The Third Hill North of Town

by Noah Bly

  “Günter is going to be furious with us,” she clucked. “Somebody should take a switch to Steve for breaking that lock.”

  She was able to hear their voices through the open window, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She smiled, though, to see Ben actually engaged in a conversation with the older boy; Ben had few friends other than herself and her older brothers, and she always worried about him being lonely.

  Get on with it, girl. She shook her head, realizing she was stalling. The sooner you’re done, the better.

  She took a final look around the bright, cheerful kitchen. The stove and refrigerator were so clean and white they were almost blinding in the sunlight coming through the window, and the muted-gold linoleum beneath her feet didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. A pair of delicate, blue glass swans were on the kitchen table, and a warm, fragrant breeze was blowing through the curtains. The entire house had the feel of a place that had been meticulously cared for, and loved, for years.

  Julianna blinked back tears, then reached up and removed the wooden match from behind her ear.

  Elijah had no idea what Julianna was preparing to do when she ordered him outside. He was far too rattled to even think of disobeying, though, so right after he snatched a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of bandages from the medicine cabinet in the farmhouse bathroom, he ran for the front door, doing his best to ignore the corpse of the woman in the hallway. (This took some doing, as Bebe’s body was splayed across the hall and he had no choice but to leap over it to get to the front porch.) His shoes, wet from his own vomit, made squishing sounds on the hardwood floor as he came down on the other side of Bebe’s chubby legs, and it was a tremendous relief to burst through the screen door and out into the early evening sunlight.

  The sweet, sharp smells of honeysuckle and mint instantly filled his nostrils, and the sun on his skin was warm and reassuring. Bumblebees still hovered around the herb garden, cows lowed in the milk house, and a cheerful circle of yellow and orange marigolds ringed the base of the mailbox like a lei. It was all so serene and nonthreatening, and made the macabre scene he had just left behind him seem even more grotesque by comparison.

  Jon was over by the barn, struggling with a massive sliding door. Elijah sprinted across the lawn to help, but as he neared the barn he slowed, dreading Jon’s reaction to the tale of the dead woman in the house. He came to a halt and set the hydrogen peroxide and the bandages at the base of the water pump, next to the plastic bag containing Jon’s belongings. He squirmed a little when the older boy glanced over his shoulder and met his eyes.

  For his part, Jon had only just resumed his search for gasoline. His wild flight across the pasture and the jog back had winded him, and he’d needed to rest for a minute before finishing what he’d started when he’d broken the padlock. The barn door had proven obstinate, though, even when unlocked, and by the time Elijah arrived he’d only managed to budge it an inch or two.

  He started to speak but fell silent as he studied the other boy. Elijah was plainly upset; his face was tight with strain and he looked as if he were trying not to cry.

  Jon’s stomach sank as he let go of the door and turned around. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Elijah blinked, distressed. It bothered him that he couldn’t keep a secret when he wanted to, but he supposed it was to be expected. His folks had always told him his face was as easy to read as a billboard.

  He began to sputter. “Uh, well, there’s a . . . we were in . . . I mean I was in the bathroom and this old lady . . . I guess she’s not that old, but she kind of . . . well, walked in on me while I was peeing, and she screamed really, really loud and ran out again but then she . . . well . . . it was . . . she must have tripped and . . . and . . . she sort of . . . I mean I think she did, ’cause I didn’t see it . . . but she must have hit her head on the stairs or something, and . . . and then . . . well, she just . . . I . . . she, then she . . .”

  He looked away, chin trembling.

  The skin on Jon’s scalp began to crawl. “Then she what, Elijah?”

  Elijah’s voice broke. “She died,” he whispered. “She just died.”

  Jon fell backward. His butt banged into the barn door and he slid to the ground.

  “Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ,” he whispered, burying his head in his hands. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “It was an accident,” Elijah pleaded. “I swear to God it was an accident. We didn’t even know she was in the house.”

  Jon’s shoulders were shaking. “Jesus God, who are you people?” he moaned into his palms. “Why did I ever get in that fucking car with you two psychos?”

  Elijah stepped back, stung.

  “I was just peeing!” he protested. “I tried to calm her down but she wouldn’t listen!” He stared down with resentment at the top of Jon’s head. “You were the one who told me to go inside,” he mumbled.

  Jon’s head sank between his knees. “Holy shit.” His voice came out muffled. “We are so fucked.”

  Elijah hugged his bare ribs, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. He racked his brain for something else to say, desperate to change the subject.

  “Did you find any gas, Steve?” he blurted. “Julianna said we should meet her by the car with the gas.”

  Jon raised his head. “My name isn’t Steve.” His gray eyes were stunned and weary. “It’s Jon.”

  Elijah gaped back at him. “What?”

  Jon shrugged. “Long story.” He felt disconnected from his own body; he couldn’t seem to feel anything from the neck down. You’re in shock, a matter-of-fact voice in his head informed him. This is what shock feels like.

  He rubbed his temples and squinted up at Elijah. “I didn’t want you to know my real name,” he said drily, “but since we’re both going to be dead soon I figured I should go ahead and introduce myself.”

  Elijah stared at him, bewildered. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his jeans as he tried to come up with an appropriate response. “Why’d you lie?”

  Jon sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” He continued to watch the other boy for a minute, then held out a hand. “Help me up, would you?”

  Elijah’s inborn reluctance to touch other people usually prevented him from doing such things, but after a brief hesitation he grasped Jon’s outstretched hand in his own and pulled him to his feet. Jon grunted thanks and released him before glancing down the hill once again at the lifeless Edsel on the shoulder of the empty highway. His shock was passing, and panic began to fill the vacuum it left behind.

  “Elijah,” he said urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

  He could sense Elijah’s eyes studying the side of his face, and he turned to confront him.

  “We should just forget about finding gas for Julianna’s car, too, because every cop in the country is going to be on the lookout for it. The two of us should just take off on foot, and not stop running until we’re a hundred miles from this place.”

  Elijah bit his lip and gazed across the pasture at the forest for what seemed like an hour.

  “What about Julianna?” he asked at last.

  Jon scowled. “She’ll be fine.” He waved away a horsefly trying to land on Elijah’s shoulder. “They’ll just take her back to the looney bin, or the circus, or wherever the hell it was she escaped from. But if you and me get caught, we’re screwed.”

  Elijah was rigid with fear, but he slowly shook his head as he met Jon’s eyes again.

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “She trusts me.”

  Jon gawked at him. “Are you nuts, man?” Frustration and terror welled up in him, and he was suddenly furious. He began to yell. “That cop almost KILLED you, remember? And that was before you went and MURDERED an old woman in her own goddamn house! What the fuck do you think they’ll do to you NOW?”

  Elijah stumbled, almost falling, and his dark brown eyes spilled tears down his cheeks.

  “I didn’t murder anybody!” he cried. He looked away, sobbing. “She fell!” he choked out. �
�It was an accident!”

  Jon knew that screaming at Elijah wasn’t helping anything, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. The younger boy was being unbelievably thick-witted, and he had a wild impulse to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his moronic little head popped off.

  “Are all black people as dumb as you are?” he pressed, glaring. “Do you really think anybody will believe you when you say it was an accident? Jesus, Elijah, Julianna killed a COP, and they’re gonna blame it on us! You might as well strap yourself to a goddamn electric chair and flip the fucking switch yourself if you think we can afford to wait around here and babysit Julianna!”

  Elijah closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears. “I KNOW!” he howled. “I KNOW, all right?” He opened his eyes again and dropped his arms, trying to calm down. “But I still don’t think it’s right to leave her, okay? It’s just . . . not right, that’s all.”

  Something inside Jon snapped.

  “Fine!” he bellowed into Elijah’s face. “Just stay here and get caught, then, you retarded little douche bag, but I’m leaving!”

  Elijah had never heard the expression “douche bag” before, and normally he would have been quite taken with it. He loved learning new curse words, especially when he wasn’t sure what they meant. But he didn’t like being called retarded one little bit, and his own temper flared in response.

  “GO AHEAD!” he yelled back. “Just run away like a big fat CHICKENSHIT, then! See if I care!”

  The accusation of cowardice hit too close to the bone for Jon. He was already feeling lousy about running away from his family and his hometown that very morning, and he thought it was unfair to be labeled a “big fat chickenshit” by someone whose life he had saved less than half an hour ago. Without thinking, he threw a full-body tackle at Elijah and brought him down in a screeching heap in the dirt by the water pump.

  “What are you DOING?” Elijah wailed in horror, struggling to free himself from Jon’s grip.

  “I’m not a chickenshit!” Jon huffed, trying without success to pin the other boy’s flailing arms. “Take it back right now!”

  “No!” Elijah cried.

  As a shy, nonconfrontational child with no siblings and few friends, Elijah had never wrestled with anybody before, let alone been in a fight, and he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do. He had taken more than his share of verbal abuse at school, of course, but had somehow always managed to avoid violence, largely by keeping his mouth shut and his eyes downcast. He had seen many westerns with barroom brawls, of course—Shane was an all-time favorite—but this frenzied, spastic clash of elbows and knees was not anything he had been prepared for.

  “Get off!” he squalled, writhing. “Get the hell off me!”

  “Not until you take it back!” Jon gasped, narrowly avoiding a sharp knee to the groin. “Say it! Say I’m not a chickenshit!”

  “No! Not until you say I’m not a murderer!”

  Whatever counteroffer Jon might have made was never given utterance; Elijah’s right hand lashed out and connected with Jon’s left ear in a wide-fingered slap. Jon tumbled off Elijah with a yowl and sprawled in the dirt beside the other boy, cradling the side of his head and swearing.

  “Ow, goddammit! What’d you do that for?” he yelped. “That really HURT!”

  Elijah rolled away from him, both astonished and appalled by this development. “I didn’t mean to!” he said. “You were trying to kill me!”

  “I wasn’t either!” Jon worked his jaw from side to side in an attempt to silence the high-pitched ringing in his ear. “I was just trying to . . . I don’t know . . . trying to get you to stop being such a dick!”

  Elijah stared at him, nonplussed. He still had tears in his eyes, but his heartbeat was slowing down again.

  Was I being a dick? he wondered. Another disadvantage of being a loner was that he always felt as if an arbitrary set of rules governed every social interaction, and everybody else in the world except for him knew and understood these rules. Was it possible that “chickenshit” was a worse insult than “douche bag”?

  “But you called me a bad name before I called you one,” he said uncertainly.

  Jon made a face. “That’s because you were being a dick, man,” he insisted, sitting up. There was an angry red palm print on the skin next to his ear. He looked at the ground as Elijah brushed dirt off his jeans and sniffled.

  “I wasn’t being a dick,” Elijah said under his breath. “You were.”

  “I was not.”

  “Were so.”

  Both boys fell silent. Elijah sniffled again and then, unable to help himself, began once more to cry in earnest.

  “I’m not . . . not a murd . . . murderer,” he hiccuped. “It was an acci . . . accident.”

  The suffering in his voice was palpable, and Jon bit his lip, suddenly ashamed of himself.

  “I know,” he mumbled, his own eyes starting to burn. “I’m sorry I said that. I really am. I know you didn’t murder her.” He swallowed hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Please stop crying.”

  Elijah’s shoulders hitched as he fought for control. “I want my mom and dad,” he sobbed, turning away. He was aware this was a childish thing to say, but he didn’t care. “I want to go home.”

  Jon waited beside him in remorseful silence. The need for haste was gnawing at him, but he forced himself to remain motionless as an act of penance. He stared over at the younger boy’s quivering, naked back, and tried to think of what else he could say to convince Elijah to come away with him, but he soon gave up, believing any argument he might make would be useless. He looked down the hill at the Edsel one last time, and then over at the woods with hopeless longing. He had no idea why he wasn’t already running for his life; he had already done everything he could do for Elijah, and there was nothing left but to say good-bye.

  I must be out of my fucking mind, Jon thought angrily. He plucked a tuft of grass from the ground and flung it away, then rose to his feet, shaking his head in wonder at his own stupidity. Whatever’s wrong with Julianna must be as contagious as a goddamn cold.

  He spun toward the barn again and put his hands on the side of the door, tugging as hard as he could. The crack he’d already made widened another couple of inches.

  “Oh, come on, you piece of crap,” he muttered at the door.

  Elijah raised his head in surprise, having been sure the older boy was preparing to flee. He wiped his face and swallowed as he watched Jon labor with the door, then he forced himself to stand up, too. He took a deep breath and stepped forward to help, and Jon quietly made room for him at his side. Working in tandem, the two of them pried the door open bit by bit, causing the rusted wheels in the long metal track above their heads to screech in protest.

  “Whew,” Jon breathed when they had created an opening wide enough to allow them to finally see inside the right side of the barn. The acrid scent of cat urine made him wrinkle his nose as he took the first step inside. “We better pray there’s some gas in here, man,” he said bleakly.

  The sun pierced the darkness at the front of the barn, lighting up a dirt floor and a wall of neatly hung tools. A large glass-doored cabinet full of veterinary supplies and medicine bottles stood alongside an impressive tool bench with two expensive-looking electric saws bolted to it; a flimsy-looking ladder was nailed to the wall and led up to a mostly empty hayloft.

  “I don’t see any gas,” Elijah said, coming up behind him.

  Jon didn’t, either, but he was too distracted to answer. He was staring at the back of the barn, in the shadows, where a canvas tarp spattered with bat and swallow droppings was draped over what appeared to be a small, humpbacked automobile.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  “Goodness,” Julianna had whispered as she wandered from room to room in Chuck and Bebe Stockton’s house. She was clasping the bag of stolen food to her breast as if it were a sleeping toddler. “Look at all these swans!”

  The dairy farmh
ouse reminded her somewhat of her own house in Pawnee. Julianna’s mother, Emma, collected glass knickknacks, too—though she preferred unicorns and angels to waterfowl—and, like Bebe, Emma Larson ran a tight ship when it came to housecleaning. More than this, however, was the warm, welcoming feeling Julianna sensed no matter where she turned. The wood floors had been worn smooth by the bare feet of children and the boots of men; bright, handcrafted afghans adorned overstuffed chairs; the walls were filled with black-and-white photographs of graduation celebrations, anniversaries, birthdays, and family reunions.

  Julianna had a lump in her throat as she spotted a stack of newspapers next to the sofa in the living room and a kerosene lamp on a table in the corner.

  It’s such a shame, she thought, fingering the match she had taken from the kitchen drawer. She heard raised voices coming from outside and paused to listen.

  “What on earth?” she murmured. She tried to make out what was being said, but could only distinguish a few angry words. She shook her head, wondering what her companions were arguing about. It wasn’t like Ben to yell, and this further example of aberrant behavior disturbed her. He was acting so erratically, and she simply couldn’t understand what had gotten into him. He was usually so good-natured and forgiving.

  “It could be puberty, I suppose,” she muttered.

  A picture on the wall caught her eye. It was of three well-dressed and groomed young children, two girls and a boy, standing in front of the house. Bebe Stockton’s “brood” had posed for Bebe on an Easter Sunday, long ago, as the Stockton family prepared to leave for church. The girls looked to be about nine and seven, but the little boy—Bebe Stockton’s son, Virgil—could only have been four years old or so. Julianna took a closer look at the boy in the photograph and almost dropped the grocery sack.

  “Gabriel?” she whispered.

  Coincidence loves to play with a disturbed mind.

  The name had popped into her head for no reason she could comprehend. Nor did she have any idea why the sight of a child she had never seen before had given her such a shock. But the boy—towheaded and smiling, in an adorable plaid vest and dark pants—looked quite familiar to her, and she felt certain she had once known somebody very much like him, with an unruly cowlick and a gap-toothed grin. She clutched the bag to her chest with one arm and reached out her free hand to touch the picture, trying to remember who the darling little stranger reminded her of, but nothing else came to her.