(2006) Pale Immortal

by Anne Frasier

  He scooted closer to the opening. "Where do people hang out in this town?" He was so hungry.

  "The mall." When he didn't respond, she added, "Or a cafe called Peaches."

  "That sounds good."

  They picked up speed; he had to shout to be heard above the sound of the wind. "Just drop me off as near as you're going." Maybe he could panhandle for cash, or Dumpster dive for food if he had to. "I feel like I'm in confession."

  "What?" She shot him a glance.

  "Confession!" he shouted, pointing to the sliding window. She was probably Catholic. He'd probably just offended her.

  She laughed, focusing once more on the road. "Well, then—confess!"

  If she really knew about him, would she be repulsed? Scared? Feel sorry for him? He could be wrong about her, because people surprised you. She could have as much darkness in her life as he did. Because you couldn't always tell by looking at somebody.

  Acting as though he hadn't heard her, he dug into the top section of his pack, pulled out his sweatshirt, put it on, and leaned back, arms crossed.

  The tension left his body for the first time in days. He was free. At least for now.

  In a short space of time the sun had disappeared completely, and darkness had fallen like a curtain. Strands of his hair whipped about, stinging his face, and he was riding in some girl's truck. Some girl he didn't know, heading to someplace called Peaches.

  He tipped back his head and looked up at the stars that were forming above him in the black sky. His heart swelled, and at that moment he was glad the bullet hadn't hit him.

  This was what it was about. These moments that crept up on you out of nowhere and whispered mys- terious, unformed promises that made you want to live for something you didn't even know existed.

  He was so caught up in the drama of his own thoughts that he didn't come back to land until the truck stopped. Dazed, he looked around and realized they were in town, parallel-parked at a meter.

  He gave himself a mental shake, got to his feet, and vaulted from the truck. A door slammed, and the girl came around the tailgate to stand beside him.

  He dragged the pack across the bed and hefted it over the side, resting it on the top of one foot. "Thanks for the ride."

  She was average height, dressed in black ankle boots and black tights, a black skirt, and a black sweater with tiny white buttons down the front and some kind of pink flowery thing on one shoulder. The flower and her lips provided the only color he could find.

  He inhaled something sweet, and dragged his gaze away.

  Three feet behind her was a tree, its bare branches laced with tiny white lights. Beyond that was a movie theater with a curved art deco sign, the H and R burned out. He suddenly got the same feeling he'd had seconds earlier when he was looking at the stars.

  This is a taste of real life, he thought. This is what real life feels like.

  "I'm going to Peaches, too."

  Yeah. Maybe he nodded slightly. He wasn't sure.

  "They have these great mochas."

  Ten minutes ago he'd been starving. Now food seemed trite and irrelevant.

  She took a few steps away, then paused to look at him over her shoulder. "Coming?"

  He picked up his pack and followed her into a huge two-story house that had been converted into a cafe. Before they reached the door he could smell coffee.

  She ordered a large cafe mocha with almond syrup and whipped cream, then looked at him in expectation.

  "I'll just have a glass of water."

  She eyed him a moment, then turned back to the kid behind the counter and ordered a packaged sandwich from the glass case. While she waited for her order, Graham took his water to an empty table in a dark corner. Peaches had lots of dark corners.

  The floors were wooden and scraped down past the stain and varnish, and the ceiling above Graham's head creaked as people moved about in rooms upstairs.

  He leaned his pack in the corner and sat down on a yellow wooden chair that wiggled loosely. A CD was playing on the cafe's sound system. Some old Wilco song he couldn't quite place but that was intensely familiar. The music made him feel homesick. Graham wanted to go home, back to Arizona, where he had friends. But that was a bad idea. She was there.

  It would be best to go someplace where nobody knew him. Not a cold place, since he might have to sleep outside. He should head south. Maybe into the Carolinas. Maybe Georgia even. The ocean. Yeah. He'd never seen the ocean.

  The girl plopped down beside him with a tray. The sandwich had been cut in two. She gave him half of it on a small plate. "I can't eat the whole thing," she explained.

  He didn't even check to see what it was. He just picked it up and took a bite. Then another.

  She dabbled a wooden stirrer in her drink, and scooped up some whipped topping. "My name's Isobel."

  "I'm Graham." He glanced around for a napkin, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You should be more careful," he told her. "You shouldn't pick up strangers."

  "I don't. I mean, I've never picked anybody up before."

  "Why me?"

  "You looked like you needed help. Like you were in trouble." Pause. "And that little dance you did closed the deal."

  "Yep." Finished with his half of the sandwich, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just call me Mr. Funny Man."

  With both hands she lifted the giant coffee cup to her face. "So, what's your deal? You just move here?"

  "Just passing through." How lame. He was spouting dialogue from some old movie.

  She asked him the normal questions, like where he was going and where he'd come from. He replied with lies and evasions, which made him feel guilty. He probably didn't need to lie. Nobody was looking for him. Certainly not his mother. Evan Stroud? He wouldn't be trying to find him. And Social Services was always glad when someone was no longer a problem.

  The door opened and a guy in a brown sweater and dark jeans stepped inside.

  "Uh-oh." Isobel checked her watch. "That's Mr. Alba, my drama teacher," she said in a voice that indicated she'd been caught. "He's normally pretty cool, but he's getting a little bent because the play is in two weeks and nobody's learned their lines."

  Graham had had teachers like him. The ones who were young and cool and wanted the kids to like them.

  Alba cast a glance around the room. "Isobel," he said as soon as he caught sight of her. "I thought that was your truck outside. You're late. Play practice has already started." After delivering that announcement, he turned to leave, almost running into a tall, thin guy of about twenty-five who was stepping inside. There was a flash of recognition between the men, followed by hello.

  "I gotta go." Isobel gathered up her things.

  Just a girl. A normal girl with a normal life. Graham pivoted in his chair, dug in a side pocket of his pack, pulled out a CD, and handed it to her. "Here."

  She didn't move.

  "Take it," he insisted. "For giving me a ride. For the food."

  She smiled and took it. "Take care of yourself," she said, without looking at the CD.

  She probably didn't like music. She probably wouldn't listen to it. "Thanks."

  Then she was gone.

  He stared at the door for a long time. Then he looked down and realized she'd pushed her uneaten sandwich and large cafe mocha with almond syrup and whipped cream in front of him.

  He ate the rest of the sandwich and drank the cafe mocha. It was so sweet it made his mouth sticky and his head thick and fuzzy. The tall, thin guy had taken a seat in the back. Graham stayed in the dark corner, watching people come and go, trying not to think of the girl, Isobel. Wondering if she'd like the CD he'd given her. Wondering if she'd ever even listen to it. Or ever think about him again.

  A group of hard kids came in, dressed mostly in black. A little punk, a little Goth, with heavy, unlaced boots that made a lot of noise when they walked. They had sloppy tattoos, along with weeks of dirt ground into the lines in their skin.
<
br />   Graham could smell them. It was the kind of sour BO that made your eyes water. They reminded him of some of the faux homeless he knew in Arizona. Kids who came from rich families and liked to play at poverty. Usually you'd find one or two real homeless kids in the mix.

  One of them ordered a sandwich and several glasses of water while another raided the tip jar, pocketing several bills. They paid with the stolen money, left a stolen tip; then the entire group went pounding up the wooden steps to whatever was up there.

  A few minutes later Graham followed and found them lounging on old couches and chairs, smoking cigarettes and playing checkers.

  "Is there a blood bank around here?" Graham asked. "I need to make some quick cash." You usually had to be seventeen, but most places didn't care. They were just glad to get the blood.

  The kids looked from one to another, then burst out laughing.

  What the hell was wrong with them?

  "Not permanent," one of the kids finally said. "Once a week they set up in the VFW hall." He pulled at the scraggly soul patch on his chin, then pointed at Graham. "But, hey, I know a place where you can make some quick bucks. Easier than givin' blood, and it pays better. All you have to do is stand there and let some perv take pictures of you."

  The tall, thin guy came up the stairs. His hair was straight and slanted across his forehead. One of the hard kids called him Dan.

  "You know cops found a body in the square?" Dan asked. "You hear about that?"

  There was a lot of head nodding. A lot of, "Yeah, bummer." "That's sick." "That's too bad."

  "Chelsea Gerber," Dan continued in a way that seemed to be more than just passing information.

  "Who would dump a body in the middle of the square?" someone asked.

  "The cops are thinking somebody really stupid," Dan said. "I think so too."

  "Or maybe really smart," Soul Patch said. He pointed at Dan. "You ever think about that?"

  "They find any clues?" asked one of the other kids, a tall blond with flame tattoos on his forearms.

  Dan glanced at Graham. "You know I can't talk about the crime scene. But they seem pretty sure it's somebody who lives in Tuonela."

  "When'd it happen?" Graham heard himself asking.

  "Really early this morning. Before daylight."

  This morning. Stroud had appeared out of the darkness this morning. "Do you have a lot of murders in Tuonela?" Graham asked.

  "A long time ago we used to." Dan finally made direct eye contact with him. "But until recently no-body'd been murdered here in a hundred years."

  Chapter 7

  The van's headlights barely penetrated the heavy woodland as Rachel Burton drove up the twisted road that led to the south side of town. The labored climb always reminded her of a recurring dream, one in which she drove straight up a sharp hill, only to plummet down the other side once she reached the precipice. Even though the dream was cartoony and unrealistic, it never failed to scare the hell out of her. She'd always considered it a metaphor for life's struggles, but she was sure Freud would have had a different interpretation.

  The town of Tuonela was divided by deep ravines, shallow creeks, and steep hills. There was often no easy way to get from point A to point B. When glaciers had crept across North America, dipping down into Wisconsin to smooth away the jagged peaks and sharp edges, they'd only skimmed areas of Juneau County.

  Rachel hadn't experienced any more visitations, although last night she'd jumped at her own reflection in the window glass, but every time she turned around she braced herself for the unwanted. It never came. Now, almost twenty-four hours later, she was beginning to wonder if she'd imagined it. Deep down, she knew better.

  It was just past seven o'clock and already dark. She would be glad when the time changed. She'd never cared for standard time.

  The van struggled skyward, the headlight beams shooting at the stars before the vehicle crested the hill to level ground. Here the roads were flat and fanned out to follow deep hollows that led to rows of bungalows built in the twenties.

  Rachel hadn't been to this area of town for a while, and she found herself confused by changes like new fences and landscaping, by trees that had grown and trees that were gone. Other things were the same, yet not the same. Kind of like a puzzle put together in a slightly different configuration.

  She turned down Benefit Street.

  Unlike the other well-lit areas of South Hill, Benefit Street was illuminated with softer bulbs that gave off a bluish hue. She pulled to a stop in front of a dark house, cut the engine, and got out. The ornate metal gate still creaked when she opened it. For a brief moment she half expected to hear a dog bark. But no, Finn was dead and gone.

  She was on a quest—a quest for the grave of the Pale Immortal.

  Up the walk, up the wooden steps.

  Had the doorbell ever been fixed?

  In the dark she ran her hand across the molding that surrounded the door, feeling for a button. Just as she found it, words came out of the darkness from the corner of the porch, causing her to jump.

  "Enfant terrible."

  Recognizing the voice even after so many years, she swung around, heart pounding, barely able to make out the undefined shape of Evan Stroud. She heard a creak and realized he was sitting in the porch swing that hung from the ceiling by chains. How many times had she sat there herself?

  Enfant terrible.

  A name he'd given her, a name that had come from one of her more volatile childhood phases of unattractive stomping and sullenness.

  Their fathers had been cops together, and their mothers had shared after-school child care. There had been a period when they seemed to be together more often than apart. Evan was two years older, and had spent most of the time teasing Rachel, treating her like an annoying kid sister. She'd spent most of it trying to hide a schoolgirl crush. Young love. Crushes were foolish, and yet so devastatingly powerful. There had been a time when she would have died for him.

  Then Lydia Yates came along.

  Rachel would never know if Lydia's appearance changed the course of both their lives. What would have happened if she hadn't shown up in Tuonela? Would Rachel and Evan have parted anyway? Or would their relationship have blossomed into more? To her young mind, Evan had betrayed her with Lydia. Broken her heart.

  The air was damp and cold. A shiver went through her.

  "Want to come inside? Have something warm to drink? Some tea?" he asked.

  Had he lived in darkness for so long that he could see in it? Had his eyesight compensated?

  They went inside.

  She shut the door behind her and followed him across the living room to the kitchen, sitting down at the round table as if she'd done it every day for the past seventeen years. In the center of the table was a copy of the Tuonela Press and the front-page color photo of her standing near the coroner's van. The depth of field was amazing. Behind her, just as clear as anything in the foreground, she could see a body wrapped in heavy black plastic being slid into the back of the van.

  Evan filled a teapot with water and placed it on the gas stove. He was dressed in jeans and a wrinkled, untucked shirt, the sleeves rolled a couple of turns. The shirt was white with fine gray lines running through it.

  It looked as if he cut his own hair, maybe holding up clumps and slashing away with a razor until there was nothing left but a point.

  He probably can't go to a barber, she realized with shock. Such a simple thing, but he couldn't do it. So he chopped at his own hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

  The kitchen was cast in low light. She couldn't see him clearly, but she detected a weakness in the way he held his body, the way he leaned against the stove with his shoulders slightly hunched. Were those dark circles under his eyes? Or shadows caused by poor lighting?

  "I'm sorry about your mom."

  She nodded. "I got your card."

  "I would have come to the funeral... ." His words trailed off.

  She'd seen his name in the visitati
on book and knew he'd come to the funeral home in the evening. Her mother had never cared much for Evan after the Yates fiasco. Maybe she'd felt betrayed too.

  "How's your dad?" she asked.

  Evan's dad had had a breakdown and retired early, while Rachel's father went on to become chief of police.

  "Loves it in Florida," Evan said. "Golfs every day. Keeps trying to get me to move down there, but I tell him it's too sunny."

  "I can see where that would be a problem."

  "I like your short hair," he told her.

  She touched some strands that barely covered her ears. It was shorter than his hair, but close to the same shade.

  "Darker than I remembered," he added.

  "That's deliberate."

  He placed a mug in front of her and a canister of tea bags. His hand trembled. He saw that she saw, and curled his hand into a fist, then eased himself into the seat opposite her.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine." Elbows on the table, he rubbed his forehead, then let out a harsh laugh. "Just a little under the weather. It's my own damn fault. My own stupidity. It'll pass."

  Since he was obviously uncomfortable, she steered the conversation away from his health. "I'm surprised your dad left." He was one of the rare few to leave Tuonela.

  "He's not sentimental. And I think he needed to get away."

  "It's not sentimentality that keeps people here."

  "No?"

  "Why are you here?" she asked.

  "It's easier to be here. Why did you come back?"

  She thought about the life she'd had beyond Wisconsin. She thought about returning home, thought about how her heart had begun to pound when she got within sight of Tuonela. The way it smelled, the haze that enveloped the landscape—it crept into your bones.

  "This feels real," she said softly, surprised that she would reveal so much. "I like the sense of belonging. Of familiarity." Or at least, she had until last night.

  He must have seen the hesitation in her face. "But you don't want to be here ..." he suggested with a question in his voice. "You wish things were different."