"That's the sixty-four-dollar question. We've got the idea that the guy was going to California. This isn't exactly a deduction. Fifteen is the road to L.A. We've made inquiries at all the gas stations from here to the border, and we sent a request to the California State Police that they do the same. But that's a hell of a lot of stations. They'll get it done, though. They'll take your kid's picture with them."
They were trying, and they were trying hard. The trouble was the damned statistics. Kids just don't make it out of the kind of predicament Billy was in.
Barton Royal. Toddcaster wished it rang some sort of bell. He looked at the driver's license photograph, distorted as it was by the fax. Was this the same man who'd been driving the Aerostar?
That he could find out. He would ask California to send a better print to Nevada where they had that witness. The guy was scheduled to do an IdentiKit on Saturday morning, so he must have gotten a pretty good look at the man.
Then he made another call, this time to the Nevada State Police Division of Investigation. As he talked with Lieutenant Davis he faxed the California report through. They would both call Sacramento and get sharper pictures.
Toddcaster knew exactly what he was going to do with his: he'd have it shown to Billy's friends, then walked to every place the child had been on Saturday. If the face was Barton Royal's, and Barton Royal was the man carrying the license, they would get a positive from somebody.
His guess was that little Jerry Edwards would make the identification. It was highly likely that the man who had played RPM with Billy was Royal.
Deceased October 12, 1985.
It might just be possible to convince the state you were dead, if you knew what you were doing. He thought about it. You'd have to stop using your own name. And yet Royal had pulled out this license.
So he'd killed himself off and now had another identity. He'd have been scared to death when he was stopped by the Iowa State Police. So he used the Royal license, knowing that it would lead to this dead end.
The man was smart. In more ways than one, that was bad news. The smarter the crazy, the meaner. Toddcaster's Law.
At eleven p.m. Mark's phone rang, drawing him out of heavy, exhausted sleep. It was Toddcaster. "How'd you find me?"
"I'm a detective. Listen, we might have made the abductor. He might be a man named Barton Royal, carrying a California driver's license, driving an Aerostar with a Utah plate that we have also made. There are a few details to clear up. But we have a picture. I want you to look at it."
"You want me to come back?"
"Nah, the Nevada State Police have a copy. You be at that IdentiKit session tomorrow morning. You look at the picture."
"But I never saw the guy."
"You don't know that. Just look at the picture. We're gonna have every kid Billy was with that day look at it. We're gonna shop it at random around the mall and at the Burger King and see if we can't hit paydirt."
"What about Mary?"
"I haven't told her yet. I was saving that for you."
To save money Mark and Mary had decided to limit their communications except in emergencies.
She answered on the first ring, her voice singing with tension. When Mark gave her the news she cried silently. "I wish we could hold each other."
"Me too, darling."
"I have hope, Mark. Is that a mistake? I'm so afraid it is."
How could he answer? There was no reason to remind her of the statistics. She knew the statistics. "It's never a mistake to hope," he said. It sounded lame. He longed to tell her about the blood, but he forced himself to keep silent.
A moment later they had said goodbye. He was alone again. He wanted desperately to sleep, but there was no way he was going to wait until morning to look at the picture. He was going into Las Vegas right now. What if he had seen the man, what if his identification was critical?
Mark got back into his car and drove off. Now he would see the glaring lights, the city of electric pleasure. But he wouldn't participate, not the exhausted man in the gray car, looking for State Police Headquarters.
They'd told him it would be easy to find: no neon.
22.
Because things were getting a little bit normal Billy wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.
Barton was dancing around the kitchen as he prepared supper, with Billy standing in the door watching. He swept across the small space and kissed him on the top of the head. "How about giving a helping hand, son? We're both going to enjoy it, after all."
Billy did what he was told. At home he could conceivably enjoy helping. He had learned to cook steak like his dad did, and his dad was an expert. The only kitchen stuff that disgusted him at home were chewed gristle on the edge of plates and sinks full of goopy water.
Even though it was slightly cleaner than it had been at first, this whole kitchen totally disgusted him. At least the big pot with the tongs and the floating bits was gone, and the dirty dishes had been put in the dishwasher.
"You'll be amazed at what I can do with chicken nuggets," Barton announced, pulling a box out of his grocery bag. "Incredible things, my boy."
Billy still hoped, however forlornly, for the police to show up in response to his call to the operator. That had been so scary and so hard. He was pretty sure, though, that they were never coming.
Damn them! Why didn't anybody want to help him, anyway? The police were just as dumb as the people in the car when they had the wreck. Nobody cared.
He told God that he would gladly go to hell if only he didn't have to stay here.
"What you have to do, dearest, is just take this knife like this and—see?" With a butter knife he pried one of the chicken nuggets out of the frozen lump.
Clumsily, Billy took the knife with his cuffed hands.
"If you weren't such an escape artist we wouldn't have to use those things." Barton spoke in the happy-scoldy singsong Billy's math teacher used when the class was loud.
"I'm sorry." As he worked separating the nuggets with the dull knife he decided that the only hope he had left was to somehow call home. Fat chance he'd ever get into Barton's bedroom on his own.
Barton ruffled his hair. "Very nicely done," he said, collecting the pile of chicken. He was happy with Billy now, but what about the way he'd smiled when he held that rope? Barton enjoyed the bad stuff, too.
Just as the jacket had disappeared from the floor of the closet, the rope had disappeared from the coffee table. But they both still existed, and Billy knew exactly where they were: under the house, in the blackness he'd glimpsed when he opened the trap in the closet.
"This is going to be delish! I'm telling you Billy boy, when your dad gets into a kitchen, wonderful things happen!"
What kind of a fool goes to all this trouble with frozen chicken nuggets? All you had to do was heat them in the microwave, it said so right on the box.
Barton tossed the nuggets into an ancient food processor with chopped celery, a can of mushrooms and a can of pearl onions. Then he turned it on, using Half & Half to liquefy the mess. The nuggets danced and rattled. Soon the whole thing was a sort of gray-green slop.
What did he think he was doing? He opened the food processor and tasted the unbelievably gukky ik inside with a wooden spoon. "Mmm!"
"Smells really good, Barton."
"Taste?"
Billy lifted his lips, showed his teeth. Did it look like a smile? He hoped it did. He tried to sound all happy: "I want to wait till after it's cooked. I want to be surprised!"
Barton thrust the spoon into his face. It took iron discipline for Billy to touch his lips to the stuff. It didn't actually taste horrible. It was kind of bland. But it sure did look like upchuck. "Good," he mumbled.
He watched Barton's back as he poured the slops into a skillet full of hot olive oil. There was a lot of steam. Barton giggled as it wreathed his face. Billy thought he'd better laugh, too. The snicker he managed was sharp and ugly, and Barton half-turned, a question in his face. When he saw
Billy's smile, though, he relaxed and went back to his cooking.
The knife was still in Billy's hands. He could easily plunge it into Barton's back—if only it wasn't a butter knife. The most he would manage was to make Barton mad again.
Even though it wasn't cold he started to shiver. The air touching his skin had a deadness in it, the deadness of Barton. Barton was drinking wine from a huge glass as he sailed around in the stinking smoke from the stove. When he kissed his forehead again Billy smelled a gust of his breath, which was so strong it overpowered even the smell of the cooking. Nothing in his experience had ever smelled like that. It might have been an exhalation from the grave. Billy had to suck in his gut to overcome the flutters in his stomach. Mom always said rotting teeth gave you bad breath. But Barton smelled like he was drinking acetone nail polish remover like you used to clean off instant-bonding glue.
"Do you know how to use a grater?"
"Sure."
"You were a real helper at home, weren't you?"
Billy saw a chance to help himself. "I am at home, Barton."
Barton's smile was so big it was painful to see. "Yes," he said, "yes, indeed." He held out some carrots. "Can you grate these, please, son?"
"Sure." He ought to say "dad" but it was too much, he couldn't do it.
Carrot salad. Sally always claimed the raisins in it looked like roaches. With this guy they would probably be roaches.
As Billy grated he thought about how to find out more from Barton. If he was going to call home, he had to be able to tell them where he was. He didn't even know the address, except that it was Beverly Hills. Or rather, probably Beverly Hills. That was the only "Hills" he knew about in Los Angeles.
He did not know how to question people, especially not people who didn't want to answer the questions. Presumably you did it like the cops on TV, or like the Gestapo with a big light in their face.
"What's your favorite movie, Barton?"
Barton became suddenly very still. "Cabaret," he said in a suspicious voice.
"I didn't see it. Where'd you go to college?"
"I was too free a spirit for that, I'm afraid. I spent a year in Europe. Mostly I lived in Rome. I love Rome."
"The Vatican is in Rome."
"I lived in a little pensione behind the Pantheon. I used to go inside it all the time, just to walk those floors, smell the air, enjoy the magnificence."
"I know the names of all twelve Caesars. Dad and Mom have the Satyricon."
"God, I loved the Satyricon!"
"Which translation did you read?"
"It's a movie, son. Brilliant!"
"So you went from Rome to Beverly Hills?"
"The Hollywood Hills, please."
Oh, wow, this was neat! This was really very neat! What a wild technique! It was like spies would really do and he'd thought it up all by himself.
"Now, my dear, we eat!"
Billy tried to pretend that munchkins were inside his stomach lining it with steel. It didn't work very well. If he vomited, Barton was sure to get crazy. But the flutters had turned to nausea. He sweated, struggling to contain himself.
"You look worried. Are you a finicky eater? I wanted to be one, but that just was not allowed in the Royal household. If you don't eat what's on your plate, you can just starve! No, just kidding. I'll go out and get you a pizza if this doesn't do it for you. There's a lovely pizza place down on Sunset, it's quite pleasant. Do you like pizza?"
So they were near a street called Sunset. Duly noted. "I can eat it." Dealing with Barton was like walking on spring ice. If you kept your balance, OK. But if you fell you broke through and that was that.
" 'I can eat it.' That's what I call enthusiasm! What's the matter, do I have BO? You keep pulling back when I get near you. Do you realize that?" He gave an annoyed sigh. "I want us to like each other. And I think we can. Yes, in time. Now sit down and we'll eat. This is called skillet chicken, it's an old family favorite of the Royals."
The fried slops looked like a giant scab and smelled like a cigar butt.
The carrot salad was just carrots and mayonnaise. He'd forgotten the raisins completely and the mayo was sour.
To drink there was something called Valpolicella, a wine in a bottle with a basket around it. Billy had never tasted wine and didn't particularly want to start. Like Barton's, though, his wineglass was huge. Where had he gotten these bathtubs— from a clown supply store?
Billy watched miserably as Barton cut off a slice of the chicken scab and slid it onto his plate. It was followed by a gob of carrot salad delivered via ice-cream scoop. Then came the wine, sluicing into the glass with sickening gurgles.
The meal proceeded. Barton "oohed" and "ahhed" with every bite, closing his eyes to concentrate on the incredible deliciousness of the flavors. Billy found that the fried slops turned to mush in his mouth. He put them as far back on his tongue as he could and swallowed each bite hard. The only way to cut the flavor was with the wine, which tasted like turpentine. Billy decided that he would rather lick the floor of the latrine at camp than eat this meal.
Thinking about licking latrine floors would do nothing to lessen his nausea. He was not a master upchucker like Joey Mox who could projectile-vomit on demand, but he was capable of making himself pretty sick when he wanted to. Only he didn't want to! He had to cut this out. No latrines. Instead he thought of a beautiful ham sandwich with fresh lettuce and mayonnaise and French's mustard, which he dearly loved. He would have his with a Dr Pepper and then go totally brain-dead watching Duck Tales on TV.
Dad and Mom did not allow much ordinary television. They watched Masterpiece Theatre, which was fine during the occasional nanosecond that it wasn't totally boring. He and Sally would sometimes sneak down late at night and watch Dario Argento horror movies on Chiller Theatre. That and Fu Manchu, Sally loved the old Fu Manchu movies. Billy preferred the Peter Sellers version where the British agent Dr. Neyland Smith pushed a lawnmower at all times.
All of a sudden he was about to cry because Peter Sellers was dead.
He couldn't do that, not when Barton was so happy. He imagined that there was an iron rod going straight up through his body, and it was connected to the strongest place in the world. He blew his nose on his napkin in order to cover the tears.
"I'd like to propose a toast!" Barton got to his feet. He was in his glory, face flushed, gleaming with sweat. His smile was ear-to-ear and so fixed it looked painted on.
He looked at Billy with melting eyes. "To the very finest young man I have ever had the privilege of knowing. To you, Billy." He held out his glass.
Billy's glass felt like it weighed at least ten pounds. Carefully, so that his chained hands would not drop it, he lifted it from the tabletop.
Barton clinked glasses. Billy stayed still.
23.
Walter and Mary were sitting in her kitchen.
"We've got a tough problem with this guy, Mary. We know his name, we know what he's driving, we even know the fact that his car is registered in Utah and he travels on a California license. But we can't find him, although we strongly suspect he's in L.A. because of the route he took."
Walter's way of telling you something made you wait. Mary hated that. She knew that there was nothing she could do but keep listening and hope he'd land on the point soon.
"As far as California is concerned, the bastard is dead. What this means is, he's living publicly under another name. When he's in danger he pulls out his real ID, which makes as a deceased. It's a damned clever wrinkle."
Absently, she twisted a piece of Kleenex she had in her hand until it was reduced to little, rolled-up bits. She wanted to scream, to throw things, to hit. But she was wiser now in the ways of her rage.
"Have you told Mark?" It was so hard to have him out doing things while she just sat. The nights were long, the days were long, and she and Sally were getting on each other's nerves. The poor girl was scared it would happen to her, too—and in a curious way ashamed that it hadn't.
> "That gets me to the good news. And it's very good."
"Why didn't you tell me right away!"
"No, I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm just on edge." He pulled a piece of paper out of his briefcase. "This is the man that kidnapped Billy."
Mary took the picture in her hands. Before her was a pudgy man with wide-set eyes and thick, sensuous lips. The nose was broad, the brows were light and curved in such a way that the eyes looked back with startling innocence. It was not an adult countenance. Barton Royal looked like a very sad little boy who had weathered.
"The IdentiKit done by the Nevada witness fit this picture very closely. So did the one done by the trooper who stopped him out in Neola."
"But here's the kicker." He dropped an acetate sheet over the photograph, and suddenly Barton Royal was wearing dark glasses. "Jerry Edwards says this is definitely the guy who played RPM with Billy."
"Is this implying—did Billy know —"
"He was just a guy in the arcade. Billy showed no evidence of knowing him."
"But they played—why?"
"The guy asked Billy for a game."
She looked at the picture, trying to imagine this man with her son. She thought of him stalking Billy, of him coming through these very rooms that night, of him standing right here in the living room. This man, with his sensuous lips and his big, baby eyes, had been here. He had carried Billy out of the house in his arms.
"Barton Royal, present age forty-four."
"We can have this picture?"
Walter handed it to her. "It's yours. We're going to use it, too. The FBI's put Royal on their 'most wanted' list, which changes everything. Now that they have a name, an identity, things are going to get much hotter for your man. This poster will go up at every 'wanted' location in the U.S. We're also going to put Billy's picture on the poster."
Hope flowered in her heart, followed at once by questing impatience. She was so emotionally fragile that any news— good or bad—brought tears. Carefully, she regarded her lap, smoothed her dress. She wished to display only the calm, efficient exterior that she liked and trusted. The gushing, mercurial Mary Neary she had found inside herself was not reliable.