by Anne Frasier
They kept walking. For a little while Graham forgot they had any destination until Travis stopped and Graham bumped into him.
They stood in front of an old stone building that looked like it had once been some kind of church. The images Graham received were more like snapshots as Travis swept the flashlight beam up and down. In those snapshots, Graham managed to determine that the structure had a heavy wooden door that was pointed at the top and set deep in stones.
The building was smothered in vines.
In Arizona there wasn't a lot of green, viney stuff. Here everything seemed alive. It was alive. A mass of oozing, growing, breathing vegetation coming out of the ground, shooting up buildings—even reaching into the sky. It was like some weird, messed-up fairy tale.
"Do those vines have thorns?" he heard himself ask.
"What?" Travis sounded confused.
Graham waved his hand. "Never mind." He hadn't meant to speak the words out loud anyway.
Maybe he could live here. Nobody would ever find him in his secret home in the woods. Maybe the vines would grow and grow and finally cover everything up. Hide him. Protect him.
What about winter? It gets cold here in the winter.
That was months away. Spring had barely started. He could figure something out by the time winter came. He could build fires. He could drag dead branches up to burn. He started to get excited thinking about it. Living off the grid. Was that what it was called?
The door was ajar. Travis shoved it open several more inches, the bottom dragging on the stone threshold. He squeezed himself inside, and Graham followed.
"What's that smell?" Graham put a hand to his nose and breathed through his mouth.
"Coon shit," Travis said. "Raccoons hang out in empty buildings like this. They can really tear things up with those little hands of theirs. You ever seen how they hold stuff? Pretty cool."
"Gimme that light."
Travis passed the light and Graham panned the weak amber beam around the room. It was a church. Or had been at one time. A few pews were still left, and an altar with some half-melted candles. The walls had been sprayed with graffiti. Above their heads the roof had collapsed in places. Below the gaping holes, rotten beams littered the floor.
Something scuttled behind them. Graham swung around, aiming the flashlight toward the sound in time to see a bushy brown tail vanish through a crack in the wall.
"Coon," Travis said.
Graham paused the light in the corner, focusing on a gross, stained mattress. He felt sick to his stomach. Felt an old, abstract dread he'd experienced many times in his life.
"Nobody will ever find you here," Travis told him.
"What is this place?" Graham asked. "What's an empty church doing in the middle of nowhere?"
"Old Tuonela. It's a ghost town. A real ghost town. It's supposed to be haunted with the people that were killed. Anyway, nobody comes here." He swung around. "You believe in ghosts?"
"I don't know. I've never seen one."
"How about the Pale Immortal?"
"You mean, do I think he was a real vampire?"
"Yeah."
Graham let out a snort. "Right." But he didn't feel as confident as he sounded. Standing in this weird place, he could almost believe vampires really existed.
"What about your old man?"
"What about him?"
"People say he's a vampire."
"He has a disease that keeps him from going out in the sun."
"How do you know for sure? Maybe he's really a vampire. Maybe he just tells people he has a disease."
Graham thought about how Evan had scared him a few times.
"Did you ever see him drink blood?" Travis asked.
"N-no."
"What about mirrors? And crosses? Does he have any in the house?"
"There's a mirror in the bathroom. And as far as crosses go... I mean, who has crosses in their house?"
"My parents do."
"I'll bet everybody in Tuonela does. And garlic too." Graham gave himself a mental shake. "This is stupid." Again, he sounded more certain than he felt.
"Whatever." Travis shrugged. "I gotta go."
Graham suddenly felt bad. He appreciated how the bunch had come to his rescue. He didn't want Travis to think he didn't appreciate it. "Hey, thanks, man."
"That's cool. One of us will try to make it back tomorrow after school." Travis put out his hand for the flashlight.
"Wait." Graham walked to the altar. Using the flashlight, he looked around for matches, but all he could find were empty books. "You got a lighter?"
Travis patted his coat. "Musta left it in the car."
"Let me keep the flashlight then."
"No way. I gotta have it to find my way back."
Graham reluctantly returned it.
Graham had a hard time keeping himself from leaving with him.
Once Travis was gone, Graham stood in the dark listening to his own heartbeat. Gradually the structure began to awaken. He heard small sounds that might have been the tiny claws of mice scrambling across beams. And then louder sounds of an animal as it thumped over a wooden floor to escape the building.
Nice.
How was it that he seemed to be so good at going from a bad situation to one that was even worse? Like he was equipped with some kind of chaos magnet.
What'd you expect? A damn hotel with clean sheets and a hot shower?
In his head he visualized the stained mattress in the corner. Clean sheets would be nice. Clean sheets would be really nice.
He was tired. And hungry. So hungry his stomach hurt. The kind of stomachache where, if you did finally eat something, you'd probably get sick.
Ghost town.
They had a lot of ghost towns in Arizona, but they were dried-up old shanties, not some wet, moldy building in the middle of the woods. Not someplace where animals ran across the rafters above your head and shit all over the place.
It will seem better in the morning.
His mind shifted.
Where was his mother? She would be pissed, that's for sure. She would be so incredibly pissed. And she was capable of doing some evil stuff when she was in a full-blown rage.
Travis walked really fast back to the car. He would have run, but it was hard to see even with the flashlight.
No way would he have wanted to stay back there by himself. Every kid in Tuonela had grown up hearing stories about the old place. Travis didn't like being alone in the dark anywhere, but being alone in fucking OT was enough to give a guy a heart attack. And after the deal with the weird lights ... What the hell was that all about?
Don't think about the lights. Don't look back. Just keep moving.
Graham was gutsy. He'd give him that.
By the time Travis reached the car, the hair on his scalp tingled and he was breathing hard. Brandon and Craig were sitting in the front seat, staring straight ahead, smoking like a couple of professionals.
"What'd ya do with the body?" Travis asked. "Did you drain it?"
"Nah." Craig rolled down the driver's window and flicked out his cigarette butt. "We don't want some old bat like that."
"Seems like a waste to me," Travis said. "I mean, we're always looking for blood."
"Not from some old whore."
"If you drank that," Brandon said, "it would probably make you old and stupid."
Travis wanted to tell Brandon he was already stupid, but he kept his mouth shut. Brandon was a sheep. He always did whatever Craig told him to do. He dressed like Craig, talked like Craig. It was pathetic.
Craig threw the car into gear. Instead of leaving, he drove deeper into OT before pulling to a stop. "Body dump."
They piled out of the car and hefted the body from the trunk, then let it fall with a heavy thud. The three of them dragged the deadweight across the ground until they came to an open well lined with stones. They rolled and shoved until the dead woman vanished into the dark hole, rocks and pebbles skittering after her.
Lyd
ia had the vague idea she should be in pain, but she didn't feel anything. Oh, she'd been aware of being dragged from the trunk of a car. Aware of being dumped down a deep hole in the ground. Rocks had followed, hitting her on the head, knocking her out.
When she came to she felt no pain, and for a moment she thought maybe she was dead, or maybe she'd died and gone to hell. But then sounds came to her. Male voices, talking and laughing.
The voices drifted off, and she began to struggle, working her fingers between the rocks.
Stupid boys. Stupid friends of Graham's. They thought they'd bludgeoned her to death.
If you're not going to do a job right, don't do it at all. That's what her mother used to say. First of all, the idiots hadn't killed her. Then they'd been too damn lazy to throw more than a few pebbles on top of her.
She would get out. She would get out and find them.
She struggled with a stone, finally managing to dislodge and shove it aside. That led to another one. She dug, scraping the dirt with her nails as she tried to free each new stone.
She would track down those assholes and kill them.
Kill not only them but Graham too.
She'd heard him. When she was in the trunk of the car, she'd heard him talking just inches away. Maybe he was her flesh and blood, but it would have been best if she'd had an abortion. She'd wanted to, but her mother had talked her out of it. Said they could maybe make some money out of the deal.
They'd chosen Evan because his father was a cop and he seemed the most likely to feel he should do the right thing by her, but the plan had backfired on them, because Evan got sick and nobody paid attention to her after that.
The kid had ruined her life; that's what he'd done. He was a constant reminder of what things could have been like if only he'd never taken a breath.
She had to rest.
She leaned her cheek against the wall of the well. Her sexy summer dress was torn. She felt something trickle down her leg. Blood? Probably. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her shoes. Didn't matter.
Her fingers came in contact with the surface of the ground.
Just a few more feet.
She looked up and caught a swirling glimpse of tree branches. Past them, stars were shining. She grasped a tuft of grass and pulled. The grass ripped from the soil and she slid back down the well, her leg snapping with a crunch.
Graham woke up with a jerk.
He was lying on the bare, filthy mattress, his knees pulled up to his chest, struggling to keep warm. He shook violently, so much it would have seemed like a joke if he could see himself.
Who knew you could freeze to death when it was fifty degrees? People used to live outside. He thought about movies he'd seen where Indians trudged through the snow just wearing some deerskin. Here he was, wearing a shirt and sweatshirt, his teeth chattering and his fingers numb.
Sunlight cut through the broken walls, revealing the church for the dump it was. Like something the woods not only covered up, but also devoured. Something that was returning to nature. Something that didn't belong there.
Chapter 24
A male voice shouted Rachel's name.
Evan came awake with a start, bumping his head on the bottom of the desk.
"Rachel?" the man shouted again. "You there?"
The voice was far away and hollow, sounding as if the owner were yelling down a stairwell. Evan scrambled to his feet, started to bolt, paused and snatched up the blanket, shoved it in a nearby cabinet, and ran.
In the adjoining room he opened an unoccupied cooler drawer and swung himself in feetfirst, leaving the heavy door open a crack.
Somewhere beyond the refrigerated box, the soles of street shoes echoed across linoleum and cement. The owner moved closer, then stopped. The handle behind Evan's head jiggled. Evan held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Rather than opening the door, the person slammed it firmly shut.
Evan lay in the dark, listening intently, trying to control his breathing. Footsteps moved back and forth, then finally faded. Evan waited a couple of minutes, then reached above and behind. He pushed.
The door didn't budge.
He shoved again.
Nothing.
There was no internal release.
How much time did he have? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
Rachel turned at a red light, then headed up the hill toward the morgue. She'd run some quick errands, picking up a few groceries, filling up the gas tank, all the while trying to avoid people for fear that Evan would be the topic of conversation.
As she made a left to take the final climb home, she spotted her father's faded Cadillac crawling up the hill and disappearing around the corner.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Had he been at the morgue? Had he gone inside?
She pulled into the level area near the back door. As the van rolled to a stop she shut off the engine, jumped out, and dashed for the building. Her dad had a key. He didn't stop by often, and he almost always called first.
Inside, she ran down the hall leading to the autopsy suites, coattails flying. She pushed through the double doors, the metal bar clanging, and headed for her office. Evan wasn't under the desk, where he'd been sound asleep two hours ago. The blanket was gone.
She swung around and checked the autopsy suites and storage areas. Had he left the building? But it was daylight. He couldn't go anywhere. Upstairs. Had he gone upstairs? Or had her dad found him? Another thought: Had Evan called her father and turned himself in?
She was moving toward the stairs and elevator when, for some inexplicable reason, she hesitated, then returned to the autopsy suite and cold storage. She pulled open the drawer containing the mummified remains of Richard Manchester. She closed it, then grabbed the handle of the next drawer. Rather than sliding open easily, the way it would if it were empty, the drawer took strength to pull out.
Evan was lying on the slab, skin ashen, lips blue.
She pressed her fingers to the carotid artery in his neck.
No pulse.
Oh, my God.
No, no, no.
Her father had just left. Maybe Evan hadn't been hiding long.
CPR.
For a fraction of a second she forgot how to perform it; then her memory kicked in. She made sure his airway was clear. She listened. God, her heart was hammering so loudly, how could she possibly hear anything?
Look, listen, feel.
He still had no pulse, and when she placed her face near his, she felt no air move past his lips.
She tipped back his head, grasped his nose, and blew five quick breaths in his mouth.
He responded immediately. His heart kicked in and he drew a gasping breath.
Back from the dead.
"Oh, Jesus."
Bending over him she placed a shaking hand to his jaw. Cold as marble. As she watched, blood pumped through his veins and the blue faded from his lips. His eyes, when he opened them, were unfocused. They slowly cleared until he was looking at her with recognition and lucidity while the chill of the refrigerator curled around them.
He'd been dead—dead—moments ago. A man with no pulse. No heartbeat.
Maybe he was another apparition, like Chelsea becoming Victoria.
Maybe he's still dead.
She pressed her fingers to his neck. He had a pulse, a strong one this time. She rounded up a gur-ney and parked it next to the drawer. She locked the wheels. "I'm going to slide you over, but you have to help." Normally a sheet would have been placed under the body, and she would have tugged the cadaver from one bed to the other.
She grabbed his arm and leg and counted to three. Once he was on the gurney she pushed him from the room, through the double doors, to the elevator, hoping like hell she didn't run into anybody.
Upstairs in her third-floor apartment, she pulled the bedroom shades and curtains tight, then helped Evan into her bed, covering him with a heavy down comforter. She filled a hot-water bottle and slid it near his icy feet.
It was early evening. He and Rachel were sitting in semidarkness at the small kitchen table in her upstairs apartment. She'd coaxed him out of bed with a wheelchair and the promise of a look around.
His near-death experience had created a somber, silent bond between them. She'd saved his life. More than once.
"This is nice." He ran his fingertips across the red Formica surface of the table. It was cool and smooth to the touch. The table was from the fifties, with a wide strip of shiny metal trim. A tremor ran through him; he made a fist and hid his hand on his lap.
"It came with the morgue." She pulled up her feet and wrapped one arm around her knees. Green socks poked out from the hem of her jeans. Her V-neck shirt was some kind of loose black tunic. Her short hair was tousled, her face pale and free of makeup.
Wouldn't she be surprised to know that he'd had sex only a few times in his life? Sex was a casualty of his exile. Just another something he lived without. And he wasn't exactly the kind of guy who attracted women you took home to mama. Most of the women who came on to him usually ended up having a penchant for black eyeliner, role-playing, and bloodletting parties.
He tried the tea again. This time he was able to take a small sip. The exotic flavor flowed over his tongue as he swallowed. A warm, almost electric sensation ran through him, all the way to his fingers and toes.
"You should try this." He offered his mug. "It's extremely rejuvenating. I'll have to find out where it came from so I can get more."
She took the mug, lifted it to her mouth, then handed it back. "No, thanks. I can't get past the smell. Would you like to look outside?" She unfolded herself—all long, graceful legs—and stood up. "The view from the living room is amazing."
Without waiting for an answer, and before he could take another swallow, she removed the cup from his hand and set it aside. She unlocked the wheelchair, turned him around, and pushed him from the small kitchen to the adjoining living room.