Free Billy by Whitley Strieber Page A

down from the wrist and spread along the outer edges toward thumb and little finger. That they would thicken and darken seemed impossible to believe: and yet this perfect being would soon be cast down the cliff of manhood.
    Barton bent toward the hand, his lips parted ... it would be a sign of love, of respect, even of awe . . . his secret . . .
    Inwardly, he made demands of himself. 'Don't! It's ugly and perverse and wrong.' But he longed to, he could hardly bear not just once touching his lips to that soft skin. 'It's monstrous! Don't!' He trembled. 'It isn't you, Barton. You're a decent, lonely man trying to recapture something pure, you are not a filthy lecher!'
    He gripped the limp hand hard. Then he dropped it. He watched the sleeping form. Billy's slimness made Barton feel like a big, fat lump.
    He wanted to give Billy a father's warm kiss, and feel him return it, and then Billy would be bound by the rich and healthy love that flourishes between father and son.
    Laughing a little to himself, Barton climbed over into the driver's seat. He backed the van up to the outhouses and dropped the black curtain that hid the rear area from anybody who might look in the windshield. He didn't really need to use the facilities, but he knew better than to pass up a chance. He couldn't risk leaving the van while he was getting gas, and he didn't feel safe in rest stops during the day when they were full of meddling children and watchful parents.
    Outside he breathed deeply of the early morning air. He was feeling better and better. This thing was going to work, he could sense it. At first it would be hard, but Billy would find that Barton Royal could show him such love, such attention. It would be quite beyond what he had known before. Their life together would be wonderful.
    The outhouse was full of busy flies and had an oily, chemical stench. To Barton's surprise, some little creature screeched as he stepped in. Wriggling beneath his foot was a mouse. Involuntarily Barton jumped back, but the little animal was so damaged it could barely drag itself away. It was horribly injured. Probably it had already been weakened by poison before  he stepped on it. Barton's first impulse was to use another outhouse, but then he thought he ought to put the little thing out of its misery.
    With the intention of stomping on it he raised his foot. But then a sort of hesitancy entered his mind. He brought his heel down carefully, just pinning the creature. Its screams filled the tiny room. They were surprisingly loud. Bit by bit he increased the weight on its back. He could feel it writhing.
    Kill it!
    He slid his foot back and forth. The tail twisted and turned in the dust beside his shoe. A delicious warmth filled his body. As the mouse screamed, he hummed.
    At last he decided that it was time for the creature to die. By inches he increased the weight on its back, until finally there was a crunch and the screeching stopped. He finished his business and returned to the van.
    It was just a mouse, for God's sake.
    He rolled down the windows and let the wind flood the van. Cotton clouds rushed up from the south. They were colored pink and gold against the sky. Before him stretched the road to the mountains and the wide western deserts, and finally home, his house tucked into its own very private quarter-acre of the Hollywood Hills.
    He was within fifty miles of the Nebraska border when a state trooper suddenly pulled in behind him. For some time he'd been watching the police car coming up on his left. It was no more than two car lengths back when it shifted into his lane.
    He checked his speedometer: fifty-eight. Not fast enough to warrant a ticket, not so slow as to be suspicious. The trooper came closer and closer, until he was less than twenty feet away. Inside the car Barton could see a shadowy, expressionless young driver, an older man beside him. He gulped air and tried to think. What could possibly have drawn them to him?
    What indeed: he was