by Anne Frasier
The old guy had been right: They were waiting for him in the office. A secretary greeted him with a tight, phony smile that meant she'd been there too many years and now hated every kid ever born, but was trying to hide it because deep down she knew it was wrong to hate so indiscriminately.
She gave him his schedule. She gave him a map. She gave him his locker combination and lunch tickets.
"Who paid for this?" Graham asked.
"Mr. Stroud."
'Bout fucking time.
"Your first class is English, with Mr. Richards. Room 102. Down the hall and take a left."
Graham took the printed schedule and looked at it. What was he doing here? "Thanks."
"On second thought, I'd better come with you." She left the safety of the counter, and side by side they walked down the hallway.
Strips of kraft paper had been taped to the walls and were covered with handwriting from colored Magic Markers. It wasn't until they passed a locker with a cluster of flowers and stuffed animals on the floor that he realized the display was a tribute to the dead girl.
They stopped in front of room 102. It was probably a good thing the secretary had come along. At this point he would have taken off.
She reached around him and opened the door. "Go on."
He stepped inside the doorway and halted. She followed. "I have a new student for you, Mr. Richards."
A million eyes turned to stare.
The teacher was in the front of the room, one leg dangling over the corner of his desk. "Take any empty seat."
Everything was a blur of embarrassment and self-consciousness. Graham hated being the new kid. Fucking hated it.
Frantic, he spotted an empty seat and shot straight for it, quickly sitting down. The kid in front of him gave him a half smile and slid back around. A sound of mass movement—and the class was once again facing forward.
Graham sat there and waited for his heart to quit pounding.
It took a long time.
He had no idea what the teacher was talking about. He didn't care, but vaguely came to attention when the man showed up beside him. Just as suddenly a book appeared on his desk.
Why did schoolbooks always smell like puke? Could anybody explain that? Was it because someone had puked in them? Or was it the ink? The paper? Or did he just associate it with puke? He'd never been able to figure that out, and anytime he ever mentioned it, nobody seemed to have the answer.
Something soft hit him in the back of the head, and a crumpled piece of paper landed on the floor. He ignored it. Another one hit him. He slid around in his seat, ready to throw somebody the finger, when he spotted Isobel sitting in the back of the class. She gave him a little wave, pointed to him, pointed to the floor, then lifted both hands, palms up, in the pantomime question of, What the hell are you doing here?
But she was smiling. Looking kind of happy and surprised at the same time.
He smiled back and shrugged his shoulders. Beats me. Just fell out of the sky
Someone cleared his throat—a sound meant to get Graham's attention. It took him a second to realize the teacher, Mr. Richards, was politely trying to get him to turn back around and listen.
Didn't want to chew out the new kid.
Graham faced front, but spent the rest of class intensely aware of Isobel sitting several seats behind him.
She was waiting for him in the hall after the bell rang. "What are you doing here?" She was dressed in another black skirt, pink tights, and a pink sweater. Her hair had a couple of yellow plastic bar-rettes in it that almost went with the messenger bag over her shoulder.
Standing next to her, he remembered he was wearing the clothes he'd slept in last night. He hadn't taken a shower; he wasn't even sure when he'd last brushed his teeth.
That self-awareness was like a rug being pulled out from under him. It was hard enough talking to a cute girl when you didn't stink.
He looked down at the floor. "It would take a long time to explain." His words sounded curt and impatient, as if she bored him and he wanted to get away. He hadn't meant to sound like that.
"Oh." Her smile faded and she took a step back. From her expression it was obvious she was trying to figure out what had just happened. "Okay."
"Graham!"
He turned to see the hard kids from Peaches lumbering toward him. Travis, the one with the soul patch, who'd told him about the pervert, held out his hand. Graham reached to shake and Travis smacked his palm. Graham hated that shit. "What are you doin' here, man?" Travis asked.
"Decided to stick around for a while."
"Cool. You should come with us after school."
"I can't."
"Then later. Tonight."
"Ah ..." Graham looked over his shoulder. Iso-bel was gone. He spotted her in the distance, her blond hair standing out in the mob of kids moving down the hall, away from him. "I don't have any money." It was true, and better than having to admit he couldn't leave the house.
"You don't need money," Travis said. "We cruise looking for shit to do, or we just hang out at Peaches."
Today was Graham's birthday. A guy should be able to do what he wanted to on his birthday.
Rachel pulled her van to the curb across from Tuonela High School and cut the engine. It wasn't the same high school she and Evan had attended. This was the "new" school, having been built ten years ago.
Kids poured through the double doors, and she kept her eyes open for someone with curly blond hair. Tall. Kinda lanky, her dad had said. And kind of a smart-ass.
Pretty soon she spotted a kid with wildly curly hair striding toward the van. He looked a little lost as he eyed her vehicle. With a jolt of recognition, she realized he was the boy she'd seen downtown near the library.
She waved through the windshield.
He crossed in front of the van to climb in the passenger door. "He said a white van. He failed to mention that it would say 'County Medical Examiner' on the side."
Yep. Smart-ass.
She pulled away from the curb. "My dad likes to keep people guessing."
The smart-ass was nervous, long, thin fingers tapping against a spiral notebook. But he was trying to appear calm, cool, bored.
She gave him a quick glance. Her dad was right: He didn't look like Evan. Nothing that stood out, anyway. He was almost pretty, with that head of hair, clear skin, nice cheekbones. Like an angel. But then, Lydia had been so beautiful people had stopped to stare at her on the street.
"Are you the medical examiner?" Graham asked. "Or do you just work for him?"
Not only was she female, but she'd never dressed the part of medical examiner, preferring jeans and T-shirts. "I'm him."
"So, you do autopsies?"
What about his voice? Was it anything like Evan's? Graham's voice was deep and young, with a little bit of a drawl and a slow delivery that were indicative of the South. But he didn't have what she'd call a Southern accent.
"I'm the coroner and the medical examiner," she told him.
He nodded. "That's cool."
Kids were into blood and guts now. Not like when she was in high school, when girls fainted over dissected frogs. She'd always suspected the fainting was an act, put on for the sake of the boys, who loved it.
Graham looked over his shoulder. "And you carry the bodies around in here?"
"It's not nearly as glamorous as it seems."
What would Evan do if Graham ended up being his child? What then? When he'd denied his existence his entire life? "How was school?"
It didn't escape her that she'd been dropped into the version of the life she'd daydreamed of having with Evan years ago—sans the death mobile and vampire lifestyle.
"It's a school." He shrugged. "They're all the same."
"Do you need anything before we head to Evan's?"
He thought a moment. "I'm kinda hungry."
She hadn't been talking about food; she'd been talking about school supplies. "How about stopping at a cafe?" She could use a cup of coffee. It
occurred to her that he was stalling, that maybe he wasn't looking forward to seeing Evan.
She braked for a red light and took the opportunity to inspect her passenger again. He might have been beautiful, but he also looked delicate, as if he needed a week of good meals and decent sleep. His eyes beneath the curls had dark circles under them.
Thrown away.
How did it feel to be thrown away? Passed off to a stranger? And what if Evan wasn't his father? That might be the bigger question here. What would happen to this child?
She spotted a poster on a nearby wooden electrical pole. A missing poster with a photo of a young woman. Rachel made a right turn and pulled to the curb to get a closer look.
Karen Franklin. Twenty-six years old. Rachel vaguely remembered hearing about the girl's disappearance on the news. Last seen at a bar in a town about a hundred miles north of Tuonela She'd been missing for three weeks.
Any similarity between this missing-persons case and Chelsea Gerber's murder? Not really, other than the fact that both victims were female. Still, she'd run it past her dad. He was waiting on lab results, and seemed to be putting too much faith in DNA. Understandable. He wasn't used to dealing with homicides, and she hated to tell him that DNA evidence wasn't all it was portrayed to be on television. Some people, even law professionals, were under the impression that DNA could solve anything.
And if DNA was found in the samples from the Gerber case? Then what? Collect DNA from every person in town? It had been done before in smaller communities. You couldn't force people to participate, but peer pressure was a big factor in a place like Tuonela.
Her dad needed to look into this. Make sure his suspects hadn't been in Summit Lake, Wisconsin, on the date the woman vanished.
Evan slipped on a pair of dark glasses. With one finger he parted the heavy living room drapes a crack. They should have been here by now. School had let out twenty minutes ago.
He dropped the curtain and regarded the portable phone in his hand. Should he call Rachel? See if everything was okay?
Wait a little longer. Maybe Graham had to talk to a teacher or the principal. Maybe there was a traffic jam at the school.
The portable phone rang. He jumped and answered it.
"We stopped to get something to eat," Rachel said. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Evan crossed the room to the kitchen table and picked up the DNA paternity test kits Rachel's father had dropped off earlier. "I've got plans for him once he gets back."
He heard a lot of background noise. Music. People talking. The sound of dishes. He imagined them sitting at a table in some sunny window.
"Fifteen minutes," she repeated before hanging up.
They made it with time to spare. Evan was impressed.
Graham came bursting in, smelling like coffee and chocolate and onions. When you lived in isolation, your nose became sensitive to such things in much the same way cigarette smoke became obvious once bans were put in place. Olfactories sorted out the unfamiliar and ignored the rest.
Graham closed the door and tossed a stack of books on an overstuffed chair. That was followed by the sound of Rachel's van pulling away. Evan experienced a brief moment of disappointment. He'd hoped she'd come in. But he and Graham had things to do.
"Chief Burton dropped off the DNA test kits," Evan said.
"How long does it take to get the results?"
"Five to ten days."
Okay. Evan knew this was going to be weird. He'd been mentally preparing for it all day. But now that the time had come, it was even weirder than he'd expected. And awkward as hell.
But this was the best way. He couldn't come right out and tell Graham that yes, he'd had sex with his mother. Once. And they'd used a rubber. At least twenty other guys in town had also had sex with her. He seriously doubted they'd all used condoms.
She'd been a nymphomaniac.
You didn't tell a kid that either.
The results were going to be tough. Apparently Graham had thought of Evan as his father his entire life. Now what little order that false knowledge had brought him was going to be destroyed. But at least he would know the truth.
"Start by rinsing your mouth," Evan said. "You don't want any food particles in the sample. Then you have to rub the swab between the gum and cheek, fairly roughly, but it shouldn't hurt Back and forth. I'll set the timer for twenty seconds."
Graham rinsed and spit in the sink. Evan handed the packet to Graham, and picked up the other one for himself. Simultaneously they tore open the packets and pulled out the swabs.
With his free hand Evan set the stove timer.
Standing facing each other, the two men stuck the swabs in their mouths and began rubbing vigorously back and forth.
Twenty seconds was a long time when you were doing something like taking a DNA sample Evan had the urge to turn away, give himself some privacy, but he needed to watch and make sure Graham took the sample correctly.
The bell finally rang.
They both removed the swab.
"Wave it in the air." Evan demonstrated. "Let it dry a little."
They stuck the swabs in the individually supplied packets, sealing the ends.
They did a second test. Evan had come up with the idea of a backup test in case Graham didn't believe the results Two negatives couldn't be disputed. He would send the kid off with no doubts.
After finishing the second packet, they attached the labels. Everything was boxed and ready to mail. "FedEx will pick it up in the morning," Evan said.
"I'd like to go somewhere tonight," Graham announced. "Do something."
"You mean, like, to a movie?" Evan asked, surprised but intrigued by the idea. "We could do that." He could slip past what ultraviolet lighting they might have in the lobby. God, he hadn't been to a movie in years.
"No, I mean by myself. Well, not exactly. I want to meet with a study group. Downtown at Peaches."
Evan thought about the gun incident. He couldn't quit thinking about the gun incident. The image of Graham pressing the weapon to his temple, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, would probably remain eternally etched in Evan's brain.
"We haven't been monitoring you closely all day just to turn you loose tonight. I'm responsible for you right now. How do I know you won't run away again?"
"I took off before because you called Social Services. And today . .. well, who wants to go to school? This is different. And why would I leave now? Don't you think I want to stick around to see your face when you get those back?" He motioned to the packages on the table.
Good point. "If you wait until after dark, I can give you a ride."
Chapter 11
Travis jabbed the shovel in the soft mound of dirt and looked at the sky. "It's getting dark. It gets dark here so fast. How does that happen? It's like it sneaks up on you."
Craig Johnson stood there watching like he was the goddamn king or something. "I don't care how it happens; I just want to finish and get the hell out of this place."
They were in the Old Tuonela graveyard, digging under a rotten oak tree.
"Maybe if you'd help dig it wouldn't take so long."
"Hey, I only had one shovel. How can we both dig with one shovel? And I did most of the digging when we dug him up. The ground was a lot harder then. My hands bled. You're just repotting him."
Travis wanted to point out that they'd dug him up in broad daylight too. None of this spooky nighttime shit. "Why don't we dump him somewhere?" He took a shovelful of dirt and tossed it angrily aside. "Why do we need to do this?"
"He wants him put back where we got him. Come on. Hurry up. Have you hit the coffin yet?"
"It's too dark to see. Get a flashlight."
"I don't have one."
Travis tossed down the shovel. "Fuck this shit."
"He wants him buried tonight."
"You do it then I'm not your bitch. Or his. Why can't he do it?"
"You think he's going to get his hands dirty? Come on. Why don't you just ad
mit you're freaked about being out here after dark?"
"And you aren't?"
"You're supposed to be a Pale Immortal. How can you be scared? Of this place? You should feel at home here. I don't think you're serious about this. I think it's just a game to you."
Travis had liked it better when it was just them. Just their gang. "If I wasn't serious, I wouldn't be standing here in the middle of fucking Old Tuonela digging around in a damn graveyard."
Brandon, who'd been leaning against the open trunk of the car drinking vodka from a bottle and keeping tabs on the body, suddenly became alert. "What's that? You see that? Those lights?"
"Lights?" Travis straightened. "You're drunk. You better hope to hell you saved some of that for me. I bought it."
"In the air. Over that ravine. See them? Two of them Green. Don't you see 'em?"
"Yeah." Johnson took a few steps toward the car. "Floating around."
"Coming this way?" Brandon's voice sounded like a girl's. Travis would laugh his ass off about that later.
"Are they coming this way? Shit! Ghost lights. That's what they are. My uncle told me about 'em. He saw some around here once. Ghost lights."
They scrambled.
Travis tossed the shovel in the trunk with the corpse. Brandon slammed down the lid. They piled into the car. Johnson fired up the engine and threw the vehicle in reverse. They shot backward, bouncing over rough ground to finally fly through the open gate.
"Stop!" Travis shouted. "We have to lock up."
The car pitched to a sharp halt. Travis jumped out, closed and locked the gate, dove back into the car.
Were the lights coming? He pounded the dash. "Go! Go!"
They hauled ass, tires spinning.
"We still have the body," Brandon said, out of breath. "He wanted him reburied tonight."
"We'll do it tomorrow." Travis looked over his shoulder. "We'll come back tomorrow and do it in the daylight. Nobody'll ever know."
Graham took a shower and put on clean clothes. He brushed his teeth. In his makeshift room he lay down on the bed thinking to just close his eyes for a few minutes ...
When he woke up it was dark.
He fumbled around, turned on a light, and was relieved when the clock read a little after seven p.m. Stroud was sitting on the couch in the living room with his laptop.