"No." Coldest fear was coming into Billy's heart.
"What is the long home, son? Can you understand?"
Billy's mouth was dry. Looking to the door, to the barred window back to the door, he was like a fragile sentinel. Barton removed his arm from Billy's shoulders and put it around his waist. Billy could not help it, he was so scared and so alone: he leaned against the grown-up shoulder.
" 'Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern, then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.' "
Billy hardly even heard the droning words.
"Do you know what it means?"
Hot tears came welling up in Billy's eyes.
Barton stroked his head. "I love you from the depth of my soul," he said. His voice was rough with emotion.
For a time they were silent together.
"Did you make a phone call last night?"
"No!"
"You little bastard, you fucking well did!"
"No, I didn't, no!"
"Ma-ma! Remember that? When did I hear you say it?"
"N-never. I never did!"
Barton grabbed his shoulders and twisted him and glared into his face. "You're a fucking liar!"
Billy could not speak in reply to the roaring, furious energy of that voice. He shook his head as hard as he could.
"Yes. You got out of here somehow and you made a call! Confess!"
Billy began to cry. There was nothing else he could do now.
Barton grabbed him, pulled him close. "Oh, please forgive. Forgive poor Barton! I am so afraid!"
"It's OK," Billy said in a clumsy, halting tone. "OK, Barton, OK."
Barton sighed elaborately. "This house is full of mirrors," he whispered. "Well, I have to go to work." Again he hugged Billy, kissing him on the cheek for a long moment. "I'll speak to her. I'll give her hell for whipping you so hard."
The instant the lock clicked Billy began to have trouble breathing. He sucked in air but it didn't seem to help. He was seized by kinetic terror, and began lurching around the room, helpless to stop himself.
He heard himself making sounds as he moved, "Ah, ah, ah," pacing like that big monkey they kept all alone in a separate cage in the Des Moines Zoo, going down one wall to the corner, turning, going down the next wall—go down the wall with the door, slam his hand flat against it, then past the bathroom and back again.
Again he made the circuit, and again. He thought, 'I'll never stop.'
Barton leaned against the door, listening.
He stepped back from the door, made a conscious effort to relax. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Drop your shoulders. Let the tension slide off and sink into the floor.
The child hadn't gotten out. "Ma-ma" was a dream.
In the black room all imbalances were corrected.
But now there was something urgent awaiting: real life, a sunny morning, work to be done!
He went into the bathroom and got his makeup kit. For the next few hours he was going to be Uncle Squiggly. Oh, he might sneak away to check on Billy from time to time, but basically he would be in character all day. Afterward he would buy the wine and rent Cabaret.
Parting was such sweet sorrow.
28.
Quite unexpectedly she saw him. At first she wasn't sure— she hadn't been certain that he would be at the airport when they landed. He looked so old, so dusty, so exhausted, she could hardly believe it was Mark. His hair was frazzled and seemed to have gotten gray virtually overnight. He moved with the clumsy roll of a stiff old man. She could not imagine him jogging beside her down Lincoln Avenue, or climbing on the roof with a bundle of shingles on his back.
She raised her head and squared her shoulders. "Mark," she called. Her eyes caught his. "Oh, Mark!"
Then they were holding each other, such relief! Then she opened her right arm and drew Sally into the hug.
"How did you find us, Daddy?"
"Toddcaster told me the flight you'd be on. I've only been here for an hour myself."
"Mark, where do we go? What do we do?"
"The police—it's huge here, honey. You have no idea. They have a special squad that specializes just in hostage situations."
"He's not a hostage."
"They use them to free anybody who's being unlawfully held. I think they'll assault the house when they find it."
Within herself she thought that Billy would be killed. Aloud, she said: "Mark, how close are they?"
"I haven't talked to them personally. This is all coming from Toddcaster. Until they find the house, this is being handled by the missing persons unit. Then the hostage team gets it. The FBI is acting in an advisory capacity, but they'll participate in the arrest."
But Billy—what about Billy? What if Royal saw the police coming? He would kill Billy then. Or if they were clumsy and he had more advance notice, he would run and take Billy with him. If that happened her instinct told her they would never see their son again, alive or dead.
She did not give voice to these fears until they were in their rented car. "We're at the Crown Motel on Hollywood Boulevard," Mark said. "It's seventy-five dollars a night and not far from the Hollywood Hills. Above all, they take MasterCard."
Even transmitting simple information there was a graveside hush in his voice. He also feared that Billy would be destroyed by the efforts of the people who were trying to save him.
They were going down a long, long street with low buildings on either side. The sky was white, and everything was flooded with early sun. The air smelled faintly of exhaust fumes and flowers.
Sally had taken control of the map and was enthusiastically navigating.
"The police know where we'll be staying?" Mary asked.
"I told Toddcaster where we'd be. But he advised me to call in anyway. My impression is we're supposed to just wait. They'll bring Billy to us."
"I want to be there."
"It'll be dangerous—"
"Most of all for my son!"
"Our son."
"It's almost worse when you're close."
Sally's hand came over the backseat, caressing Mary's cheek. She leaned against her daughter's touch. "You're the greatest, sweetheart."
They drove for what seemed a very long time. Small shopping centers passed one another in an endless, incredibly dreary parade. How many video stores, cleaners, doughnut shops, convenience markets could there be?
Mark must have been having the same thoughts, because he finally asked Sally, "Do I turn anytime soon?"
"La Cienega ends in Santa Monica. We take a jog there and go up to Hollywood Boulevard. It's really your basic grid pattern with a few wrinkles."
"And a lot of miles."
"I feel so out of control," Mary said. "I nearly lost my mind on the plane."
"My flight was only an hour. So when I almost went nuts was waiting for you in the airport. You don't want to be out of communication."
The traffic got worse, and finally they were creeping. Mary kept picturing a certain house surrounded by police in flak jackets, and her little boy inside with Barton Royal. "Is there an all-news station?" she finally asked.
"Probably two or three of them in a place as big as this."
She turned on the radio, twisted the dial until she heard an announcer. But he was talking about Lucia di Lammermoor. "That's FM, Momma. Try AM."
She found the little switch and shifted to the AM band. Soon there was more talk. "If baby alligators are growing in our sewers—" She turned the dial again, forcing herself to control the panicky rush that kept threatening to seize her.
"Hurry the fuck up," Mark suddenly screamed, leaning on his horn. "People in this town drive like the living dead!"
"Want me to take over?"
"Mary—"
"I'll be glad to."
"You're crazy behind the wheel. We'll be up on sidewalks."
"She
got a police escort on the way to the airport," Sally said. "She was incredible. We went a hundred and ten!"
He pulled out of the stream of traffic and turned the wheel over to Mary.
"First, Sally, give me a course that's off the main roads."
"This map isn't exactly perfect. There are a lot more streets than it shows."
"Do it, Sally!" Mary cried.
"Take a right whenever you can. When you hit Crescent Heights go left."
They were soon on Crescent Heights, where the traffic was less. From time to time Mary managed to open the little car up. She managed fifty, even sixty for short periods. The car was sluggish, hard to steer, noisy. She made a mental note never to buy one, whatever it was.
They reached Hollywood Boulevard, and were soon moving east. She was only dimly aware that they were passing corners famous in the history of American popular culture.
"What is it somebody called this place—a bunch of shacks at the end of the rainbow?"
"That's what it looks like."
"I think that's an actual quote. Raymond Chandler or John Ford or somebody said it. 'Hollywood is a bunch of shacks at the end of the rainbow.' "
"Except that it's beautiful," Sally said.
"You've suffered a clear collapse of aesthetic sense," Mark replied.
"Daddy, it's beautiful because it's where Billy is."
To their left rose the Hollywood Hills. Even in the sunlight they seemed dark to Mary. This was an ugly, forbidding place. As they waited at a light a family of six in identical Hawaiian shirts crossed the street. The children all carried baby ducks. Mary leaned her head on the steering wheel. Billy was probably within ten minutes of this very spot.
Sally rustled her map. Mark said, "The light changed!" Mary was surprised at how rough he sounded. Mark was the mildest of creatures.
She realized that the anger that was in them all was coming to the surface. Sally spoke with trembling fervor. "If I got this guy, I would stab him in the heart."
"I'd make it slow," Mary announced with gusto.
"The Crown Motel!"
"Beautiful job, ladies!"
They piled out of the car and entered the lobby of the motel, which was grimly surfaced in linoleum and Formica. The picture window, however, rose out of a planter bursting with flowers.
"Reservation?" asked the woman behind the counter.
"Neary. Party of three."
"Lemme just take an imprint. You've got 207, drive around the side, you can park right at the door."
A few minutes later they were established in a room with a green shag carpet that smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Mark headed straight for the phone, tossing his overnight case onto the bed as he went.
Mary hovered close to him; Sally began to try to turn on the huge old Chrysler air conditioner that jutted from the wall opposite the dresser.
"This is Mark Neary. May I speak to Lieutenant Jameson?" Silence. "Robert F. Jameson." More silence. "Is this Missing Persons? It's about my son, William Neary. We received a call from him. He was abducted, and he told his mother he was in a house in the Hollywood Hills. We just got here. From Iowa." Yet more silence. Mark's face flushed. "Look, the FBI is in on this, the Iowa State Police, the Stevensville, Iowa, police, half a dozen missing children groups! I don't need to come in and give you a description! Lieutenant Jameson is supposed to know all about it! I am not yelling at you!" Silence, the receiver clutched. "You must know about it! You should have been working on it for hours! What about the FBI, aren't they involved? They were very involved in Des Moines, believe me." Silence, during which Mark shook his head angrily. "I am not being rude," he snapped. Then he stared at the receiver in amazement. "The bastard just hung up on me!" Mark hammered the receiver against the table.
"Don't break that phone," Mary screamed, grabbing the instrument.
"I can't believe this! 'Lieutenant Jameson is out on a case.' You would not believe the fucking, officious, arrogant prig I just talked to—Jesus and God!"
"Try the FBI, Mark."
"I don't have a name there."
"Then Toddcaster. I'll call Toddcaster." She looked at her watch. Three o'clock in Des Moines. He'd be at his office. He picked up on the second ring. "Toddcaster."
"Hi, it's me."
"Hi, me. Do you have a name?"
"Mary. Mary Neary."
"Oh, Christ, excuse me, baby. Have you got him yet?"
"We're in a motel here."
"Right. The Crown Motel on Hollywood Boulevard."
"My husband called the Los Angeles police and they acted like they didn't even know about the case. They wouldn't help us at all."
"OK, I got it. I'll make a couple of calls."
"And call us back?"
"Give me ten minutes."
She hung up and threw herself back on the squeaky bed. "He'll call us back," she said. Sally was watching CNN on TV. Mary tried the radio in the room, but it didn't work. "Of course not," she muttered.
Mark lay down beside her. "CNN won't have anything," he told his daughter. "We're nobody, as far as they're concerned. You don't get on national news unless you're Donald Trump and your kid got a bloody nose in the schoolyard. We're just ordinary trash, suffering like hell. We're not interesting. Oh, Christ!"
The frustration in his voice gave stark emphasis to their helplessness. "I hate all the publicity anyway," Mary said. "The only person who's gonna see your kid is the person who has him. I'll bet they haunt the postering places."
"I feel so damn useless. That's what I hate. I mean, he's probably no more than a couple of miles from here!"
"Maybe we could find him ourselves," Sally said.
There were a lot of things a child couldn't understand, even a bright little girl of thirteen.
"We could poster," Mark said. "I've got two hundred right in my suitcase."
"I just think it's dangerous."
He leapt up off the bed. "Well, if I do nothing but sit here and wait like this I am going to go completely crazy, Mary dear!"
She reached out to him, hesitated.
"Maybe they have a street directory for sale in the lobby," Sally said. "I'll bet they do if salesmen stay here."
"Fine, go see if you can get a street directory. Your mother and I'll wait for that old fatty in Des Moines to get around to calling us back."
"He's not fat. He's corpulent."
"You're talking about synonyms."
"I define 'corpulent' as marginally more dignified. Anyway, we owe him a lot."
"And we owe Turpin, and Richard Jones, who is a hell of a nice guy by the way, and the Searchers. Thank you, thank you, thank you one and all! Where in hell is my son!"
Sally rushed out of the room.
"Mark, I want you to tone it down! It can't help her to see you like this."
"Us, baby. You're not exactly peaches to be with. You ought to look at yourself in a mirror. Your face looks like an advertisement for dead skin."
"I almost pulled my hair out at the roots when Billy called."
He rushed to her, grabbed her into his arms. "Baby, baby, I'm sorry. My poor baby." When he stroked her sore temple, she closed her eyes.
After a moment he broke away, shaking his head and laughing bitterly. "That was about the most spectacularly unfeeling, high-handed bastard I have ever encountered. And I have dealt with school boards, for Chrissake!"
The phone rang. "Walter!" Mary grabbed the receiver.
"To make a long story short, Lieutenant Jameson runs the whole show. My guess is, he's never gonna be in. They do have a team of officers working on Billy. It's a big, active case, never fear about that. The problem they're up against is that unless they're very sure they have the right house they can't get a warrant to enter. The California judges aren't that easy to deal with, apparently."
She'd expected half the police department to be combing the Hollywood Hills, looking in every attic and basement for her little boy. But Walter was talking about search warrants and judges and things t
hat all added up to the same central fact: Billy was not getting found.
"So what do they need? What would get them moving?"
"They've got all their black-and-whites in the area trying to spot the Aerostar—"
"He's hiding the Aerostar! Billy said that! Don't they understand?"
"Whoa, just let me finish. Or the brown Celica. If they see a man fitting Barton's description driving either car, they'll follow him home, then go to the judge."
"But why did they give Mark the runaround? It was incredibly cruel, to pretend like they didn't even know. "
"They're aware of your address. But they're wary. They want you out of the way when they make their move."
"We love him, he's our child!"
"Men like Barton are dangerous in the extreme, Mary. The L.A. police know this just as well as we do, and probably better. Barton Royal will kill Billy if he realizes that the cops are on top of him. They want to make it as easy for themselves as they can. And not letting the frantic parents get in their hair must be high on their list of priorities."
Her voice was barely a whisper when she thanked him. Mark slammed his fist against the bathroom door. "They don't want us around in case Billy gets killed because they're afraid of misconduct charges, or a goddamn lawsuit."
It was at that moment Sally appeared with something called The Thomas Guide. "The ultimate street directory," she said. "It's so radical!"
Mary took it in her hands. The thing wasn't a map, it was a thick book. She thumbed through it.
"Where are the Hollywood Hills, kid?" Mark had grabbed the book.
"Grids thirty-three and thirty-four. They may also be covered in twenty-three and twenty-four."
"Ridgeway," Mark said. "Right here."
They all looked at it.
"It's such a small area," Mary said. "We could cover every single street that dead-ends off Ridgeway inside of an hour."
"He said near Ridgeway, Momma, not off Ridgeway."
"But he can see Los Angeles from the house, which means it faces south. That ought to narrow it down."
"No good, Momma. At night this place must be a sea of lights. All that really tells us is that the house is high. But all the houses are high up there!"
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