Billy by Whitley Strieber Read Free Book Online Page B

used to make pecan divinity. They would gather into a muttering, unapproachable tribe and eat it in somebody's backyard. If Barton drew near, they'd scream "Fat Royal" and throw a rock or two.
    When he stepped from the pantry into the kitchen proper he smelled bread. Now there was one of the best odors in the world. When they'd been baking at the Wonder Bread plant you could smell it up and down Mariposa.
    A large white appliance stood in the middle of the kitchen table. Barton recognized the thing as an automatic bread baker. He'd wanted one, but he wasn't sure it would work.
    Now he'd go ahead and make the purchase.
    This was such a nice kitchen. It smelled wonderful, its curtains were fluffy and pretty, it was clean except for that one roach. Family life was such ordinary magic, but he was not allowed!
    He ran his finger along the warm top of the bread maker, careful as always not to leave prints. Then he took out his rubber gloves and put them on. They were the kind with reinforced fingertips. He had read that new techniques could read a print left through a surgical glove.
    Even though he was on a tight schedule, he did a quick inventory of the pantry and refrigerator. It was important to know what Billy liked. He'd already found that Butterfinger wrapper and a Bud Dry behind the workbench in the basement. From now on there would be plenty of Butterfingers in Billy's life. As for beer, Barton would introduce him to Anchor Steam and Dixie and Cold Spring Export.
    There was Carnation Instant Breakfast in the pantry, and Tang. There were LaChoy Chinese dinners and Chef Boyardee spaghetti with meatballs. It was surprising how many kids enjoyed that stuff.
    Adults starve quietly; children scream and pace and plead.
    In the freezer he found Old El Paso enchilada dinners and MicroMagic cheeseburgers and shakes, and Aunt Jemima mi crowave pancakes. There were Dove Bars, vanilla with milk chocolate coating, Tabatchnick vegetable soup, Birds Eye frozen orange juice. (He'd stun Billy with fresh-squeezed.) In the fridge he found Coke Classic and Dr Pepper, Hi-C Fruit Punch, a package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs, sweet relish and French's mustard. He ignored the potatoes and lettuce and fresh squash in the crisper. The boy would consider them penitential foods. There was Pepperidge Farm toasting white in the breadbox, and he noted Double Stuf Oreos in the cookie jar. The peanut butter was Jif Super Chunky, and there were Smucker's peach and raspberry preserves in the fridge. As small a thing as the right kind of peanut butter sandwich could be an important ice-breaker.
    Leaving the door to the basement open, he went through the dining room into the front hall of the old house, and began to mount the stairs. To reduce the chance of a creak, he took them three at a time, testing each step by slowly rolling his weight forward. Then he was in the upstairs hall. He didn't know who was in which bedroom. He had to guess, which was nerve-wracking.
    Two of the bedroom doors were closed, one open. It made sense to look first in the open door, simply because that was the least risky.
    He peered into the room. Against the far wall there was a window glowing with the thin last light of the moon. A bird's clear, lonely song pealed through the night. Under the window there was a bed, and on the bed a figure. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Billy sprawled in sleep.
    Moving as carefully as a rat he crossed the floor, thinking of it as a dance. He was a good dancer. Mel Powell's Dance Studio, fox trot, rumba, swing, jitterbug, 1955.
    He approached the bed. Swiftly he opened his ether, soaked the felt, laid it on the boy's face. The child was still for a moment, then he tried to turn his head. Barton was ready and bore down hard. A rush of movement went through the little body. There came a stifled sound, a cry of surprise. Billy's mouth opened, he tried to bite the cloth. He shook, his arms came out and flailed. His hands grasped and slapped. He