by Anne Frasier
Graham knew he was a writer. He'd even looked up some of his books at the library. Graham wasn't much of a reader. The required reading of Lord of the Flies and Beowulf had pretty much done him in. Then again, maybe Stroud wasn't writing. Maybe he was a message board junkie. Or an eBay junkie. Placing bids on a Jesus pierogi. Or a nun bun.
Stroud gave him a ride downtown. "Do you have any money?" he asked, parking at the curb near Peaches.
Graham shook his head.
Stroud produced a ten-dollar bill and handed it to him.
"Thanks." What was he thanking him for? The guy had gotten off easy. He'd never paid a cent during sixteen years. "I can get a ride back."
Stroud reached into the pocket of his long wool coat and pulled out a cell phone. "Take this and call me if you need a ride. And remember, curfew on weeknights is ten thirty. And it's enforced."
Graham grabbed the phone and almost thanked him again before he caught himself. "I'll watch the clock."
Inside Peaches, the music was loud and pulsing. Portishead. He hadn't heard Portishead in a long time.
He quickly scanned the room, looking for a girl with blond hair. No sign of Isobel. He ordered hot tea. "And one of those things." He pointed through the glass case at some kind of cake. It could be his birthday cake.
"Apple Betty?" the girl behind the counter asked.
Betty? He looked a little harder. "Do you have anything with frosting?"
She craned her neck, then popped back up. "A cookie."
"Give me that Betty thing, I guess."
After paying, he took his order upstairs. That's where he found the hard kids, hanging out in the same place as before.
"Hey, how'd things go with the perv?" Travis asked, coming over to see what Graham had on his plate. His fingernails were painted black, and he was wearing eyeliner. His black hair fell in chunks around a face that was not really fat, but kinda puffy. More like a kid's face than a teenager's.
Travis had been filthy before, but now he had actual soil on his shirt and pants.
Travis broke off a piece of the cake and shoved it in his mouth. The two other guys behind him weren't paying any attention. One of them was asleep; the tall, skinny guy with short bleached hair had his back to them and was talking on a cell phone. His jeans were heavy with dirt.
"Not very well," Graham said. "He wanted to screw me."
A spray of cake shot out of Travis's mouth, followed by coughing and choking.
"Did you know about that?" Graham asked with accusation. "Did you know that was part of the deal?"
"Hey, man." Travis held up his hands. "I didn't know he was into that stuff. Swear to God. Well, I figured he was, but never heard about it being part of his little hobby. I've known a few guys who've gone there. None of them ever said anything about it." He put a fist to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He was laughing now. He smelled like alcohol.
"Thanks." Graham walked over to a chair and plopped down.
Travis followed. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Graham picked up the heavy fork.
"Did you do it?" Travis asked His eyes were bloodshot, and Graham realized he was drunk. "Did you let him fuck you?"
"Hell, no. I left without getting paid."
"Bummer. That's a real bummer. You should do something about that."
"Like what? Go to the cops?"
Travis laughed again, elbows bent, wrists slack. "Can you imagine? Going to the cops and saying, 'Hey, some old fart stiffed me out of my pay for nude shots.'"
Like he wasn't in enough trouble already.
"We should go over to his place and threaten him," Travis said. "Maybe rough him up a little."
"I don't do that kind of thing."
"He owes you money. When you go underground like that, you have to live by a different set of rules. The things out here don't apply."
"My own rules still apply. I don't beat up old farts, even if they're pervs."
"That's the best place to start," Travis insisted. "Who better to beat the shit out of?"
Why had he come here? To Peaches?
It hadn't been to see Travis and his buddies. Graham had been fooling himself with that excuse. He'd really come hoping to run into Isobel Hoping to make up for the disaster in the hallway. Maybe even tell her it was his birthday ...
"Here." He shoved the plate of apple crapple into Travis's hand, put his tea on a nearby table, and left.
His boots pounded on the wooden stairs; then he burst out the front door Nobody around. A couple of cars rolled down the street.
With his hands jammed into the pockets of his black sweatshirt, he walked, head down.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
He wasn't proud of his self-pity, but sometimes it felt good to feel sorry for yourself He walked with long strides, not looking up, finally finding himself in the square where he'd been arrested the other night.
He ran for the cover of a huge evergreen tree with branches that swept to the ground Once inside their shadows, he paused in the darkness and caught his breath As he stood there, something beyond the tree caught his eye. A flicker of light.
He parted the branches.
Far away was a cluster of small, shifting lights. Curious, he slipped from his cover and slowly approached the lights until he was near enough to recognize them as candles. Maybe fifty of them, some in glass, some just wedged in the dirt, the flames flickering wildly.
Behind the candles were stuffed animals and bouquets of dead flowers. A necklace. A letter jacket. In the center of it all was a photo of a pretty blond girl.
His heart did a swan dive.
It was the girl who'd been murdered. Then he realized this was probably the spot where her body had been found, and his heart took another dive. He'd heard kids talking about it at school, about how her body had been completely drained of blood.
Some even said Stroud had done it.
He stared at the picture. It was an eight-by-ten glossy. The kind kids had taken for graduation. She stared back at him, all perfect, with white teeth. She was the kind of girl who was prom queen, who dated the star football player. Lame shit, as far as he was concerned. But she didn't deserve to die.
Several candles had blown out. Someone had left a book of matches on the ground. He dropped to one knee, grabbed the matchbook, struck a match, and lit the candles.
Were you supposed to say a prayer?
He'd been to church a few times with friends, but he didn't know much about religion or praying.
"Good luck."
Good luck? That was all he could come up with? Kinda late for luck. Have a nice trip. Sorry you're dead.
Where did people go when they died?
He stared at the photo of the girl for so long that it suddenly seemed to change slightly. It almost seemed that her eyes were really looking at him, seeing him. And the smile... The smile was so personal and real, directed at him. He caught himself responding with a smile of his own.
He jumped to his feet. He tossed the matchbook to the ground, turned, and walked away. Was he losing his mind? Did a person losing his mind know it? Maybe not. Probably not. So thinking about it meant you weren't crazy.
A car approached from behind, the sound barely penetrating his consciousness. Then he gradually became aware of a vehicle intentionally keeping pace with him, hanging back slightly.
He'd been warned about walking around at night. Whoever killed that girl hadn't been caught. His leg muscles tightened as he prepared to launch himself into a mad run.
"Graham!"
Graham swung around to see Travis hanging out the passenger window of a small green car. "Come on. Cops'll kick your ass if they find you out past curfew. Get in. We'll give you a ride."
Graham jumped in the backseat.
Someone was sitting in the dark corner opposite Graham. He didn't say anything, and Graham figured he was high or asleep.
"We have a few minutes," the driver—the tall kid with the bleached hair—said.
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What was his name? Had Travis called him Johnson?
They headed away from downtown. Several blocks and stop signs later they turned into a park that sat high on the bluff overlooking the river.
"Swing around where that stone wall is," Travis said.
The driver, who may or may not have been Johnson, stomped down on the gas, and they flew around the corner, skidding to a stop near a wall. The two bailed out. Graham stayed where he was.
Travis and the driver opened the back door, pulled the guy out of the backseat, and dragged him in front of the headlights.
Graham let out a gasp.
The thing they were wresting didn't look human It was some kind of mummified mess dressed in an old-fashioned suit. Travis and his friend were laughing their asses off. They were drunk or high or both.
Where had they gotten it? Was it real? Or was it some Halloween decoration? Yeah, that's probably what it was. Had to be.
"Look." The tall, skinny guy started humping the body like a dog would hump someone's leg. "Humpin' the mummy," the tall kid said. "Humpin' the mummy."
They both crumpled into a fit of giggles Inside the car, Graham let out his own burst of laughter.
A minute later, laughing so hard they could hardly walk or talk, Travis and the tall kid dragged the body to the wall. With one on each end, they began swinging it, each swing getting wider as they prepared to toss it.
"Wait," the tall kid said, breathless with laughter. "I have an idea. Put him on the wall. Yeah. Like that. Now turn him on his side. Yeah." Giggling, they worked until they had him positioned just right, then stepped back to admire their handiwork.
"Oh, my God," they wheezed in unison, hands to their mouths.
Car lights appeared behind them. "Oh, shit!" They ran for the car, dove in, and pulled away. "Get the hell out of here!" Travis said, laughter bubbling behind his words.
The cell phone rang; Graham almost jumped out of his skin.
"It's ten thirty," Stroud said when Graham answered. "Are you still at the coffee shop? I'll come and pick you up."
"That's okay." Graham spoke rapidly. "I've got a ride. I'll be right there." He disconnected and leaned back in the seat, his heart beating fast.
Five minutes later they were pulling up in front of Stroud's house.
Graham had had enough of Travis and his pals for one night. Maybe for more than one night He got out, slammed the door, and they peeled away.
Inside the house, Graham found Stroud sprawled on the couch, hands behind his head, wearing tinted glasses while he watched TV. Near the door was a pair of muddy leather boots—evidence that he'd been out.
Stroud paused the picture and tossed down the remote. "Have a good time?"
That called up an immediate mental image of the dead corpse Travis and his buddy had been dragging around like some toy. His mind moved backward, to the town square and the candles and the picture of the murdered girl, to Peaches and no Isobel. "Yeah. No. It was okay." He dropped into a big stuffed chair across from the couch, and his gaze automatically went to the TV screen. He wished he hadn't gone out at all. "What are you watching?"
"A documentary. But we can watch something else. Look in the cupboard over there. I don't have Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter, though. No Batman or anything like that."
What the hell did he have then? Graham wasn't really interested in a movie, but now he was curious to see what Stroud spent his time watching. And it kinda pissed him off that Stroud would immediately think he wouldn't want to watch something that was real. Okay, he had to admit a lot of that shit was boring, but some of it was pretty good.
He went to the cupboard and opened the set of double doors. Shelves full of DVDs. Some old movies like Harold and Maude. Midnight Cowboy. The Godfather. But most of them were documentaries and National Geographic travel-type things. Ireland. Scotland. Germany. France. Cities in the States like New Orleans and New York.
And then it hit him. Stroud couldn't go to any of those places. He would never go to any of those places.
Graham had never really thought of the restrictions Stroud's disease placed on him. He just imagined Stroud roaming around at night. Staying out of the sun. Slathering on sunblock and wearing long-sleeved shirts. But this was it. This was his world. Where it started and where it ended, with not a lot in between. He traveled in his head. He sat on the couch in his living room while the world came to him.
Graham felt kinda sick. He wasn't sure why. Maybe because he'd been clinging to hatred of his father for so long. He'd imagined him having this great life without the responsibility of a kid. But his life was just as fucked up as Graham's. Maybe more.
At least most people could fool themselves into thinking something good was coming around the corner. Stroud couldn't do that. This was it. This house. The couch. The television. His Internet connection. Graham was standing in the center of Stroud's world.
Graham shut the cupboard. "What're you watching?"
"The Up series."
"What?"
"A documentary made for British television. It follows the lives of a group of people, reconnecting with them every seven years."
"I think I heard about that."
"This is 7 Plus Seven, the second in the series, but I can start it over if you want to see it."
"Nah, that's okay. I'll watch from here." He grabbed a pillow from the chair and stretched out in the middle of the area rug.
"I'd like to see the first one again anyway." Stroud ejected the DVD, popped in another, and sat back down on the couch. "It's kind of sad." After issuing that warning, he pointed the remote at the player and started the DVD.
Graham curled the pillow under his chin. "Like real life."
A half hour ago he wouldn't have guessed the night would end like this, with the two of them watching TV together. And that it would feel so un-weird. That it would feel normal and right. Not the boring kind of normal and right: the good kind.
Chapter 12
The ringing phone woke her. Rachel checked the readout on her portable handset. Her dad, calling from his cell phone. She gave him a groggy hello.
"A corpse has been found in the park," he told her.
Pressing a hand into the mattress, she scooted up in bed. "Female? Same MO?"
"Well... not exactly sure about either of those things, but from the way the body is dressed, you'd assume it's a man."
Only once had she seen a body so mutilated that they had to wait until the autopsy to determine the sex. "That bad?"
"Come and see for yourself. I told the officers on patrol not to touch anything until you get there. We're at City Park. Lover's Leap."
It was still dark when Rachel pulled to the edge of the steep brick lane with a hairpin curve and a stone wall at the bottom. But morning wasn't far off, which meant they would soon have adequate light. No need to bring in any generators.
She spotted her father's ancient green Cadillac—a gas-guzzling monstrosity, but he wouldn't part with it. Two white patrol cars were angled, their high beams meeting to best illuminate the body on the wall. She cut the van's engine and grabbed her evidence-collection kit.
Outside the van, her ears picked up the murmur of low conversation from a group of huddled officers. The air was damp, the bricks under her soles wet with morning dew. As she approached she smelled coffee. Someone had brought a thermos and was filling a mug. She spotted her dad in his gray fedora. He was off by himself, his back to the crowd, talking on his cell phone. She caught his eye; he gave her a quick wave and smile, then went back to his conversation.
One of the police officers spotted her. "Morning, Dr. Burton." They shuffled backward and parted, giving her a good view of the victim. Everybody was watching her, waiting for a reaction.
What the... ?
Someone stuck a flashlight in her hand. Without taking her eyes from the display, she moved forward.
The body had been carefully arranged. It was lying on its side, head resting against a palm, elbow do
wn. The legs were crossed in what was meant to be a casual pose. Or possibly sexy. It was wearing a cap advertising one of the local gas stations. A few straggly clumps of hair. Dressed in a dark suit.
Now she understood why her dad had told her the sex and MO couldn't be determined. The victim appeared to be a partially mummified corpse.
The clothing was very old. Shredded and rotten and crumbling.
"Is it real?" the cop with the thermos asked. "They can make things that look real. When I first saw it, I thought it was something someone maybe bought online. Don't think any stores around here would sell that kind of thing."
"Come on," another officer said. "You mean you haven't seen the mummies they sell at Grant's Gas and Go?"
Everybody got a chuckle out of that.
The mood was light, a little electric. Certainly none of the somberness that had accompanied the Chelsea Gerber murder. This was probably a sick prank. A prank that was also a felony.
Rachel bent at the waist so her face was a foot from the corpse. "I'm pretty sure it's real. Or rather, pretty sure it was a living, breathing person at one time."
"Freaky."
She straightened. "Let's treat this like any other crime."
The scene had already been somewhat compromised, since the area hadn't been effectively cordoned off, and care hadn't been taken in keeping police from walking over possible clues.
Her dismay must have shown on her face; suddenly one of the young policemen nudged his fellow officer, then pulled him back. Everyone else did the same.
Until the other night they'd never had to put into practice the lessons they'd been taught. And now, in all the excitement, they'd forgotten it all.
"I've had extra patrol on duty," Rachel's father said, coming up behind her.
"Anybody see anything suspicious?"
"Been pretty quiet. Nothing that stood out." He struggled to control a cough, reached inside his jacket, pulled out a nonfilter cigarette, and lit it. She managed to keep her mouth shut. Normally he didn't smoke in front of her, but he probably figured she'd find a fit of coughing even more disturbing.