This had been a big mistake, and he had to get out of here! He rushed over to the shaft of light, tried to jump. It was no good. He was way too far down
The only other exit was the steel door.
He began to cry.
Nearly done, all that was left was snack and chitchat with parents. Wonderful show, and every single one of them had paid the two bucks for the "Uncle Squiggly" balloons that had poured out of the Squiggle Box at the end.
"Is it a Squiggle in there?" Chris Mohler's tiny face peered up at him.
"No."
"Then why's it called a Squiggle Box?"
"Because it makes little boys like you squiggle!" He reached down as he talked, tickling him.
The children were mobbing him. He could not help being gladdened by their delight, and for a brief moment it was as if the steel door that sealed his heart was opened a crack.
"Have you worked with children long, Mr. Williams?"
The voice was thin and strident. It belonged to a young woman who looked like she was made of string. Her eyes were close together, her hair was disastrous. What had happened to her—was that rusty steel wool on her head, or the result of an extremely unfortunate home permanent?
"You must be from L.A. Style," Barton yelled over the noise of the kids. "We'll be done in ten minutes, I'll talk to you then."
He kept smiling hard, lest she come to know that he was deathly afraid.
'There aren't any monsters,' Billy told himself, 'not like what you're afraid of.' But what was that breathing, then, behind the door? He'd heard it, it was there.
He couldn't get out of here, and now he was worse off than he'd been upstairs! His choices had all run out: shaking like the terrified little boy that he was, he dragged himself slowly back to the door.
He put his hand on the knob.
Then he thought: 'The woman. Maybe this is where she hides during the day.' This made him pull his hand away as if the knob was red hot. Images of her were burned into his mind—her bright blond hair, her flowing dress, her fat, wet lips. He remembered her voice, high and nasal and full of fury. Above all he remembered that big, black strap.
What she had done to him was branded into the very core and essence of the boy. Remembering, he bent as if cringing away from blows. He sucked in his breath until his lungs were ready to burst. But there was no other way out. Either he opened the door or he waited here until Barton came home.
He stood, his fists clenched, his head bowed down, a small creature in a very dark place.
* * *
Gina was obviously delighted, but Barton found the reporter horrible. Her photographer had taken close-up pictures while he was doing snack, and each time the flashbulb popped he would wince.
"Can we have one shot out of costume?"
Have a care, here. "Oh, I don't think so. I'd rather just be Uncle Squiggly."
"Then can you give me a little of your background? You seem to have a really intuitive thing with the kids. Where does that come from?"
"A happy home life. My parents were Quakers, and we just had a very peaceful, very sweet upbringing."
"Sort of a modern-day Friendly Persuasion?"
"Well, hardly that. But it was a loving family. Unfortunately my mother and dad have passed away."
"Do you have any children of your own?"
He answered politely in the negative, pretending to be rueful about it. As he spoke Billy's face drifted up out of the dark.
Her next question concerned his previous experience.
"No, no previous experience with children. Of course, I was one once, ha ha ha. Just an out-of-work actor who happens to like kids."
The questions droned on and on. He answered until he started to get hoarse. As they talked he kept smiling, waving to departing customers.
"I've just got another couple of questions. You've never said exactly where you're from, Mr. Williams."
He returned his smiling attention to his inquisitor, the stupid fucking bitch!
Billy hunted with the fervor of a distraught puppy for some way out other than that door.
Again and again he tried to jump up and grab the edge of the opening through which he'd dropped. Each leap caused agony, but a corner kept brushing the tips of his fingers.
He was hampered not only by the pain but also by his handcuffs. Twisting, pulling, he tried to squeeze out.
His mind raced with excuses. "Barton I fell in, Barton the trapdoor was just opened, Barton it was an accident, Barton please don't do anything to me, Barton, don't tell her!"
Finally he had to stop. He was out of breath and his buttocks just plain hurt too much.
Again he approached the steel door. "God, if you're real remember I got born, I'm alive, I'm down here—"
Tears were blinding him. When he tried to brush them away the salt of his sweat stung his eyes.
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaws cracked, but he put his two hands on the knob. This time he turned it.
The door moved smoothly, opening away from a thickly padded jamb. Billy had the impression that the door was extremely heavy, more like something that belonged on a safe than in a basement.
Inside was like a starless night.
What was this place, and what was that smell?
Barton wanted time to take a quick run up to the house. His little escape artiste was a caution and a worry. Timmy was rough trade, but at least he could be counted on to be there when you got back. Rough trade and rather stupid—coarse, to be frank— but still, the heart misses that which is familiar.
He was due to start the next show in less than an hour. Damn the reporter, damn them all! "We just love Uncle Squiggly!" Gush, gush, gush.
"Richie, look at this!" Gina opened the register. She was speaking in a whisper because the store was still jammed.
Barton stared dully into the cash register. It was packed with money. "Nice," he said. "Look, I want to take a run over to my apartment." He had been careful to really rent the dump in Los Feliz. But he never went there. The point was, nobody must know about his house. The secret-life aspect of things was usually part of the fun, but it could get wearing at times.
"You can't go now, you'll be late for the next show!"
"No, I—"
Gina held up her watch. Barton was appalled. He'd been stuck with the reporter longer than he realized, and the enormous joke watch he wore as Uncle Squiggly kept lousy time.
"Gina, I have to!"
"You can't!"
"Gina, I think I left the oven on!"
"Ovens can stay on all day, otherwise how would we cook turkeys, Richie dear? You stay here. I cannot imagine what I'd do with a crowd of preschoolers who were all keyed up for you. They'd tear the place apart!"
He glared at her. She glared right back.
The dim light from the trapdoor barely penetrated this far. Billy was cringing, waiting for her to come leaping out of the blackness.
But he didn't hear any breathing now. Maybe he'd been the only one breathing. That had to be it, because there wasn't anybody in here now.
Except there was something on the floor. It glowed white, but it didn't move. He went down on all fours, began crawling toward it. The thing was all twisty, like a piece of cloth would be, but it was also lumpy. It looked almost solid.
Finally he could touch it. He reached out, felt it with quick fingers. It wasn't solid, it was stringy. He picked it up, felt it.
It was hair. He fingered it more carefully. Inside there was stiff netting, and it smelled like glue. Hair you glue on is a wig, like that purple wig Sally wore Halloween before last when she went as a punk.
The wig was yucky and he dropped it into the gloom. There was still white stuff over there. He looked at the pale mass. Was it a sheet?
The moment he touched the fabric he knew that it was her white silk dress. He looked up. Above this part of the basement must be Barton's bedroom.
So this dress and this wig—he thought of her pudgy hands, her stocky form stuffe
d into the flimsy dress, her hard eyes.
"Oh, no," he whispered. "Please, no."
Being trapped like this was hideous. He hated these people, but there was no escape, he simply could not get away. When he got back to the house he was going to march that kid straight down and strap him to the table. Then you just close the door and forget it. No more worries.
"Oh, is this your dolly you're holding out to me?"
"She wants Miffie to go in the Squiggle Box," the mother said, all laughter and twinkling eyes.
"Oh, poor Miffie, she'd be so scared!"
"She's only a dolly. She's made out of plastic. My brother chewed her foot and she didn't mind."
He tried to retreat around the counter, but now there was a little boy there, trying to reach the intentionally tempting display of gourmet lollipops Gina had set up. "They cost me twenty-eight cents apiece, dahling. And look at the tags." You could get coconut, vanilla bean, root beer, cola—for a dollar fifty apiece.
"Want one," the child announced.
"We're going now," his mother replied, picking him up.
"Uncle Squiggly, give me one."
The hell. Gina'd take the buck fifty right out of his share.
"Your mommy says it's time to go." Smile, smile, smile. He pictured Billy digging at the edges of the window, picking the lock, pulling out the grating that covered the vent in the bathroom ceiling.
Get me the hell out of here!
Another kid: "I want an autograph!"
OK, sure, sure, sure.
"I want to kiss you, Uncle Squiggly!"
My made-up cheek?
"But I need a lollipop, Uncle Squiggly!"
"Your mommy says no!" Why don't you just take him out the door, you foolish bitch. Smile, smile, smile.
"But I won't eat it, I'll just hold it!" Screws up face, takes deep breath, screams like he was being tortured with hot pincers.
Finally the mother retreats, her shrieking creature in her arms.
Yet more children came crowding around him. And the reporter was back, hovering at the edge of the crowd, obviously being just simply tormented by one last question.
He hated them all, in general and in detail. They were his captors, the evil, stinking swine.
But he smiled from ear to ear, clapped his hands and uttered a high, piercing laugh to get attention. "Bye bye," he shrilled. "Bye bye everybody!"
Came a chorus of tiny voices: "Bye, Uncle Squiggly!"
At last they began leaving in earnest. The reporter still hovered at the edge of the retreating crowd, but she was going to be dismissed with a claim of laryngitis.
He could escape.
But yet another diminutive grinning face was thrust at him. "Oh-h-h, what a big boy! You must be at least fifty-teen!" Smile, smile, smile.
Another couple of kids behind him, another couple of minutes. Then he was making his run, no matter what.
If he was late for the next show, so be it. This was about survival, he could smell it. You better be damn careful, Billy, you vicious little scumbag!
If there was a light in here the only way Billy was going to find it was by feeling along the wall. He swept the rough cinder-block surface with his cuffed hands, moving step by step deeper into the room. The doorway was now a faint gray outline in the black.
Billy's hands brushed something, which swung back and forth, making a grating sound against the wall. He touched it again, gingerly, feeling a substantial handle. His fingers felt along, and soon came to metal. Yes, and a very particular type of toothed blade. He realized that this was a saw. Something tough and dry adhered to some of the teeth. He rolled bits of it off in his fingers, but could not identify it.
Was this a tool room? Surely a tool room would have a light. All along the wall he found other tools: there was something with a metal tip and a long cord that he thought might be an old-fashioned soldering iron. He felt also something he recognized from upstairs: the pincers that had been soaking in the kitchen sink. They were smooth and clean now.
Then he found an object he could not at first identify by feel. He touched the weave of its handle, following this down to a clutch of leather strips. Something stabbed his left index finger and he snatched his hand back. He sucked his finger, tasted the salt of his own blood.
As lightly as he could, he touched the spot again. There was a small metallic object tied to the end of the thong. It had an almost familiar feel to it. It was a curved hook with a tooth on it.
All of the thongs ended with a fish hook.
When Billy realized that this was a whip he leapt back—and slammed into a piece of furniture that dominated the center of the room.
He turned around, feeling frantically. This was a wooden bed—no, too high. It was a table. The instant he felt the straps he knew what this place was for.
"Momma, it's a dungeon!''
For all its problems, Los Angeles was a lovely city. The way it shone at night like an ocean of stars, and the way it was now, kissed by that tart Pacific breeze, wreathed in flowers, the hills shining, water running down the gutters along Ridgeway—for all its problems, Los Angeles enjoyed a special connection to heaven.
As the Celica labored up the hills, Barton watched the peaceful day life of the neighborhood. There a Mexican gardener was lovingly tending a trellis of climbing roses, and there an ancient lady was walking her silly little dog. The big floppy hat and old-fashioned cake makeup marked her as old Hollywood. Probably a founding member of the Extras Union.
He had triumphed this morning—or Uncle Squiggly had. It had been a fine show, and this afternoon's would be even better. He was going to gain some minor celebrity, too, with the article in L.A. Style. They wouldn't be cruel, and he felt more confident that the reporter wasn't going to check into Richie Williams's background too closely. Why bother? As far as Gina and the rest of the world were concerned, he was just another out-of-work actor. Richie held a card in the Extras Union.
He turned the last corner, pressed the gas pedal and began to ascend the last hill.
As Billy leaned over the table, feeling the straps, understanding exactly what it was, he felt something gently touch the top of his head. It went swinging away, then came back again. He grabbed the edge of a light fixture, felt the socket, the bulb. And here was the switch.
A moment later the room was flooded with a white glare that made Billy squint.
Here was the saw, here the soldering iron with a caked, black tip, the pincers polished and clean, the whip. A big knife lay on the table with some brown-stained paper towels partly covering its blade.
Then Billy saw that there was another, smaller room to one side. A bead curtain hung in front of its door. Behind the curtain there was a stack of at least a dozen black plastic lawn and leaf bags, all of them elaborately sealed with duct tape.
They gleamed in the harsh light, and when he approached them he smelled a musty odor, like the time he found that dead rat under the furnace.
The room was deeper than he thought, and stuffed with the bags. There were more than a dozen. He touched one of them, finding it to be much more sturdy than a lawn and leaf bag. He pulled at the plastic, but it was far too thick to tear.
Billy took the knife and slit the nearest of the bags.
The odor that came out was completely unexpected in its revolting intensity. Billy had never smelled anything so totally dead. More than just a smell, it was an actual gas, thick and moist, pouring deep into his sinuses.
A nut-colored fist dropped down from the hole. Within the bag Billy saw the hollow shadow of a face.
At that moment a shaft of light poured down on him, overpowering even the wildly swinging fixture. Billy looked up in terror and in awe. For one vivid second he thought maybe it was the light of God.
Barton said: "You're already down there. Good!"
He descended the ladder from his bedroom with startling speed, sweeping down like an angel from the radiance above.
30.
Sometimes Mark N
eary felt that all of his adult life he had been watching things die. He was now deep in the era that his radical youth had called the future.
But even as his hopes for the social body had faded, he had witnessed a glorious and secret increase. This was the growth of his children.
Before they were born, he'd had no notion of the true importance and scale of human souls. Nor had he known about helpless love, that cannot deny and cannot end. This kind of love persisted forever, and so did the relationships that emerged from it. Thus even if the child was lost, he persisted in the heart of the parent, frozen in the beauty of his life.
The neighborhood they searched was choked by dry and highly flammable brush and jammed with flimsy houses. It was so insanely appropriate that this place existed in the most geologically unstable place in North America. He could imagine the stilts snapping and the great houses tumbling over and over into the gullies and canyons, and then everything bursting into flames.
And yet children played, expensive cars whispered past, and the faces behind the windshields were bland.
He drove on, obedient to his daughter's crisp voice. Mary sat in the back, her eyes closed, exhausted by the ordeal of her own time behind the wheel.
"Take a left, then go up the hill."
"Heads up, Mary. We're about to rise to another possibility."
The house was maddeningly similar to many of the others they'd seen. The blank garage door faced the street, there was a dry patch of lawn.
Mary gasped.
"What?"
"A blue Mercedes."
It stood in the driveway of a multitiered, modern house on their left. For a moment Mark watched the shimmer of heat rising from its body. Then he looked back to the much smaller house at the end of the street.
All the windows on the front were closed by blinds. The garage door did not have a window in it at all.
"I'm going to have a closer look," Mark said.
"Be careful, honey."
Hardly aware of her voice, he got out of the car. Surveying the scene, he was fairly sure that Billy wasn't here. The empty street, the silent house—there was a sense of dry rot in the air, as if the place was home to the dead.
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