(2006) Pale Immortal

by Anne Frasier

  Graham slipped through a heavy door, stopping a few feet from Isobel, hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

  Click, click, click.

  "Are you crocheting?" He used to know somebody who crocheted.

  She glanced up, squinting against the sun. When she saw it was him, she immediately looked back down. "Knitting." She looped a piece of lime green yarn around a pink metal needle, then slid the top needle free.

  Click, click, click.

  The sound was hypnotic.

  "The counselor's lame, isn't she?" Isobel said.

  He plopped down on brown grass that was just beginning to show signs of turning green. He could smell the ground, and the sun felt good on his back. "You've been to her?"

  "Twice. That was enough for me." She shrugged. "It was like Psych 101. Everybody falls into either this slot or that one."

  He wanted to tell her he was sorry about the other day and the weird way he'd acted, but how did you bring up something like that? "Why were you seeing her?"

  "My mom and stepdad are musicians. They travel all the time, so I get dumped on relatives and friends. Right now they're in Prague. Anyway, when I started school here last fall, they thought I should see a counselor to help me adjust."

  "So who are you staying with now?"

  "My cousin. She was away at college, but got mono and broke up with a boyfriend she'd had for four years, so she's living at our place, on the outskirts of town. They thought we'd be company for each other. Right. She doesn't leave the house. She just stays in bed all day, watching television, sleeping, or talking on the phone."

  Here he'd thought Isobel probably had an apple-pie normal life.

  "Are they in a band? Your folks?"

  "Orchestra. It's kinda famous, ya know. It's called the Overland Symphony Orchestra."

  He'd never heard of them, but he didn't know anything about that kind of music. He wanted to ask if she'd listened to the CD he'd given her, but didn't want to put her on the spot. And didn't want to know if she hadn't. Or if she'd hated it.

  She resumed her knitting.

  "What are you making?"

  "A scarf."

  He nodded. "Cool."

  "Sometimes I make stocking caps, but I usually make scarves."

  He watched for a little longer. He liked the sound and the movement and the color. "Could you—" He stopped.

  "What?" She paused and looked up.

  "Never mind."

  "Tell me."

  He squirmed inside, and wished he'd never started the question. But now he plunged forward. "Could you maybe teach me how to knit?"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No."

  "So you can start a knitting club with Travis and that bunch?" she asked with a snort of sarcasm.

  "I'm done with those guys. No, I just think knitting seems kinda cool. I'd like to try it."

  Gripping the needles, she dropped both hands in her lap. Today she was wearing a black-and-white skirt and a black sweater with black knee boots. "Get some yarn and needles," she told him, "and I'll teach you. But don't buy little needles. You want something that will go fast to begin with; otherwise you'll get sick of it."

  He smiled, leaned back on his elbows, and closed his eyes. Here was another of those moments. Those good moments. . . .

  The bell rang and he realized he'd missed lunch.

  His next class was biology. It went pretty fast, even though his stomach was growling and he was thirsty. After that was American history, another class he had with Isobel.

  He sat a few desks behind her and to the right. Ten minutes into class the instructor set up the projector and turned out the lights so they could watch a film. Something about the Civil War.

  The film was boring as hell. Graham had always suspected teachers showed those things so they could go into their little back offices and tinker around. Maybe play video games or pay bills.

  The boredom was interrupted by the loudspeaker announcing an immediate assembly. The students were herded down the hall to the gym, where Principal Bonner stood at a microphone. She was a small woman who obviously liked red clothes and big gold jewelry. She hardly ever smiled, because being a principal was serious shit. And being a small woman who was also a principal was even more serious shit.

  Graham and Isobel climbed to the top of the bleachers. From that vantage point, Graham spotted Chief Burton and Phillip Alba near the double doors.

  "I know you've all had to deal with the loss of classmate Chelsea Gerber," the principal said. "So it comes with great regret that I must bring you more disquieting news." She drew in a breath. "Another serious crime has been committed in Tuonela. Early this morning a body was found in the park."

  People looked at one another, fear in their faces. Some girls began to cry.

  Bonner held up a hand for silence. "Fortunately we didn't lose one of our own, but I'll let Chief Burton give you the details."

  Burton crossed the gym and took the microphone. "The body found in City Park was most likely an incident of grave robbery."

  That brought another gasp. Isobel looked at Graham, her eyes big. He glanced down at his shoes, then scanned the gym, spotting the Pale Immortals sitting in a row on the bottom bleachers, quiet and well behaved. Not far away, their backs to the wall, stood a group of teachers, their faces solemn.

  "We think this latest case was perpetrated by someone with a sick sense of humor," Burton said. "Probably a prank—a cruel one, coming on the heels of the recent tragedy and heinous crime. We also feel it was done by kids. Maybe somebody at this very school. And kids like to brag. We want you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything suspicious, report it to Principal Bonner, to a teacher, to your parents, to the police."

  He let his gaze pan the crowd from the top of the bleachers to the bottom. "We're here for you. We want you to be safe. We don't want anyone else hurt. Toward that end, we've put together phone numbers and safety guidelines for you to follow when you aren't at school. These will be passed out at the door as you leave the gym."

  Some of the students glanced over their shoulders at Graham.

  "What are they looking at me for?" he whispered to Isobel.

  She leaned closer. "Because of your dad."

  They thought Stroud had done it? Oh, wow.

  But if Graham didn't know any better, he'd probably be thinking the same thing.

  Chapter 15

  Evan opened his laptop and clicked on the e-mail icon, his eyes quickly scanning the screen for important messages.

  One was from the DNA lab.

  His stomach dropped.

  That was fast.

  With labs springing up all over the country, it didn't take long to get results back, especially if the DNA wasn't related to a crime. Still, he was surprised to see the e-mail show up only seventy-two hours after he'd overnighted the samples.

  His heart was hammering. He knew what the results would be. Now Graham would have proof. What would that do to him? To finally know that Evan wasn't his father?

  He would be home from school in another hour. Should Evan tell him right away, or should he wait for the hard copy to arrive in the mail? That might be better, but Evan didn't like the idea of keeping the results a secret even for a few days. Graham had had enough secrets kept from him.

  Evan took another deep breath—and opened the e-mail.

  Test results: Match.

  Evan read it again.

  Match.

  There had to be a mistake.

  He grabbed the portable phone and dialed the lab's number. It took five minutes to get through to a real person, but it seemed like hours. Evan explained the situation, giving the woman on the other end his test number. "There has to be a mistake," he told her. "The samples had to have gotten mixed up."

  "We test everything two times," she said patiently. She probably got a lot of calls like this. Irate fathers who were trying to get out of a paternity suit.

  "Our test results are ninety-nine-poin
t-eight percent accurate."

  "Then I've somehow fallen into that two-tenths of one percent."

  He suddenly remembered the second set of samples. In all of the confusion, he'd forgotten about it. Whew. At the time he'd thought he was being overly precautious. "You should have received another set of samples," he told the woman on the phone. "The processing number would have been one off."

  "Hmm. I'll have to check on that and get back to you."

  His laptop announced a new message.

  From the Wisconsin DNA lab. He opened it. One word jumped out at him.

  Match.

  He stared at the screen.

  How could that be? How the fucking hell... ?

  "Hello? Hello?"

  Staring at the wall, he lifted the receiver to his ear. "Thanks. I found what I was looking for." He disconnected.

  In a daze he put the computer aside and got to his feet. His legs felt weak. Two seconds later he dropped back down on the couch.

  How had this happened? Logically he knew girls could get pregnant even when a guy used protection. But when he wasn't the only guy, and it had been only once ...

  Lydia couldn't have really known he was the father. Her choosing the right guy must have been a coincidence. She'd just picked someone. He'd been a sperm donor. An accidental sperm donor, because he doubted she'd planned to get pregnant.

  In his mind he saw Graham putting the pistol to his head, closing his eyes, and pulling the trigger. It was an image that had haunted Evan, but now it took on a whole new meaning.

  How responsible was he for the despair that dwelled in Graham's young heart? But Evan himself had been a kid. Shortly before Lydia and her mother left town, he'd gotten sick. He'd put Lydia and what most people decided was a fraudulent pregnancy from his mind, not giving them another thought until Graham showed up at his door.

  Evan couldn't absorb it. He simply couldn't absorb it.

  Or make sense of it.

  He had to move. He had to walk. Run. Get out of the house. He was suffocating.

  He opened the front door; bright sunlight poured in. He slammed the door shut and pressed the fingers of both hands to his eyelids.

  Trapped.

  Over time he'd found ways to deal with his condition. He'd always been able to talk himself out of the panic that sometimes washed over him.

  He paced back and forth, then strode to the library and searched through a large built-in bookcase until he finally found what he was looking for: bourbon.

  He pulled off the stopper and sniffed the liquid, then took a swallow from the cut-glass decanter. Warmth slid down his throat to settle in his belly. He waited while that same warmth seeped into his bloodstream. He raised the container once more, paused, then slowly lowered it and put the stopper back in place. Bad idea. Graham would be home soon. He had to think about Graham and what he was going to say to him. What he said could resonate for years. For a lifetime. He had to get the words right.

  Beyond the turmoil in his head he heard the front door slam. He returned the bourbon to the cupboard and left the library to find Graham standing in the middle of the living room.

  He was staring at the laptop screen.

  Finally he looked up. "It says 'match.'" He swallowed. "That means you're my father, right? Isn't that what it means?"

  So much for easing him in gently. "Yeah."

  "You really didn't know, did you?"

  The length of half a room separated them, but Graham was picking up on Evan's bafflement.

  "I thought you were trying to ditch responsibility, but you didn't even know."

  Evan saw that Graham couldn't figure out how something like that could happen. Evan couldn't figure it out either. He was going to have to go from not having a son to talking to his son about sex. It was a big jump.

  "Don't you know how babies are made?" Graham tossed his books on the couch. "I can explain it to you if you need some details."

  Why, the kid was enjoying this! He was enjoying watching Evan squirm.

  "Should we start with the male and female anatomy?"

  "I can't go into this very deeply," Evan said. You didn't tell a kid his mother was a slut and had slept with half the guys in town.

  "That's okay," Graham said. "I know what she was like when I was growing up. I can guess what she was like before I was born."

  A perceptive kid. It made things easier.

  Evan stared at Graham, remembering how he'd taken note of his light, curly hair and angular face. He can't be my son, he'd thought that first day. And now, He is my son.

  Suddenly overcome with some emotion he'd never before experienced, Evan strode across the room, wrapped his arms around Graham, and hugged him.

  Graham shoved him away and took three steps back. "What are you doing? Why are you hugging me? That's so hypocritical."

  "How does hugging you make me a hypocrite?"

  "You wouldn't have hugged me yesterday. When you didn't think I was your kid."

  "That doesn't make me a hypocrite. I don't go around hugging people. If you brought over a friend, I wouldn't walk up and hug him."

  Graham laughed sarcastically. "No, I guess not. And even if you'd known you were having a kid, would you have done anything differently? Really?"

  Evan didn't know. "I wasn't much older than you are now. Think about that."

  That got Graham's attention. He looked a little startled.

  "This isn't going to be easy, but we'll get through it. We'll figure it out."

  "So . .. what now?"

  "I think you should continue to see the school counselor. Maybe twice a week if possible. At least for a while. I'll call and see what we can arrange. Maybe once a week we can both meet with her."

  "No, I mean, what now? Am I staying?"

  "No matter what happens, you'll always have a home here."

  "No matter what happens? What will happen?"

  "We have to find your mother. Legally she still has custody."

  "But I'm sixteen."

  "That doesn't matter." Evan paused. "Sixteen? I thought you were fifteen."

  "I turned sixteen."

  "When?"

  "The ninth. The day after you sprang me outta jail."

  Something else to feel guilty about. ..

  After Graham was asleep, Evan went to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out the red box. Empty. What difference did tea from England make at a time like this? He had a son. A son he hadn't been aware of until recently.

  Sick, confused and distracted, Evan prepared a cup of tea from the antique tin.

  How could he have had a son all these years and never known it? How could he fix it? What did the future hold for Graham? And Lydia—where in the hell was Lydia?

  He drank the tea.

  When he was finished, he broke out in a sweat, his heart beating oddly in his chest. Had the shock been too much? Was he having a heart attack?

  The room began to spin. He reached for the edge of the table, missed, and tumbled to the floor.

  Consciousness slowly returned, and Evan found himself staring up at the ceiling, hyperaware of his body. He could feel blood pumping through his veins.

  He rolled to his knees and staggered to his feet. Upright, he shrugged into his coat and left the house, plunging into the darkness of the streets, pulling the night air deep into his lungs.

  One hundred years. Seventeen years. Death. Birth.

  Rebirth...

  He came upon a frat house that vibrated with music and light and loud voices. A girl drunkenly lunged out the front door.

  "Kristin!" another girl shouted after her from inside.

  Kristin waved her away with a floppy hand, stumbled and weaved ten feet, then fell forward on the ground. She spotted Evan in the shadows and started to smile, then stopped. "Hey. You're that guy." She pointed. "The vampire."

  Alcohol and drugs took over, and she passed out.

  Evan's ears picked up sounds. Voices and shuffling feet.

  Coming toward him on th
e sidewalk was a group of kids—teenage males dressed in black clothes, their boots unlaced and dragging over the cement. As they drew closer there was a moment of mutual recognition. The Pale Immortals.

  Chapter 16

  Pain jerked Kristin March into unconsciousness, and she screamed.

  "Shut her up! Shut her up!"

  She sucked in air to scream again. Something was jammed in her mouth. Fabric. Rotten, stinking fabric.

  "Screaming's not cool," said another voice.

  "Nobody can hear her here."

  The sharp pain in her wrist that woke her up now gave way to warmth.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  "Don't miss any."

  Her head felt swollen; her arms were heavy, deadweights. She tried to raise a hand to her face, but couldn't. Her fingers felt thick and fat as sausages.

  Moving. Things were moving. Sick. She felt sick. But the fabric ... stuffed in her mouth. What would happen if she vomited?

  Swaying. Turning.

  She opened her eyes.

  Flickering lights. Candles. Dark shapes of people.

  She blinked. And blinked again. Things were messed up. Things weren't right. Everything was upside down.

  Someone touched her. That started the swaying motion again. She was upside down. That's why her head and arms felt so heavy.

  The last thing she remembered was being at a party. She'd done a keg stand. She was the queen of keg stands. Wasted. Staggered outside for some fresh air. She remembered seeing that guy. That vampire freak, Evan Stroud .. .

  Now this.

  Sleepy.

  Getting sleepy. Couldn't keep her eyes open.

  "Don't let her bleed out," one of the voices said. "We want to keep her alive, at least for a while."

  Keep her alive. At least for a while.

  Above her something creaked and groaned.

  More from the disembodied voices: "How much do you have?"

  Who was that? Somebody she knew?

  "The bowl is almost full. Eight, ten ounces anyway."

  "That's enough for now."

  Fingers on her arm. Something wrapped around her wrist. Then they moved away.