The Third Hill North of Town (43 page)

Twenty seconds, however, was more than long enough for Candace Perona-Schonhorst to discover a perfect hiding place for three of her tiny plastic riflemen.

 

Bonnor was a very good shot, and by all rights the large, lethal buckshot in the shells
should
have ripped through Jon Tate’s back and burrowed straight into Elijah Hunter afterward. But sadly—at least from Bonnor’s perspective—it was not to be: The small, clever fingers of seven-year-old Candace had done their work well, and the three tiny toy rifleman she had jammed deep into the barrel of the shotgun caused the weapon to explode in Bonnor’s face instead.

“FUCK!!” Bonnor wailed, dropping the ruined weapon and clutching his face in agony. The stock of the shotgun had slammed into his cheek with enough force to fracture the bone beneath his right eye, and he was blinded in that same eye by a microscopic bit of shrapnel. He reeled away from his squad car and fell into the ditch, still howling.

“FUCK!!” he shrieked again.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” roared the first Missouri trooper. “NO ONE ELSE DO A GODDAMN THING UNTIL I SAY SO!”

“Are you all right, Bonnor?” Iowa Trooper Walling called.

“NO, I’M NOT FUCKING ALL RIGHT!” Bonnor squealed, spitting out a broken molar.

“What just happened?” Jon Tate whispered to Elijah, who was still beneath him. From where they were, Jon could see Bonnor thrashing around in the ditch, but he didn’t dare raise his head to investigate further. He was in no hurry to move, anyway; the side of his face was pressed against Elijah’s back, and each and every inhalation Elijah took felt to Jon like a holy blessing, as did the frantic pounding of his own heart.

“Beats me,” Elijah murmured in answer to Jon’s question, resting his head on the earth and feeling strangely at peace. “But I don’t think Boner liked it very much.”

“Yeah,” Jon agreed. “He sounds kinda upset.”

“FUCK!” cried Bonnor Tucker.

Epilogue

J
ulianna Dapper and her son, Gabriel, were buried in the Lone Rock Cemetery in Hatfield, Missouri, right next to the graves of Eben, Emma, Seth, and Michael Larson—and just a few yards away from Ben Taylor. There was already a headstone there for Julianna, of course, but rather than attempt to sort out precisely whose remains were buried beneath each of the old stones, it was determined by a county judge that none of the Larsons’ graves should be disturbed, and a new stone should be made for Julianna, as well as Gabriel. No one who had been made privy to Julianna’s account of what had really taken place at the Larson farm on the night of the Pawnee fire was thrilled by this ruling, however, and Mary Taylor even went so far as to threaten to dig up Rufus Tarwater with her bare hands from beneath Eben Larson’s weathered tombstone and toss his “filthy, murdering bones in the trash.” After being informed that very little of Rufus would still be “tossable” after thirty-nine years in the earth, Mary was only slightly mollified.

“His damn dust is as bad as the rest of him,” she had snapped at the judge before at last giving up. “No part of that man has any business being left next to those good people.”

The graveside funeral for Julianna and Gabriel was attended by Elijah Hunter, Jon Tate, Mary Taylor, Sam and Mary Hunter, Dr. Edgar Reilly, and Jon Tate’s parents, Earl and Marline, who had flown out to Missouri to be with their son through all the legal proceedings. The sky was cloudless, and the aromas of freshly dug earth and roses mingled with the less pleasant bouquet of cow dung from a pasture bordering the cemetery. The minister of the Lone Rock Church asked if anyone would like to say a few words about either Julianna or Gabriel, and Elijah tried to say something about Julianna but was unable to speak. Jon tried to come to his rescue but fell mute himself after only a sentence or two, so in the end it was Edgar Reilly who felt called upon to offer a short eulogy.

“I never knew Julianna when she was sane,” Edgar said, furtively removing a lemon drop from beneath his tongue so he could speak clearly. “And I only really knew Gabriel when he was under a terrific strain. I’m sure neither of them would have chosen to be remembered in this manner, and I’m sorry I didn’t know them when they were . . . more themselves. But regardless of their mental states at the end, their deaths are a terrible tragedy.”

Edgar’s voice abruptly roughened and he paused. It was another blistering summer morning and he was perspiring heavily, though not nearly as much from the heat as from his smarting conscience. He glanced over at the iron fence surrounding the cemetery, and at the small, whitewashed Lone Rock church nearby, where Julianna and her family had once been parishioners. Edgar’s gaze at last fell on the two sad boys standing by Julianna’s open grave, and he spoke directly to them when he resumed.

“There are many, many things I wish I had handled differently in all of this,” he said quietly. “I am sorrier than I can say for everything you boys have gone through, and as I told the authorities, you are not to blame for
any
of the awful things that happened. My only consolation is that if Julianna hadn’t escaped from my care, she may never have found the peace she so desperately needed. Nor would she have met the two of you, and I believe she was very lucky to have you with her on her strange odyssey. It comforts me to know she spent her last days on earth with people who were kind to her, and cared for her, and did everything in their power to keep her safe. Thank God for you boys.”

“Amen,” Mary Taylor murmured, and Mary Hunter reached out and briefly took Edgar’s hand in her own as he fell silent again.

Over the past few days Elijah and Jon had gotten to know Edgar a little. At first they’d found him a little pompous, and overfond of giving unsolicited advice, but they’d gradually warmed to him, especially after learning everything he had done to get them out of trouble. The FBI had completed its investigation, and Edgar’s testimony had proven crucial in proving their innocence. He had insisted that everything that had happened was Julianna’s doing, and consistent with her pathology. That Lloyd Eagleton had finally awakened from his coma and confirmed that Julianna had indeed been driving the Edsel when it had run over him was also pivotal, as was Mary Taylor’s account of what had passed between Julianna and her supposed “captors” after Julianna was shot.

Moreover, Cecil and Sarah Towpath—the elderly couple who had first reported Julianna’s kidnapping—were sought out, and soon confessed to exaggerating their account of the incident. The FBI also had an equally fruitful telephone conversation with Sal Cavetti, the perpetually stoned poet who had accused the boys of raping Julianna, in which Sal was told by the lead investigator to “Cut the bullshit, freak, or I’ll drive out there myself and kick you in the ass so hard your goddamn balls will pop off.” The hastily updated testimonies of the Towpaths and Sal in hand, there remained only one felony indictment against the boys: The assault on Deputy Bonnor Tucker at the Maddox jailhouse. Mary Hunter paid the stubborn deputy a short visit, and thirty minutes later—after the district attorney received an urgent phone call from a gibbering Bonnor Tucker—the FBI’s two most wanted criminals were no longer wanted for much of anything. Jon still faced prosecution for stealing cash from his employer, but as Jon’s parents promised to take him back to Tipton to make amends (and, unknown to the police, to tend to Becky Westman’s pregnancy), both boys were free to attend the funeral for Julianna and Gabriel on the following morning.

And after that, to part company and go home.

They stood side by side as Julianna’s casket was lowered into the earth. As they listened to the minister’s benediction the reality of what was going to happen in the next few minutes began to sink in. Jon would get into his parents’ rental car—along with Edgar Reilly, who was hitching a ride—and head south to the Kansas City airport, and Elijah would join Sam and Mary in their pickup and depart immediately for the east.

I can’t believe this,
Elijah thought, with a tight knot in his stomach. He had known the separation with Jon was coming, of course, but until that moment he’d managed to put it out of his mind.
First Julianna, now Jon.

Hold your shit together,
Jon Tate ordered himself sternly as he felt his eyes beginning to burn.
Don’t be a baby.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” the minister intoned, “amen.”

Mary Hunter looked at her son and Jon, and without a word spoken she herded Jon’s parents and the rest of the adults away from Julianna’s grave, allowing the boys some privacy to say their good-byes. Elijah and Jon stood in awkward silence until the others were out of earshot, and then Jon knelt slowly beside Julianna’s grave and tossed a handful of earth onto her casket. Elijah knelt beside him and stared with dismay at an earthworm wriggling around in the wall of dirt an inch or so above the lid of the coffin.

“So,” Jon muttered. “That’s everything, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Elijah whispered. “I guess so.”

Jon glanced over at him and cleared his throat. “You clean up good,” he said. “I can’t get used to seeing you in a suit.”

Elijah was wearing a new dark blue suit his mother had bought him for the funeral. The bruises on his face were beginning to fade and the bags under his eyes had vanished. Jon was also wearing a suit; his parents had brought the brown three-piece Jon had last worn to his senior prom in high school. It was a little too short in the arms now, but it still fit reasonably well and made him appear older than usual.

“You look okay, too,” Elijah answered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You shaved.”

Jon grimaced. “Mom made me.”

“My mother made me shave, too.” Elijah paused. “I don’t really know why, though. I’ve only got about four hairs on my whole face.”

They fell silent again and listened to the wind blowing through the stones of the graveyard. They could hear the adults talking softly over in the small gravel driveway beside the church; Edgar Reilly was holding forth about something or other and it sounded as if Mary Taylor was teasing him.

Elijah cleared his throat. “So are your folks still mad?”

Jon shrugged. “They’ve stopped chewing me out for taking the money and running away, but Mom keeps going on and on about Becky Westman and the baby. She stopped yelling at me for a few minutes this morning, though, so I think she’s starting to run out of steam.”

Elijah bit his lip. “Will they make you get married?”

“I dunno.” Jon broke apart a dirt clod and let the loose earth run through his fingers. “Before I ran away, Becky’s parents said they’d call the cops if we didn’t get hitched, but maybe they’ve calmed down by now.” He paused and sighed. “I doubt it, though. They were mad as hell.”

Elijah untied a shoe and then retied it. “Maybe they’ll just let you pay child support or something.”

“Maybe.” Jon resisted scratching at the wound in his chest; it was itching a lot as it healed. “But either way I’m going to have to get a real job now, I guess.” He tried to smile. “I’m not too worried about it, though. Know what I mean? After everything you and me have gone through, Becky and her folks don’t seem so scary.”

Elijah smiled back. “Yeah. At least they’re not shooting at you.”

“Yeah, that’s a plus.” Jon sighed, smile fading. “I almost wish they would, though. It might make things easier.”

Jon’s dad called out to tell them they had to leave soon if they were going to be on time for their flight. Jon waved to acknowledge he’d heard.

“Listen . . .” he started, turning back to Elijah, but his voice stopped cooperating before he got any further.

Elijah nodded and his eyes brimmed over. “You better get going.”

Jon’s chin trembled and he struggled to swallow. “I’ll come visit as soon as I get things straightened out a little,” he said. “That’s a promise, man. Okay?”

Elijah nodded again and wiped his eyes. “I’d like that. I can show you around our farm.”

Talking about getting together helped, but not a lot.

He’ll probably forget all about me,
Elijah thought.

Once he gets home I’ll probably never hear from him again,
Jon told himself.

Elijah rose to his feet and helped Jon get up, too. They stood beside Julianna’s grave for another long moment, then Jon reached out and pulled the younger boy into a fierce embrace. Elijah squeezed back just as tightly, feeling Jon’s ear against his own ear, feeling his friend’s tears on his own cheek.

“Seeya, man,” Jon murmured at last.

“Seeya,” Elijah said.

 

Deputy Bonnor Tucker would wear an eye patch for the rest of his days. To his endless torment, this did not lessen the taunts about his name; in fact, it worsened them. The scamps of Creighton County found demonic inspiration in Bonnor’s misfortune, and came up with a fresh batch of nicknames—including “Long John Nutsack” and “Bonerbeard”—to add to the old standbys.

Dottie Buckley had a terrible time dealing with the death of her husband, Ronnie. She moved out of the apartment above the Maddox jailhouse and rented a small house a few blocks away, but her loneliness grew with each passing day, and she tried to take her own life just four short months after Ronnie’s funeral. What pushed her over the edge was the premiere broadcast of
McHale’s Navy
on television. Seeing Ernest Borgnine on the small screen was too much for her; she couldn’t bear remembering how well Ronnie had imitated Borgnine, and how much pleasure it would have given him to watch his Oscar-winning hero each and every week, in the privacy and comfort of their own living room. Dottie, never a drinker, promptly ran out to the liquor store and purchased a bottle of rum, which she then slugged down in its entirety, along with a quantity of sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed the week before. She had been having trouble sleeping in spite of the pills, but on this night she almost found eternal rest, curled up in Ronnie’s old armchair. One of her sons dropped by for a visit, however, and discovered her in the nick of time; the same son came to the hospital the following day to get her after she had recovered, and insisted she come live with him and his wife. Dottie became a grandmother soon thereafter, and found a great deal of joy late in life helping to take care of little Ronnie, her grandson, who looked a great deal like Ernest Borgnine.

Orville Horvath, the fire-worshipping marshal from New Hampshire, nearly burned to death in an accidental blaze at his own home, but was saved at the last minute by Lucy the Rottweiler. The diminutive marshal had decorated his Christmas tree with multiple candles (in the Scandinavian fashion) and had fallen asleep on the floor while admiring his handiwork. The tree caught fire, and Lucy—who had been confined to the basement earlier in punishment for eating one of the candles—clawed her way through the basement door and physically dragged Orville from the living room after he had passed out from smoke inhalation. Lucy’s frantic barking alerted a neighbor who summoned the fire department, and both Orville and Lucy escaped from the fire unscathed, save for the bite marks on Orville’s ankle from where Lucy had clamped on to him. Unfortunately, Orville suffered extreme humiliation after waking up on his own front lawn: The tree-lighting ritual he had been engaged in (decidedly un-Scandinavian in origin) had required him to be naked, and even after being wrapped in a blanket by the firemen, he was unable to conceal the excitement he felt as he gazed at the flames ravaging his home. His superiors dismissed him from active duty shortly thereafter, and he and Lucy moved out of the state, never to be heard from again.

Mary Taylor lived another seven years after the deaths of Julianna and Gabriel Dapper. She passed quietly in her bed one night, dreaming of her husband, Silas, and her son, Ben, and of their years together in Pawnee. Edgar Reilly wept when he heard of her death; the two of them had become unlikely pen pals and he found himself missing her letters terribly after she was gone. She was buried in the Lone Rock Cemetery with her family, and because she had outlived almost everyone with whom she had shared her life, there was almost no one at her funeral. Her passing marked the true end of Pawnee, as well, for she was the last soul on earth who had once lived there, and could still picture the little town in her mind’s eye.