In Dark Corners (9 page)

Billy-boy maintained his usual grin as he drank his treat, but his eyes didn't appear quite so vacant to Rowdy. Under the table, Ellie reached across and squeezed Rowdy's thigh.

***

Everything seemed to fall smoothly into place for the three of them after that. They moved into a larger bungalow. Ellie worked the breakfast and lunch trade at the Wild Horse Cafe. Rowdy and Billie-boy ran fence line out on the Lazy R. They were like a family; and Rowdy felt sure that somewhere Sadie, his dead wife, knew and was happy for him.

***

Then after about a month, one morning working the fence line Rowdy's bad back spasmed.

Sitting stiff with pain, he drove the pickup back to Wild Horse just before noon, leaving it parked in front of the cafe. He slipped out of the cab, grimacing to himself, and instructed Billy-boy, "You stay here, hoss. We'll go in and see Ellie in a minute. I'm going to the cabin to get some medicine." The boy remained seated in the pickup with the heavy post driver in his lap, gripping the handles with his gloved hands.

Rowdy limped slowly toward the motel. He'd brought some muscle relaxants and pain pills prescribed back in Salinas, leaving them stored in his stuff. Inside, he found them at the bottom of his suitcase, under some dirty clothes. "Thank God," he whispered to himself, gulping down the pills with a glass of water. Then he squinted his eyes against the spasms of pain and sucked in a deep breath, knowing the medicine would start to hit in about forty-five minutes—

A gunshot. Then a scream from outside grated on his already stressed nerves, like fingernails on a blackboard. It was Ellie.

He moved as quickly as possible to the door and jerked it open.

Across the parking lot blocking his pickup was a green Owyhee County Sheriff's car. The officer had his gun drawn and pointed at Ellie, who was standing on the porch of the cafe by Mr. Papadopolos and a pair of customers. The officer had Billie-boy by the arm, trying to manipulate a pair of handcuffs with one hand, while keeping Ellie at bay.

She was shouting something at her brother, who had apparently dropped the post driver after getting out of the pickup, and was looking from the deputy sheriff back at his sister, not understanding, the constant grin plastered to his face.

"Jesus," Rowdy swore, hobbling toward the scene, scrunching across the graveled parking lot.

Then, as the officer jerked the boy toward his vehicle, Ellie rasped loudly, "Make a face, Billy-boy!"

As the boy turned from his sister and faced the lawman, Rowdy saw from the side the perpetual smile begin to dissolve, the boy's features turning liquid, slowly changing into something
ugly and horrible
, like special effects in one of those monster movies—

A loud groan of agony made Rowdy shift his gaze to the lawman.

The deputy had stopped moving backwards, as if he'd suddenly backed into an invisible wall, his eyes locked on Billy-boy's face. And he appeared to be paralyzed, a look of terror etched on his face. Then he convulsed violently, dropping both the handcuffs and handgun, and clutched his chest as he slumped to the ground.

"God, he
killed
that guy by making a…
a face
," Rowdy whispered to himself, almost dumbstruck by the incredulous event. When he finally looked up from staring at the fatally stricken law enforcement officer, Billy-boy's fluid features were almost back to normal, the evil mask gone, replaced by the vacant smile.

Everyone looked confused on the porch except Ellie. They didn't have a clue what had happened.

But she was hurrying down the stairs of the cafe, grabbing her brother's arm, dragging him across the lot toward Rowdy. "C'mon," she rasped, her voice even more hoarse than usual. "We've got to get away from here, now."

Rowdy had forgotten his back, shuffling along quickly. "What happened, Ellie?" he shouted from behind, as she led Billie-boy into their bungalow.

Ellie didn't answer. She began throwing her things into one of her suitcases. "Pack," she ordered.

Still numbed by it all, Rowdy obeyed, beginning to pack his stuff up. He glanced over at Ellie, who had a kind of frantic expression on her face. Billy-boy was just watching, a casual bystander to the hubbub.

Finally, Ellie had all her and Billy-boy's stuff jammed into their two suitcases. She moved quickly to Rowdy's side. "Better gas up," she said. "I'll finish your packing. Be out in a minute."

"Where are we headed, Ellie?" he asked, glancing at Billy-boy.

She hesitated, then suggested, "Mountain Home?"

"I don't know if we can make it," Rowdy said, thinking more rationally now. "If that sheriff was sent…or if he had time to radio back they'd probably have us blocked at Riddle or Grasmere before we reached Mountain Home. Might be best to go east toward the Lazy R then south onto the reservation. They probably wouldn't expect that."

She just nodded, stuffing his clothes into his suitcase. "Whatever, let's go."

He shuffled toward the door, his back stiff with pain—

Then he heard them.

Rowdy recognized the sounds. "'Copters, more than one." He knew there was a small air base at Mountain Home.

They crowded up to the front window, pushing aside the drape.

One helicopter with Air Force markings had already landed in the parking lot, and six men in civilian suits with automatic weapons had dismounted and were fanning out in the dusty down-blast as two other 'copters were landing behind them. Beyond the three airships, in the direction of Riddle, Rowdy spotted a rolling cloud of dust. "Bet those are sheriffs coming, too," he said pointing, wondering how the hell
they
knew where Ellie and the boy were hiding.

Suddenly he recalled his conversation with Ron, the bartender back at the Coney Island before he met Ellie. He'd told Ron where they were headed.
Dammit
.

"They can't let us out alive," Ellie shouted above the loud clunking sounds of the 'copter blades, her tone thick with despair.

Jesus, he swore silently, watching twelve more armed men dismount.
Where
had they come from so quickly and
who
were they? No question about it, all those assault weapons, they meant business.

Suddenly, someone was shouting over an electronic instrument: "Come out with your hands over your heads. You won't be harmed. We just want the boy back…"

Then, the reality of Ellie's statement struck him hard.

Of course she was right. They were both
dead
. The minute they stepped outside, they'd be splattered all over that parking lot. They knew too much—the programming trigger—and they'd seen the results of the boy's secret talent.

And Billy-boy?

Rowdy glanced over at the boy, who was still smiling despite the frightening hubbub. He shook his head, remembering their month or so together, running fence line. You're going to be a trained monkey in a cage, old hoss, he thought sadly. Doing some messy work when they let you out.

They'd been a family. But, now, it was over.

He rubbed his eyes, black despair starting to tunnel his vision. There was no way out.
No way
to keep the three of them together—

Or was there?

"C'mon," Rowdy said, reaching out a hand to each of them, moving quickly despite his back. He led them into the bathroom. "Look up here, Billy-boy, into the mirror."

He glanced over at Ellie, who understood his intent and had tears in her eyes.

Rowdy said, "I love you, gal."

And Ellie whispered huskily, "I love you, cowboy."

They clasped each other tightly behind the boy, each resting a free hand on his shoulder.

Then, as the three of them stared at themselves in the mirror, Rowdy triggered their escape, "Make a face, Billy-boy."

***

The suits took Mr. Papadoplous and the two customers who had witnessed it all away for
debriefing,
never to be seen again
.
And no one else at Wild Horse knew much about the four deaths that day. So it should've ended.

***

Except that the following summer, when the first autumn winds blew down from Canada across the Lazy R, the cowboys working fall roundup talked about hearing strange sounds in the dark along the northern fence line. An old pickup idling noisily, the slamming thud of fence posts being driven into the ground, a man calling someone hammer-swinger, a woman singing in a husky voice, and loud joyful laughter. But they never saw anything…

I awake in a strange place, disoriented, questions bombarding my numb brain: Where am I? What happened? When? Why?

After a few moments I regain some mental composure, and I concentrate, attempting to reconstruct the immediate past. But despite my best efforts, everything remains vague like the highlights from a child's dream: fog, a bridge, rushing wind…The images are unsettling. Finally I withdraw from the fruitless attempt at recollection. I try to sigh, then swallow, then blink, and finally to shift position, only to discover that I can't move! Although I'm standing upright, able to think, to see, and hear, I'm completely paralyzed!

The reality of my predicament sinks in slowly as the initial shock dulls: I've no memory and I'm paralyzed…

But I must be someplace?

Four feet from where I stand is a window. An enormous, undivided expanse of clear glass that stretches to the blurred borders of my sight. A big window. And there's something familiar about the big window. Of course! Its function. The big window encloses a storefront. And I'm inside, unable to move, able to only gaze out at sidewalk pedestrians, street traffic, and a row of grimy buildings.

Above the gray buildings the sky is streaked orange and pink, daylight fading.

My attention is drawn from the sky by signs beginning to blink on, identifying the gloomy buildings:

H

O

T

E

L

PARKING    Diner    Bar

24 hour    good fo…

Part of the neon on the DINER sign is burnt out. A lie?

A streetlamp out of my view to my left comes on, casting its pale illumination across the big window. Far more intense and impressive is the luminous stream in the street: cars, cabs, buses, one-eyed motorcycles.

I listen as the sounds gradually change character; the blend of the daytime noises—voices, footsteps, mechanical purring—diminishes and fades, replaced by sharper, clearer night sounds: cries, roars, squeals, a dronelike hum. With pinched, worried faces, the last of the daytime pedestrians hurry along, their pace quickened by the nerve-grating, high-pitched scream of a siren…It is night.

The people on my side of the street are gone, the sidewalk littered with debris. Curiously, near the entrance to the HOTEL and the front of the DINER several people stand idly and smoke, apparently oblivious to the deepening darkness and threatening night sounds. After a while, a pair of the night people drift casually to a spot underneath the flashing red BAR sign, perhaps attracted by the loud music blaring out the open door.

Suddenly glaring light strikes my eyes.

Unable to blink, I'm momentarily blinded. Then, for a time, I see only a shimmering red haze. Eventually my vision clears, and I'm able to locate the source of my discomfort—four spotlights near the corners of the big window. And, strange though it seems, the spots are directed at me, as if I were a performer on a stage. A paralyzed performer? Seems ridiculous.

Gradually my eyes adjust to the direct glare, and I again peer out the big window.

An old man shuffles into view. He stops for a moment to drink from a filthy, wrinkled bag. His face and ill-fitting clothes match the grimy condition of his brown bag. Carefully, he tilts the bag up, and I watch his Adam's apple bob in the dim outside light. Finished, he wipes his mouth with the scabby back of his hand. I'm swept by a feeling of revulsion—

Unexpectedly two boys appear and jostle the old man about in a rough, but playful, manner. The bag slips from the old man's hand and hits with a muffled splatter, a dark, wet stain coloring the sidewalk. As if struck down by an invisible blow, the old man sags to his knees, a cry of pure anguish racking his body. Their mischief complete, the boys run away. The old man glances unseeing in my direction, tears streaking his dirty, pained face. I'm embarrassed.

Finally the old derelict rises and shuffles away.

A few stars, bright enough to overcome the city glare—for I assume that I'm in a city—glitter above the buildings. Clean fragments of sparkling blue ice to decorate the fall of night.

My attention shifts to the inside of the big window, for I suddenly realize that it's like a mirror.

I'm able to make out a faint reflection. My hair's a dark brown, cut short and neatly combed in the old style. My face is beardless. China blue eyes stare at me, unblinking, unmoving. Inwardly, I shiver. The eyes seem lifeless, like the eyes of a marionette. My chest is bare and hairless, the skin a healthy tan…but unnatural like a doll's. No, not rubbery…harder, more like plastic. I shift focus. I'm quite tall, but naked. I glance at the reflection of my groin and gasp silently with disbelief—I have no genitals! A smooth, hairless nothingness—