, I will do anything, I will serve you body and soul for evermore —
The trooper went around to the front of the car, looked at the plate. He came back to the window. "Mr. Royal, you ought to have stickers on both plates."
"They only sent me one."
"Well, I suggest you get another if you don't want this to keep happening."
"Thank you, officer."
"We're not going to issue a summons this time, Mr. Royal, but you'd better stop at DPS in Salt Lake and get that sticker."
"I sure will, officer."
Billy uttered three short, sharp cries. The trooper leaned farther into the window. At that moment inspiration struck. "I have a capuchin," Barton said.
"A capuchin?"
"The sounds. A monkey. A little monkey in the back."
The officer's face grew tight. He drew back from the van. "All right, Mr. Royal. You can go now."
He put the van into drive and accelerated back onto the
highway. The troopers remained on the roadside, their light bar still flashing.
Barton's face flushed, his temples throbbed. Huge sparks danced in his eyes. Did he need to see a doctor about these intense stress reactions? He was overweight, sure, but this— maybe there was high blood pressure or something.
He imagined himself dead on the road with a boy in the back.