"No."
"You're a liar! You'd like to kill me!"
"No, Barton! I like you! Really!"
"This isn't a game, you little asshole. This is the real thing. Do you understand?"
Billy was too scared to talk. Barton turned over his hand. "I see blood vessels." He traced the blue shadow along the back of Billy's hand. "Do you ever wonder what you look like inside. Like, inside your hand?"
Billy nodded. "Yeah, I wondered that." He'd once gotten into an awful lot of trouble for operating on a live frog.
"The stomach is protected by first a layer of skin, then fatty tissue, then there are muscles that look like beef jerky, but light pink. Under that there's the viscera, which is hard and stringy when you pull it apart. Then there are the organs. Have you wondered, ever, what it's like to look inside a living body? How it would feel to touch a heart while it was still beating?"
"No, I never wondered that."
"But you have a science class at your school, don't you?"
"We dissected shrimp," Billy said miserably.
"Shrimp, really! You dissect shrimp at the dinner table. The thing about L.A. is, it's practically always summer. So you can always barbecue if you feel like it. But they have strict laws. No emissions! The air is terrible here. Have you ever barbecued shrimp?"
"Yeah. Dad makes Shrimp Wilder. He likes to barbecue."
"Oh, Shrimp Wilder. That's a very elegant dish. The sauce is green, as I recall."
"Yeah, it is."
"Do you like me holding your hand?"
"I don't care."
He laughed silently, throwing his head back. "You care." Then he took Billy's open hand to his mouth and licked it with his fat tongue. "Do you like that?"
It made Billy start shaking again. His heart was hammering so hard he almost couldn't hear. "I don't care," he stammered again.
Barton stopped. "I disgust you."
"No, you don't, Barton. Really, it's OK."
"No, it isn't." He drew Billy closer. "Put your head on my shoulder. That's it."
It was like Mom would do, especially when she was feeling sad about something. She liked to lean her head on Dad's shoulder.
Barton was getting more tense by the second. His muscles were hard. There was deep trembling, slowly getting stronger and stronger.
"We all have to die," Barton said." 'After the first death there is no other.' How about that line? Do you know that?"
"No."
" 'A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London.' Do you know Dylan Thomas?"
" 'Never until the mankind's making bird, beast and flower'—I know that."
"Well, you know a little Dylan Thomas. The death of a child by fire—it's an incredibly sad thought. When death is quick, it's best. But it's usually a slow thing. The body struggles. Everything alive wants to keep living. We have a very sick attitude toward death in our society. A writer named Henry James called it 'the distinguished thing.' I think that's quite beautiful. 'The distinguished thing.' "
Billy wished Barton would stop talking about death. But he did not stop.
His voice grew mellow, like he was remembering things from a long time ago. "I guess the worst death is to be told in detail how it's going to be done, and then have it done." He stretched out his legs, wriggled in his seat, sighed. "That's the worst, all right. There is no worse death."
Billy was devastated. He knew, now, that there was no hope and there had never been any hope. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to be killed.
His chest seemed to burst open and a great roar of pain poured up his throat and just stuck there. Barton held his head, stroking it. "I'm goin' to Jesus," Billy said. It was so strange, so very mysterious!
Barton seemed more like a force of nature now. "You go ahead and cry, darling. It's best to have a good cry when you first realize. Then you'll get it together and it'll become like a kind of project we do together."
Billy looked at him in amazed horror. Had he heard that right? Barton's eyes were twinkling. He took a long pull on the wine bottle. His glass lay on the floor.
"Barton, please let me be your son."
"That's just a game, Billy. The game is over."
"I'm a good boy, Daddy!"
"No, that game's over." His voice bubbled. "New rules." Now he sounded more serious. "I think you have to get philosophical about it. It's going to happen, Billy. I didn't want it to. When I got you, I wanted you to be a real son to me. I thought we'd work it out."
"We still can, Barton, honest. Honest!"
"But you turned out to be nothing but a fucking little actor!"
"I'm not, I'm not!"
"You are an actor and a liar!"
Billy jumped up and ran straight toward the big glass door that opened out onto the backyard. Beyond that was the canyon, and beyond the canyon Los Angeles itself. If he could just make it down that hill, then he would be safe, he would be free!
He threw open the door. Barton, slowed by drink, was not quite fast enough to stop the desperate, racing child. He did not try particularly hard, however. Had Billy seen the slight smile on his face, he might not have run so fast, or been filled with such wild hope.
But all he knew was that he was free. Free! He had the use of his hands and the lights of the city to guide him.
At the end of the yard he ran hard into a fence, but it was low and only stopped him for a moment. He climbed the few dry logs easily and hopped into the rougher ground beyond. His feet were still healing, and they were too sensitive for him to run really fast on the tumble of stones that formed the bottom of the canyon.
"Jesus, help me," he breathed. "Jesus help me," a gasping litany. He pumped along making stifled little screams because of the pain caused by the sharp stones.
After what seemed to him a long time he stopped and turned around. He could see into the house. The living room was empty. But there was no flashlight bobbing along behind him.
Stones or not he flew down that canyon. The ground got steeper. Down he went toward the lights. He could even hear cars now, the great whisper of the city. A helicopter chugged across the night sky. Billy waved as he ran—he never knew, they might see him.
Then, quite suddenly, the ground was flat and smooth. Surprised, he stopped. He reached down, felt warmth and hardness. The road, he'd reached the road! "Thank you, Jesus," he said. "Thank you, Jesus." He was trotting now, moving easily downhill. Then he saw car lights ahead. They glowed, faded, glowed brighter as the car came around one bend and then another.
It was over. He'd won, he was safe. Tears sprang to his eyes. He shook them away as the car came around the last bend. Taking no chances, he went right out into the middle of the road and waved both arms.
The car stopped, the lights boring into him. "I got kidnapped and I got away," he said. He talked loud, between gasping breaths. "Please take me to the nearest police."
As he ran around to the side of the car his heart almost stopped: it was a brown Celica. But it was being driven by a woman, he was still OK!
He got in the car. "That was a dangerous stunt," she said.
"I had to stop you, a man got me and took me to his house—"
"A man?"
She sounded so happy, why did she sound happy? She started the car. "Take me to the police station," he said.
"Oh, that's ten miles away. Why don't I take you to my house? We'll call 911 from there."
As the car began to move, he again realized he was free. That meant he was going to live, he was going to see Mom and Dad again! He hugged himself, moaning with delight and relief.
They went round and round on the curving road. "Where do you live?" he asked.
"Not far."
She was a thick, mean-looking woman with lots of blond hair. Her dress was loose and her hands were pudgy. Billy could smell liquor on her breath.
They kept going round and round, one street after another. He thought to himself, 'I'd better catch the names.' "Is it much farther?
"
"Be quiet and let me drive!"
"OK, sorry."
They were on Mount Crest, then Ridgeway. Then they went around two other corners, up and down steep hills, around another corner where there were houses on stilts. One of them had a number, 314. 'Where am I?' he wondered. The drunk woman was taking him on a dizzying journey into total confusion. The tires squealed, the gears clicked as she shifted up and down the range.
Suddenly the car whipped into a driveway so fast the wheels must have left the pavement. They came to a screeching stop inside a garage. "We're ho-o-me," the woman shrilled. She pushed a button on a remote control clipped to the visor and the garage door rumbled down, leaving them in total darkness. For a moment the only sound was the woman's furious breathing. Then her door clicked and opened, and dim light filled the car. Barton's Aerostar was parked in the other bay. Seeing it, Billy simply screamed.
The woman threw back her head and laughed a high, shrieking laugh. "Come on," she said, "I think you've finally earned some serious punishment, you fucking little creep!''
Part Five
________
THE GOD DAMNED
25.
It was the most delicious, special feeling, like invading the soul of your mother and making her do evil deeds. "All right," he said and it was her voice, oh, it was her! And how the little boy scurried. Look at his eyes, as big as plates, look at his pale face in the hard garage light. "Barton is so-o nice, isn't he, my boy? Well, I am not nice! Get in that house this instant!"
Off he ran. "Barton, Barton," he cried. He didn't know, he really didn't know! This was lovely. Never before had it been like this. The others had seen right through the layers of makeup to the man beneath, but this child was much more innocent. The idea of cross-dressing had probably never occurred to Billy.
Barton marched into the house, went down the narrow hallway to the guest room and stood in the doorway, folded his arms. "Barton won't be answering you tonight, my boy. He's being punished too, for letting you escape again. The very idea!"
"Who—who—"
"I am Death."
When he saw the absolute horror on that face he couldn't contain himself a moment longer. He slammed the door and gave himself over to silent, agonizing mirth. Then he marched down the hall and into his room. He pushed back the rug and opened the hatch.
He'd only had time for the wig and the dress and a load of powder. For this occasion he was going to make himself up perfectly, using all the magnificent array of toys he possessed: the jars of foundation, the lovely powders and rouges, the eye shadows with their glorious names, Aziza, Revlon, Charles of the Ritz. He adored that last one, the way it clicked like a spike heel upon a marble step. The Ritz, Ritz, RITZ!
He went directly to his makeup table and turned it on. The lights were merciless, revealing the face in the mirror just as it really appeared. He was drunk, yes, but he could still see the great ape of a man behind the sloppy powdering he'd given himself. He poured some water from the pitcher and splashed in it until his face was clean. Then he covered his beard with Nair and went to work adjusting the wig. First he took it off and slicked his hair with oil so that it would take the fit perfectly. He daubed spirit gum around his forehead and sideburns and along the back of his neck.
Now he put the wig on properly. Once he'd pulled a few ringlets down here and there it was perfect, impossible to distinguish except at closest range. It should be perfect, he'd shoplifted it from an exclusive Rodeo Drive boutique. Indeed, all of his lovely collection was stolen either from the best boutiques or from dear Gina's extensive collection of goodies. It was soon time to take off the depilatory, which he did with a bladeless razor. Now his face was as lovely and smooth as his hands.
What Barton did was not transvestism, it was disguise. He had nothing against gays, but he himself was totally heterosexual. He would never allow himself to be one of those vile, disgusting lechers that touched boys—
Men like that ought to be killed.
'You have to understand,' he would tell himself, 'that what you do is ritual magic' For example, the dress was a disguise intended to evoke one of the unconscious selves hidden within him, as indeed the powerful mother of childhood is hidden within all men. The difference between him and ordinary people was that he expressed the unconscious and they didn't. They were scared, he was not.
When they saw him in his ritual clothing more than one of those other kids had screamed with laughter. But only at first. Then they had just screamed.
Barton went to work on his face, applying foundation, then powder, blush, rouge, then finishing around the lips and eyes. He painted on his lovely Summer Rose lip blush with quick, snapping movements, then applied Mystic Sea eye shadow, a beautiful, metallic turquoise.
The effect was simply magical.
He was always raptured by her. If only he could kiss her, swoon at her feet, give himself to her!
A blonde with vivid lips and exotic, pouting eyes stared out at him from the mirror. The eye shadow, however, had drawn the pain in those eyes to the surface. The sadness of his expression was his least fortunate feature. He corrected it with a little adjustment. Alter the line of the mascara, build up the lashes a bit—like magic, sad was sexy.
All the while Billy was waiting and worrying. He had reason to worry, too! He was about to get just exactly what he needed, and get it good and proper. The fun was over, the game was ended. Now the serious part had begun. Watching that little fucking scum acting his heart out, that had made Barton incredibly mad. Did he really think his inept hamming had convinced?
They'd tried the canyon before. You just drove around to where it opened onto Monarch and waited. The walls were too steep to climb, so there was no chance at all you would miss them.
It had happened so consistently with the other boys that Barton now looked forward to the canyon run. It was fun.
Dear little Billy was going to leap to the least snap of fingers from now on. He would worship the very ground Barton Royal walked upon; he would learn it was a privilege to obey a truly awesome human being to the letter.
He went down into the black room and selected the leather strap. He turned out the light, closed the trapdoor and covered it with the rug. Now he had to pause and prepare himself. This took consummate strength, perfect acting. He had to feel her, enter her, be her in all her glorious femininity and sternness. And she was so stern. Once she had set her will to it, there was absolutely nothing that would stop her. You could plead—and they had, God knew—but it made no difference. You could even lie, if you dared. Nothing stopped her.
With exaggerated care he hefted the strap with his right hand, holding the end of it loosely in his left. He walked down the hall, making sure his feet creaked the boards so Billy would hear. He paused outside the door to put an edge on the boy's fear.
The sobbing that started within the room was a deep music, marvelously stirring. His whole body began to tingle, and the more Billy sobbed the more delightful the sensation became. When finally he felt ready to intensify his delight, he unlocked the door and threw it open. Billy gasped as he stepped into the room. His eyes were fixed on the strap. His mouth dropped open. Then, no doubt imagining the pain, he squirmed where he sat.
"You're getting ten," Barton said in his best voice.
"Ten what, ma'am?"
He slapped the strap against his hand, and nodded his head.
"Please," Billy said, "I don't think I can stand it, ma'am. I've never had it done to me before."
"Most of them can't talk at this moment. You are quite a brave boy. For your bravery, I'll add three more."
Billy rushed to the closet. What was he going to do—try to hide?
Barton grabbed the handcuff still dangling from the child's wrist and dragged him back to the center of the room. "It's a slow thing, I'm afraid," he said. "Thirteen blows with this thing will basically take you apart."
He pushed Billy face down onto the bed. "Drop your pants. Can you manage?" Wh
en the child fumbled Barton yanked them roughly down around his knees. Billy put his hands to his head. His face was buried in the sheets. He was clutching his hair, pulling convulsively. Barton had never seen this before: the boy appeared to be tearing out his hair.
Fat Royal snapped the strap against his palm again. Billy gave a little kick. "Please, lady," he said, "I just wanted to look at the stars."
Barton's response was the first blow. It was smart and nicely delivered across both buttocks. There was a single, solid crack.
Billy bounced. He made a sound of surprise. No doubt it had hurt more than he had imagined possible.
The second blow was placed just above the red stripe made by the first. It was so hard that the strap whistled on its way to contact, and the moment of connection caused a spattering sound. Immediately the skin turned white and puckered. Then the blush started.
Billy cried out.
If this had been the black room Barton would have done a really thorough job. Given the soundproof window you could have some screaming up here, but he had to take care.
The third blow would be placed below the first, which was now a well-raised, fiery red stripe exactly across the center of both buttocks. He raised his arm until he felt the strap lightly touching his own back. A tide of anger flowed in him, directed at this willful, arrogant child.
The third blow landed with the sound of a pistol shot. Billy threw back his head. Some garbled words came out, "Jesus" or "Sorry," or something. There was no way to tell, and what's more, Barton didn't care.
This had always been what it was about. He didn't want a son to love, he wanted the sweetness of this. People did not understand that. They did not understand that a soul could reach beyond good and evil, to regions where suffering and pleasure were the same.
"Billy?"
"Yes ma'am!"
"How do you feel?"
There was no reply.
"Now listen to me, I'm waiting for the welts to come up properly. Then I'm going to do the ten and it's going to drive you mad with pain. Have you ever been mad with pain?"
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