Billy

by Whitley Strieber

  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,

  "Where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy,

  Where have you been, charming Billy ..."

  Momma's song that she sang when he was a baby! It was so good to hear, and it hurt so darn much!

  Then there was a boy in the room all covered with light. He had Timothy Weathers's white jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair was as blond as the light that surrounded him.

  Billy was deathly afraid of this boy and his chalk-blue eyes. He sat up in bed, horrified beyond words, as the boy's face worked.

  He thought, I'm awake but I'm still dreaming.' He was screaming, the boy, screaming as if in great agony. It was terrible to see, more terrible still not to hear. The boy was suffering, he was suffering horribly! Billy tried to talk but all that came out was a breathy whisper. The boy began twisting in the light, his face melting, his eyes melting and oozing down his cheeks. He was being dissolved by the sheer light, he was dying horribly and Billy could not even scream with him.

  Then the closet door flew open. The light was coming out of the floor. It was open like a trapdoor. The other boy turned, still screaming, and went down.

  This time Billy was really awake. He was staring at the ceiling, confused at first about where he was and what had just happened. But when he tried to touch an itch on his nose his handcuffs reminded him of everything.

  He leapt up from the bed, rushed straight to the closet. He was heartbroken: his dream was wrong, there was no trapdoor. Again he went to the window. The shadows were long across the street, the cat and the Mercedes were gone. But there was a person out there. A boy! He was walking his bike up the hill, he was coming this way! The boy had black, straight hair. His bike was blue, and new. When he reached the top of the hill he wasn't fifty feet away.

  Billy screamed with all his breath and it would have been a word but it was too loud, too shrill, it was just the scraped-raw sound of his pain.

  Totally oblivious, the boy turned the bike around and as Billy jabbed the coat hanger into the window glass again and again—making only the slightest tapping sound—he mounted the bike and disappeared down the hill.

  Away he sailed in freedom.

  The glass was not only thick, it had dewdrops inside, meaning that it was double-pane as well. Billy threw down the coat hanger in bitter disgust. There was a neighborhood out there, and kids and cats and bikes and laughter and evenings in the backyard, and he was in here in this stinking prison pretending under pain of
death to love a human maggot more than he did his own precious dad and mom.

  He wanted to scrunch down inside himself forever, to just twist and turn until he was nothing but a little, tiny black knot of flesh that didn't have any brain or any memories or even any eyes.

  He rushed to the door. He was so frantic that sweat was breaking out all over his body. The tiny room seemed to be getting smaller by the second. The walls, the ceiling were curving in toward him; all the air was being sucked out. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he was being crushed to death.

  Somebody on another planet was screaming. It was kind of funny, so high-pitched. Babies cry, they don't scream. But if a baby screamed, it would sound like this. Only when Billy really listened to the funny screaming did he realize it was him.

  The walls weren't closing in, the ceiling was still where it belonged. And there was somebody singing in the living room:

  "You are my sunshine,

  my only sunshine,

  you make me happy

  when skies are gray. "

  That was a woman's voice! Billy rushed to the door. He smashed his ear against it, listened with all the concentration he could manage.

  "You will never know, dear,

  how much I love you.

  Please don't take my sunshine away. "

  It stopped, cleared its throat. This was a real woman, not the stereo. Gina, maybe it was Gina! Oh, God, please, please, please!

  He listened, dangling as if from a thread of absolute need, as the woman moved around in the room.

  Then the lock clicked, the handle of the door gleamed as it was turned.

  The door came open.

  A figure appeared backed by a halo of light from the setting sun. Billy stepped away, gasping, unable to speak, so glad, so glad—