"So it's really a huge area we have to cover." Mark threw himself back down on the bed.
"No," Sally said. " 'Near Ridgeway.' If we're lucky that might be enough."
Three minutes later they were in the car. Mary drove, Sally navigated.
"Just keep on Hollywood. When it crosses Laurel Canyon it changes to another kind of street."
It did. Mary had never seen anything quite like this crazy labyrinth of little streets, with every intersection hidden around another curve. The car didn't much like the hills, either.
"King's Road," Sally said. "Go slow, Ridgeway's the next one to the right."
"This is Queen's Road."
"Take a right anyway."
Mary saw it. Ridgeway. Billy was probably within a mile of this precise spot. She turned onto the street almost on two wheels, slammed the gearbox into first and gunned the motor to climb the steep hill.
"Next street's a dead end," Sally said. Her voice was tense. She was so involved in the map she practically never even looked out. "Take a right," she said quickly.
"I can feel him," Mary said.
"There," Mark said. "That's a house that fits."
Mary was so stunned she didn't downshift as the incline steepened, and killed the engine. The car lurched along on the starter until she threw it into neutral. By then it was flooded and they had to wait.
The house was just where it should be, at the end of the street. There was a garage to one side, then a wall beneath what was probably a bathroom window. Next came the front door, and beside it a larger window completely blocked by a shade. Beyond that was a wing that must contain a bedroom.
Most telling, there was a small brown car parked in front. "Is that a Celica?" Mary asked.
"Toyota, certainly," Mark replied.
"It's a Mazda 626, Daddy."
Mary looked at the house, imagining her son just behind the windows. "He's there," she said.
She compelled herself to be very calm now, very methodical. Again she tried the car. This time it started. She drove up to the house.
Mark looked at her. She looked back. Sally asked the question that remained unspoken between them. "What do we do?"
"We've got to get in there, obviously."
"I knew we'd end up in this situation." Mark's tone expressed his uncertainty most eloquently.
Mary brushed it off, anger in her voice. "Obviously he doesn't know what we look like. We invent a pretext."
"That isn't obvious at all, Mother. He was in the house. For all we know, he took good looks at all three of us."
"We break in, then," Mark said.
Mary demurred. "If he hears us or sees us, Billy's dead. Maybe all of us are dead."
"Look, you two, I think it should be completely simple. I go up to the house. I say my bike broke down, I need to use the phone. Then I'm in."
She was a brave child and that was an absolutely horrifying idea. "That gets us nowhere, except then he'll have both our kids."
"I can take care of myself, Mom!"
"Trained police go into houses like that in flak jackets."
"Billy's in there, we all know it!"
"If we did this—and that is an if, honey—the way we go about it is, you get evidence. That's all you do. Anything in the house that looks suspicious—if you see anything you know belongs to Billy, or if you hear him—"
"Mark, she must not go in that house! Never!"
"What if I see him?"
"You ignore him."
"No, I know that. I mean, what about his reaction?"
"That's a problem, all right."
"But Daddy, he's in that house. I know it!"
"I'll do it," Mary announced. She got out of the car and started up the front walk. She would say they'd broken down and needed to use the phone. Given the heap they were in, it was perfectly believable.
The morning sun bore down on her. Overhead the sky had turned deep blue. The beauty of the day was painful to see.
She was almost in a trance of fear when she rang the doorbell. Instantly a small dog began barking, a sound as raucous as a Cuisinart cutting up block Parmesan.
The door swept open. A truly ancient woman stood there, her face very sweet and very wrinkled.
"May I help you?"
"I—we—the car—"
"Yes?"
"We've broken down. I need to call a garage."
The woman fixed her with faded green eyes. Mary tried to smile. Realizing that she was twisting her fingers together, she put her hands down to her sides, then to cover the suddenness of the motion pretended to brush off her skirt.
"I can let you use the phone," the woman said, opening the door more widely. "It's no problem."
Mary stepped into the foyer. The interior of the house was dim, and she knew at once that they'd been wrong. There was a living room, but the view was of a brushy canyon and other houses on the hillside beyond.
Also, Billy surely wouldn't have forgotten to mention the ridiculous Pekinese that came squabbling and snuffling up to her, its whole body wagging.
"It's in the kitchen, dear," the woman said. She smiled. "I was making Bundt for my daughter."
"It smells wonderful," Mary said, but her voice broke and she could say no more. Without another sound she rushed out of the house and returned to the car, leaving the woman standing perplexed in her doorway.
"It's the wrong house."
"How do you know?"
"It's the wrong house, Mark! We're going."
She started the car. Back in the doorway the elderly woman muttered, "It fixed itself." Smiling, she returned to her baking.
The little car moved away down the sunny street.
29.
Barton burst into Tiny Tales and threw his arms around Gina. "Oh baby, baby, I'm so damn sorry!"
"Richie, stop it."
She was standing near the register in that blue and white checked dress of hers. It was far too young for Gina. It stated in clearest terms that her youth was at the bottom of a closet. Her dark hair was swept up around her skillfully porcelainized face.
"You look so utterly, utterly extraordinary, Gina dear."
"Richie, where were you?"
"I told you, I got sick on Maui.
It was simply the most horrible thing. You know that kahuna I was supposed to meet?"
"He called me about you. You never showed up. You never even called."
"I was just wrapped up in blankets in the motel room the entire time. I absolutely could not move, could not think. I've never been so sick in my life!"
Gina folded her arms. "You disappear all the time, Richie. I told you in June—"
"That was a death in the family, you can't hold me responsible!" He adopted an elaborate pout.
The slightest of smiles played across Gina's lips, and Barton knew he would win yet again.
"OK, Richie, you always come back with some lame excuse. For a week I can't even get your answering machine and it turns out you were putting your mother in a nursing home in Anaheim. And that room of yours in Los Feliz—God, every time you disappear I think you've been mugged to death."
Barton put on the saddest, silliest most hangdog expression he could muster. "That room is what I can afford." He batted his eyes. "This is an expensive town and Richie is not a wealthy man, despite his name." He did his imitation of Stan Laurel in trouble with Ollie.
It took a full minute, but the flicker finally broadened into a real smile. "I do have some rather good news."
He clapped his hands, gave a little jump.
"You might earn enough money today to move to West Hollywood because we have a hundred and fifty-three reservations!"
This was good news. A hundred and fifty-three kids at five dollars a head—that was a good day's money, no two ways about it.
"Uncle Squiggly is becoming a hit, Richard dear."
Gina's tone told him that apologies and acceptances were over. Barton could drop the act. "He sure as hell is."
"Steph
anie Strauss is bringing her little boy, and that means more heavy-duty Hollywood mommies are just behind."
"This is extremely exciting."
"Here's the icing on the cake. L.A. Style is doing a write-up on the store. And you are the featured subject."
He felt the blood slowly drain out of his face. He'd wanted Uncle Squiggly to be a success, but he had not counted on something like this. L.A. Style went in for lots of big, glossy pictures.
But that was OK. He'd be in his Uncle Squiggly makeup.
Then he thought: the reporter would certainly check his record. L.A. Style often did wrecking jobs. They'd love to print a story about how West Hollywood's favorite children's entertainer was a mystery man living under an alias.
"Richie Williams" was at best thinly constructed. The ID would never hold up under professional scrutiny. He was little more than a Social Security number and a couple of lousy credit cards.
Barton started back to the stockroom to put on his face.
"What about the store," Gina called after him. "Don't you think the store's lovely?"
There were new displays of books everywhere, ranging from Bill Peet's delightful stories for tots to Judy Blume and John Bellairs for the older children. There were tables stacked with books, shelves of books, reading nooks in various themes: the Dinosaur Nook, the Fire Truck Nook, Home Sweet Nook, Uncle Squiggly's Squigglenook, all appropriately decorated.
"Really great, Gina. Really!"
The stockroom was dark and hidden away behind a door covered with bookshelves.
Barton liked it best with the lights out.
The moment he heard Barton's car start, Billy had raised the corner of the blinds. He watched the Celica back down the driveway, pull out and leave. For a long time, he observed the neighborhood. Nothing much happened, but he didn't stop, couldn't; he was hypnotized by his own longing.
He was also waiting for somebody.
Momma had said they would come. Momma told him.
The blue Mercedes sat in its driveway. Nobody came or went in the other houses. The street remained empty.
"Momma," he said aloud. The sound of his own anger brought him a little strength. "Where are they," he shouted. "Momma, you said! Where are they!"
Then he thought: 'That woman! What if that woman's in here listening? She'll hear me yell, she'll be in here with the whip!'
No. If she had heard him, she would have come in instantly. He'd be getting it right now.
Still, he crept to his door and listened. There was nothing except water dripping in the kitchen. That reminded him he was hungry. Barton had been mean not to give him any breakfast. He might not get any food all day.
Or ever again—he might not get any food ever again!
He had to get out of here and he couldn't!
Oh, wait a second. Of course he could! He made a rush toward the closet. It still hurt to move, though, and he quickly slowed down. He put his hand on the cool glass doorknob, slowly turned it, opened the door. He stepped inside, bent painfully, then opened the hidden entrance to the basement.
The darkness within was absolute.
* * *
"Now is there anybody here who's at least sixty-teen y-e-e-ears old!"
They roared as one: "NO!"
"What, nobody's sixty-teen years old?" He looked at the mothers, mock horror on his face. "Why did you bring me all these little teenie tiny tinsie tootsie cutesies?" And he thought, 'They paid five bucks for this,' and laughed within. "They aren't even sixty-teen yet!"
"I'm sixty-teen," one little girl announced.
"Uh-ho," Barton crowed, sweeping her up into his arms. "What is your name, Miss Sixty-Teen?"
"Sukie."
"Sukie Tawdry," he muttered to himself. Her blond ringlets bobbed. She looked very, very serious. "You know what we do to bad little girls, don't you, Sukie?"
She wriggled and giggled and stared at the Squiggle Box, which was the whole point of the show.
Nobody knew what went on inside it. This was a comedy suspense routine for the Mairsie Doats set. Children adore suspense.
Would Sukie be the first ever to get put in the Squiggle Box?
Barton looked around the room. "We'll take a vote! Is Sukie really sixty-teen years old? Who says—NO-O-O!" They roared, they went wild, the ones who'd been up in the past yelled with eager delight.
"Sukie, do you know what this means?" Barton said. He was very serious now.
Sukie was giggling so much she couldn't talk. Barton took her over to the big box covered with red wrapping paper. Now Sukie was laughing, but Barton knew to be careful. The wee people were very sensitive.
Barton pushed the yellow frownie-faced button on the Squiggle Box. It emitted an enormous roar and all the kids screamed.
"Do you want to go in, Miss Sixty-Teen-Year-Old Sukie?"
"YES!" all the kids shouted.
Sukie shook her head very, very hard.
Barton looked around in confusion. "But Sukie says NO-O-O!" He whispered to her, "I won't put you in."
"I know, Uncle Squiggly," she said, and kissed him.
Her kiss was moist, and her skin had a lovely, milky smell.
Billy peered into the dark, damp-smelling hole. How far down was it? If he jumped in he might fall forever and ever and ever. Or he might fall ten feet and not be able to get back out. He was afflicted by what was truly an agony of uncertainty. He'd called Momma hours and hours ago. Nobody ever came for him! Nobody!
But that wasn't true, Momma cared about him! She sure sounded like it even when she got mad because he didn't want to quit talking to her.
Maybe if he could get into the basement this way, he could get out by another door, and then he could call Momma and talk as long as he wanted. They could even trace the call, like they did in detective movies.
He sat on the edge, his legs dangling into the darkness.
He hated the dark.
"Now let's see, maybe if I put my hand in the Squiggle Box—" He nudged the button and got another big roar from inside. The kids fell silent. As often as some of them had seen this, the doubt always captured them. "Uh-oh," Barton said in reaction to the roar. He yanked his hand back as if it had been burned. "Sukie," he said plaintively, "would you just put your pinkie in the Squiggle Box?" He pressed the button again.
"Why does the Squiggle only roar when you push the button?" a voice called from the crowd.
Now, that was smart. "Who-o-o said tha-at?" Barton cried. He saw a delightful little boy with a sly smile on his face. "It was you, wasn't it?" In a few years this boy would stop the heart, such would be his beauty.
"Yeth!" He was one of the oldest, perhaps six or seven.
"What's your name?"
"Christopher!"
Barton said to Sukie, "Will you go and get Christopher and bring him up here? I think we need a little haaalp!"
The boy said, "Uh-ho."
"Y'know," Barton said to the crowd as Sukie very importantly strutted down and got Christopher, "sometimes a boy Chris's size comes out of the Squiggle Box in one piece! But it's a very, very, VERY small piece!" As he spoke he measured with his hands, making them come closer and closer together until his ten fingers were all crunched up and he was peering at a microscopic crumb between them.
They were screaming with laughter. It was amazing how much enjoyment they could derive from a simple cardboard box and a little suspense. This was a lovely group.
Sukie and Chris arrived hand in hand, their faces beaming up at him. While he was at it, he thought he might as well get Chris's last name.
Billy hit hard and pitched forward, falling against a rough concrete floor. The pain made him shriek and roll, and that hurt even more. It took him a long time, but he finally recovered himself. He stood beneath the thin light from above, trying to see the rest of the room he was in.
The first thing he noticed was Timothy's jacket, which lay on the floor a few feet away. Just as he had thought, Barton had shoved it in here to get it out of sight.
Billy picked up the jacket. "I wonder if you were like me," he said. "Timothy Weathers." He held it close to him. "You're dead." The silence was total. "Timothy Weathers, tell me what it's like to be dead."
"Now, since Sukie won't put her hand in the Squiggle Box, and Christopher won't put his hand in the Squiggle Box, somebody's gotta do it!" He punched the button with his elbow. The roar this time was a little off-key. Before the afternoon show he'd have to replace the batteries in the cassette. Gina had faulted him for having cheap props before, and he didn't care to give her more ammunition. God, but this group was getting excited. They were too damn loud!
"Now, I'm gonna sing a song, and if I get every word right, then you're all gonna have to put your hands in the Squiggle Box together. But if I get even one word wrong, then I'm gonna have to do it! OK?"
They shouted agreement.
"Sing a song of sixpence, rockets full of pie—" The crowd bellowed. He went doggedly on, leaning into the shrieks, "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie!" He smiled and said, "I got it right, so let's go—get your hands in that Squiggle Box!" The response was happy pandemonium.
The ceiling was solid. There were no stairs. There weren't even any windows to the outside. He'd hardly allowed himself to dream that he might get out while Barton was gone.
As he fumbled along he wished that he had a flashlight or some matches. It wasn't long before he understood why it was so dark: most of the basement was behind a cinder-block wall. The only way out was a narrow steel door in the middle of that wall.
Billy went to the door. It clanked when he tapped it; it was the kind of door you would use on a prison.
He put his ear to it. At first he heard nothing, but then he wasn't so sure.
Slowly, carefully, he drew back.
Then—behind him! He whirled around. But there was nothing there—-just blackness and the dim shaft of light from the closet.
He stood still, afraid to go back, afraid to go forward. He started to pray, but stopped. It hadn't helped before now, why would that change?
God probably couldn't even hear him. Maybe there was no God. Probably not. Probably there was just the devil.