by Noah Bly
His hospital, where people wouldn’t dream of brushing aside whatever kindnesses he wished to bestow.
The key to Julianna Dapper’s psychosis, he believed (attempting to ignore Mary as much as she appeared to be ignoring him), was already in his grasp. It clearly had something to do with all the people Julianna had spoken of time and again in the past month. Her parents and two older brothers figured prominently in many of the remarks she’d made, but many other names seemed almost as important—the young boy “Ben,” for instance, whom she never failed to mention. The selective nature of her memories regarding these individuals who had once been dear to her made for a fascinating case study in itself, but the problem was that Edgar had no idea how much of what he had gleaned from her was rooted in fact, and how much was sheer fantasy.
Thus far, he had not been able to confirm the existence of the town of Pawnee itself, nor a single soul she had referred to. This by itself wasn’t necessarily a reason to discount her tales, however. The events she described had occurred (ostensibly) nearly four decades ago, and a tiny town such as the one Julianna said she came from might have changed names or been assimilated into a neighboring community in the intervening years, and its citizens, too, would have been swallowed by time, a world war, and God knew what else. Nevertheless, since Edgar had been able to learn nothing useful about Julianna’s early life from any of her coworkers and friends in Bangor, he was forced to question almost everything she’d said.
Oddly enough, Gabriel Dapper, too, possessed little knowledge of his mother’s childhood—or so Gabriel had explained to Edgar early on in Julianna’s treatment. She had always been closemouthed about her past, even with her son, and the most she had been willing to share was that she had grown up on a farm in Missouri, and that her parents and brothers had died long before he was born. Whenever Gabriel pushed for more information, however, she changed the subject, or became cross with him and abruptly ended the conversation. She was apparently just as taciturn about Gabriel’s father, and Gabriel had long since given up asking the kinds of questions he knew would only cause her pain.
Edgar’s mind drifted again.
The M&M’s are a metaphor of some sort, he thought irrelevantly, pursing his lips as his inner demons renewed their assault on his peace of mind. Perhaps I’m seeing them as a symbol of a shared spiritual journey, which would explain why Mary’s rejection feels so emasculating.
Edgar’s “shared spiritual journey” with the Hunters had begun an hour and a half earlier, when he had worked up the nerve to speak to the black couple in the driveway of the dairy farm while Fire Marshal Horvath was over by the barn and Gabriel was sitting alone in the Cadillac. Edgar was still out of breath from Lucy the Rottweiler’s vicious attack, and from the hike back up the hill in the pale moonlight. His growing suspicions about Julianna’s role in her own kidnapping—and the subsequent house fire—were also contributing to his breathlessness; he was trying to work up the nerve to share these concerns but didn’t quite know how to broach the subject.
“That stupid damn dog should be euthanized,” he’d rasped, hoping the Hunters would be willing to respond to this conversational gambit.
Sam and Mary had turned to him. Mary’s tone wasn’t harsh when she spoke, but neither was it welcoming. “What can we do for you, Dr. Reilly?”
Edgar had clasped his hands in front of his waist and looked furtively around the yard before answering. Orville and his underlings were all out of hearing range, yet Edgar instinctively lowered his voice.
“I believe I may know where to look for your son,” he’d blurted.
The Hunters’ dark eyes had fastened on him with an intensity that made his mouth go dry. The naked, desperate hope he could read on their faces tugged at both his heart and his conscience.
“How is that possible?” Mary, too, had spoken in a whisper. Her voice and gaze were unwavering but her narrow shoulders trembled ever so slightly. “What do you know that we don’t?”
“It’s only a guess.” Edgar fidgeted, choosing his words with extreme care. “But I think . . . well, it’s certainly possible, that is, though not necessarily the case at all . . . but I think Elijah may actually be . . . well, he just might be taking Julianna home.”
This hadn’t been exactly true, of course, but Edgar allowed himself the little white lie, not yet willing to overly implicate Julianna in all that had occurred.
“You think Elijah is doing what?” Mary’s voice rose enough to alarm Edgar, but she’d regained control of her emotions quickly. She glanced at Sam for several long moments, then at last turned back to Edgar. “You don’t think our son kidnapped Julianna,” she said bluntly. “You think she’s the one calling the shots.”
The quickness of her perception alarmed Edgar; he’d thought it safer not to answer.
“What do you mean, Elijah is ‘taking Julianna home’?” Sam had demanded, struggling to keep up. “Why would he do that?”
Edgar looked away, feigning an interest in the ashes of the farmhouse. “I’m not sure,” he said. He had felt their eyes probing the side of his face and he began to squirm. “Perhaps he’s just being a good Samaritan,” he muttered.
Mary had snorted. “I don’t believe that for a moment,” she said, “and I don’t think you do, either, Dr. Reilly.” She glanced down at the forlorn shadow of the Edsel on the highway, with its nose pointed due west. “But if you’re right about where they might be headed, then they’re going the wrong way, aren’t they? We were told Julianna lived in Bangor before she got sent to the funny farm.”
Edgar didn’t care for the phrase “funny farm,” but he’d decided it was wiser not to scold Mary for using it. He faced the Hunters once more and shook his head, relieved to have a question he could answer without prevaricating.
“Julianna has no memory of her life in Bangor.” He wanted something to soothe his nerves but his fingers hovered indecisively between the cigarettes in his shirt pocket and the candy in his suit coat. “That’s why I think it’s far more likely they’re on their way back to where she grew up. She thinks her home is still there.”
Orville Horvath’s high, reedy voice called out in the night, telling his subordinates to pack up for the night, but the Hunters and Edgar had barely heard him.
“And where exactly is that?” Mary’s lips barely moved.
“A little town in northern Missouri called Pawnee,” Edgar had answered.
The wind stirred restlessly, as if something were troubling its sleep. The few remaining coals in the ruins of the dairy farmhouse had flared up, and the firemen and officers on the lawn behind them began moving across the trampled and scorched grass. Inexplicably, the hair on the back of Edgar’s neck stood up as he watched the men drift toward the Hunters and himself like ghosts in a graveyard. The officers’ flashlights began snapping off in the darkness as they passed by without speaking on the way to their cars; two or three went out at the same time, but the others flickered off within seconds, too, leaving only the moonlight and the stars to see by.
Sam, too, appeared to be unnerved by the spectral scene, but if Mary felt a similar unease, she didn’t show it.
“Why didn’t Gabriel say something to us about this?” She’d paused, her dark eyes studying Edgar with disturbing shrewdness. “And why aren’t the two of you already on your way to Pawnee, if that’s where you think you can find Julianna?”
Edgar was growing more ashamed of himself by the second; his fear of inviting a lawsuit by admitting what he suspected about Julianna now seemed both self-serving and cowardly.
“I haven’t told him yet,” Edgar mumbled, sweating through the back of his suit coat as he’d glanced over at the Cadillac. He could see Gabriel’s dark form sitting behind the steering wheel, huge and motionless. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was more certain.”
Mary Hunter had reached an opinion by then about the type of person Edgar Reilly was. She was far from impressed, yet she was nonetheless thankful he had chosen to
speak up at last—and that he’d approached her and Sam before telling Gabriel Dapper. If Gabriel had found out earlier, he’d likely already be halfway to Missouri by now, and she and Sam would’ve had no chance to run interference for Elijah.
She’d searched the darkness again to make sure no one could hear them. She could see the outlines of tiny Orville Horvath and the massive rottweiler still standing by the doorway of the barn, but all the other men had already left or were in their vehicles and pulling away down the driveway.
“Very well,” she’d said at last, turning back to Edgar. “I’m assuming you didn’t say anything to the fire marshal for . . . similar reasons?”
Edgar nodded, looking sheepish. “Should I tell him now, do you think?”
Mary pursed her lips. “My son got shot at by the last policeman he saw, Dr. Reilly,” she said. “There’s blood in your car, and for all we know Elijah may have been badly hurt. As far I’m concerned, the police don’t need to know a God-blessed thing.”
Her voice was soft, but there was something in it that had made Edgar’s tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. Unable to reply, he’d nodded ardently, just to make certain she knew where he stood.
The three of them had walked over to the Cadillac and broken the news to Gabriel. Gabriel rolled down his window as they approached, and Mary told him everything Edgar had just related to Sam and herself. Gabriel listened in silence until she was finished—his large, unblinking eyes intent on her face but also occasionally flicking over to an increasingly uncomfortable Edgar.
“Jesus Christ, Doc,” Gabriel had murmured when Mary was done. “Don’t you think this was probably something you should have mentioned?”
Edgar’s hand drifted into his pants pocket and fingered a butterscotch toffee he’d been saving for an emergency. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t want to say anything because it was only speculation—and still is, by the way—but I was very wrong not to share what I was thinking with you.”
Gabriel stared hard at the older man. “But you honest-to-God think my mother knows what she’s doing?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Edgar said quickly. “I’m just saying that Julianna’s psyche is very complicated, and she’s under a great deal of strain.” He glanced over at the smoking ruins and swallowed before continuing. “But we do know she already committed arson once, before she was committed to the hospital.”
“That was completely different,” Gabriel protested. “That was a garage, and no one got hurt. And Mom didn’t have any idea what she’d done.” He paused for a minute, stewing, then returned his attention to Mary as something else occurred to him. “Even if Dr. Reilly is right”—his face made it clear how much he doubted this—“it still doesn’t explain what your son is doing with her. Why would he be helping Mom, after attacking her? What’s in it for him? Why take her someplace he doesn’t know anything about, halfway across the damn country? What about the other guy that’s with them, for Chrissake?”
Mary had sighed wearily. “I don’t have any answers, Gabriel,” she said, “but what I do know is that we’re not doing any good just standing around here, twiddling our thumbs.” She put her hands on Gabriel’s door and leaned down to look directly in his face. “So here’s the deal. We’re going to Missouri, and I think you should come with us.” Gabriel began to interrupt but she talked over him. “I know you don’t believe your mother has had any say in what’s happened to her, but what if Dr. Reilly is right, and you’re wrong? What if she’s headed exactly where she wants to go?”
“It’s just a guess,” Edgar had demurred anxiously.
Gabriel made a sour face. “What if I’m not wrong, and we end up a thousand miles away from where we need to be?” His thick fingers had drummed restlessly on the steering wheel as anger resurfaced in him, making him want to lash out at the self-possessed woman leaning on his car. “What if your kid and his buddy have dumped my mother’s body in a river someplace, and are now headed to Key West, or the Grand Canyon, or wherever the hell else they feel like slaughtering people?”
Mary had remained unruffled. “Then we can drive to Key West or the Grand Canyon after we check out Missouri.” She paused. “Or do you have a better idea? If you do, I’ll listen.”
Gabriel’s scowl had deepened. “It’s a wild-goose chase, Mary.” He saw the lines of fatigue etched around her eyes and spoke less harshly. “I’m sorry, but that’s all it is. If you think that’s what you should do, though, then who’s stopping you? Go find Pawnee, Missouri, or whatever the hell it’s called, and good luck to you. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to stick around here until I hear something that makes more sense.”
Mary had leaned in closer to the Cadillac. “I’d be happy to part company with you, Gabriel,” she said bluntly. “You think my son is a killer, and that makes you dangerous. But if your mother—and I’m saying if, Gabriel, so please don’t throw another hissy fit—if your mother is somehow forcing Elijah to stay with her, then we may need you to deal with her. She doesn’t know Sam and me from Adam, and if we can’t get through to her, there’s no telling what we might have to do to save Elijah. The last thing on earth I want is to see your mother harmed, but what choice will we have if she won’t let our son go? What will she make us do? Don’t you think you should be there to help her through this?”
Mary’s eyes were unblinking, and her quiet voice was hypnotic. Suddenly unsure of himself, Gabriel looked past Mary’s shoulder at the blackened ruins of the house, his fingers still drumming (in seven-beat patterns) on the steering wheel. Mary had impulsively reached through the window and put her hand on his wrist. Her fingers were as small as a child’s, but they were warm and strong as they gripped him.
“Please come with us, Gabriel,” she’d murmured. “Your mother needs you, and so do we.”
Edgar’s original intention had been to drive his own car, but Mary and Sam had known without asking that the police would not release the Edsel to its rightful owner during an ongoing investigation. Since Gabriel was still visibly annoyed with him, Edgar thus found himself in the Hunters’ pickup an hour and a half later, missing the comfort and power of the Edsel and obsessing over Mary’s apparent disdain for him and his M&M’s.
Edgar now looked over his shoulder, squinting through the rear window of the cab at the headlights of the Cadillac tailing them.
“Gabriel is still there,” he murmured unnecessarily.
Sam nodded to acknowledge Edgar’s observation, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror and then back to the road. Mary just kept staring straight ahead, though, as if she hadn’t heard.
Edgar sulked, feeling snubbed.
Would it kill her to eat just ONE fucking M&M?!! he fumed, resting his arms on his belly as he stared out the window.
Chapter 9
Sal Cavetti gazed through the windshield of the Volkswagen Beetle parked alongside the gas pump at his father’s service station and composed, on the spot, a free verse poem:
“A naked-breasted, narcoleptic Negro and a weary, willowy white boy a-snooze in bucket seats.” Sal paused, putting both hands on the Beetle’s hood and leaning as close to the windshield as he could get. “In back, a fey-faced female slumbers like a dehydrated daffodil,” he continued, “waiting for the sunlight’s wet kiss to re-blossom her maternal milky momhood into wakefulness.”
Sal was the sole employee at the only gas station in Wainwright, Indiana. He was twenty-nine years old, had a ponytail and a luxurious red beard, and often referred to himself, without a trace of irony, as “the Allen Ginsberg of eastern Indiana.”
It was 8:47 a.m. on Sunday, and Sal had breakfasted that morning on three walnut brownies, each laced with a substantial amount of marijuana. Marijuana was a reliable muse for Sal, but he could already tell this Sunday morning in June was going to be particularly productive.
“White-black-white, like a Wonder Bread Chocolate sandwich,” he intoned. “A sweet snack for the eyes, boy-girl-boy in a stubby
lime-green car. The glue-bond of spirit-love lies between their somnolent, sun-dappled souls like invisible mayonnaise.”
Jon Tate opened his eyes and saw a hairy, beer-bellied giant of a man in jeans and a dirty white T-shirt looming over the Beetle, staring in at them and apparently talking to himself. The man’s face was close enough for Jon to get a good look at a small forest of hair sprouting from his large nostrils.
Jon recoiled. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped, flailing his arms and legs.
His seat was reclined back a few inches and he scrambled to find the knob to bring it to its normal position again. Elijah stirred in the passenger seat and Julianna raised her head and blinked in the hot sunlight.
They had pulled into Wainwright at a little after 5:00 a.m. that morning, running on the fumes of their reserve tank. After noting the business hours sign on the service station door, they’d decided to wait until it opened at nine, assuming they would find no other filling station open before then within range of their remaining fuel. The entire downtown area of Wainwright was less than two blocks long, with no city hall, sheriff’s office, or streetlights in evidence, so it seemed unlikely they’d draw attention to themselves. After Jon turned off the engine, all three of them had promptly passed out and slept through the sunrise, with the windows on both doors cracked wide for air.
“Wake up, you guys!” Jon demanded, finally getting his seat upright. “We’ve got trouble!”
He had his hand on the ignition key, ready to make a run for it, but even though the red-bearded stranger in front of the car was still leaning on the hood and gazing in at them with an unsettling intensity, Jon hesitated.
Why is he grinning like that? he wondered, unnerved.
Elijah came fully awake in an instant and also jumped in fright. Sal’s head was less than a foot away from the windshield by this point, and his smile reminded Elijah of the wolf character in the picture book of The Three Little Pigs his mother used to read to him when he was a child.
