by Anne Frasier
Must be a dream... had to be a dream ... bad weed. She'd always heard bad weed could make you see crazy shit.... Bad weed laced with something. Poison or something. Or a roofie. Maybe somebody slipped her a roofie....
Open your eyes, Kristin.
Was that her voice? Didn't sound like her voice.
Open your eyes.
She forced her eyes open. She was so fucked up, so tired, and everything was upside down and dark. But she could see them. Standing in a cluster, drinking from a bowl.
Drugs and alcohol made you stupid. That's what her mama was always saying. Kristin finally believed it. Because it wasn't until that second that she put it all together. That she realized the buncha funky-assed white boys were drinking her blood. And wiping it on their faces and bare chests. The Pale Immortals, that's who they were.
Someone else showed up, but he was behind her, out of her field of vision. She could tell by his voice that he was an adult and the boss. He was angry about something. He lifted her arm, her wrist, and began sucking....
Wake up, girl.
Kristin slowly came around.
Creak, creak, creak.
She opened her eyes.
Dark.
She listened, but all she heard was the creaking overhead.
They were gone.
With a burst of adrenaline, pissed and scared, she bucked and twisted.
Something cracked and gave. A second later she hit the floor, smacking her head, landing hard, the wind knocked out of her.
She recovered quickly and didn't waste any time. The sound of the breaking beam would bring on the crazies, if any crazies were close. She tugged the fabric from her mouth—a sock—and untied the rope from her ankles. She didn't wait for shit. She just ran. And she could run like hell.
Seymour Burton pulled into the hospital parking lot, cut the engine, and entered the building through the main doors. He'd gotten a call about a girl named Kristin March found wandering barefoot and half naked along the old highway outside Tuonela in the predawn hours by a farmer up early to check on his calving heifers. Seymour had already looked the girl up and found she'd been arrested a couple of times for underage drinking. Not a big offense, as far as Seymour was concerned, but drinking often led to other things kids that age weren't mature enough to handle.
Seymour met with the victim's doctor first. Best to have pertinent details going in.
"She's had a concussion," Dr. Ruth Ellison said when Seymour caught up with her in the doctors' lounge. The only people in the room, they sat across from each other, Dr. Ellison taking the chance to eat a bagel and drink some coffee. Behind Seymour, the soda machine kicked on.
"She can't remember much of anything between doing a keg stand and the farmer pulling up beside her in his truck and asking if she needed a ride. Upon arrival in the ER, she had a blood-alcohol level of point-oh-five. Says she was drinking before ten o'clock last night, so she was probably well over the limit at one time. The concussion alone could explain the loss of memory. A concussion along with drinking? Double whammy."
"Think she was slipped something?"
"You mean a date-rape drug? Very possibly. We're running more tests."
"The person who called me said her feet were a mess."
"Judging by their condition, I'd say she walked miles."
So she could have been anywhere. "And her wrist?"
"Ten stitches. One thing you should know about Kristin is that she's tried to kill herself a few times. Been under psychiatric care off and on. Antidepres-sants right now." Dr. Ellison sighed and looked at her coffee. "Kids have a lot to deal with these days."
"Any sign of rape?"
"No bruising, but we ran a rape kit on her anyway."
Seymour nodded. "So what's your medical opinion?"
"Attempted suicide."
"How does that explain showing up in the middle of nowhere?"
"She could have easily walked that far from the party. She was found three miles from Tuonela."
"Antidepressants have been linked to suicide in teens. Mix that with alcohol..."
With no evidence of rape, it made sense. And yet, another girl the same age as Kristin had been murdered and drained of blood ....
Seymour thanked the doctor, then went to meet Kristin. Her parents hovered anxiously nearby, looking sick, glancing at each other, brows furrowed.
Kristin was holding court, sitting up in bed, pillows behind her. Seymour got the idea she was enjoying the attention.
Now that they were face-to-face, Seymour remembered seeing her picture in the paper. She was a pretty girl with strong features. "You're the track star," he said. "What do you run?"
Kristin smiled and relaxed. "Fifty and one-hundred-yard dash."
"No relays?"
She shook her head. "Could never get the hang of passing the baton."
"I used to run distance," Seymour said. "And high jump."
She looked surprised.
"Believe it or not, they had a high jump when I was in school."
They all laughed, at ease now.
Seymour worked his way around to Kristin's ordeal. "Do you remember anything?"
"Just being at the party ... I remember going outside. I got sick." She shot her parents a guilty glance. "I think there was a guy there. Yeah, there was. But I can't remember who."
"A guy? Someone your age?"
"An adult." She struggled to recall the incident. "I almost think he was around later ... somewhere ...." She gave up. "Sorry."
"That's okay. Mind if I see your injuries?"
She held out her wrist. It was bandaged. "Ten stitches." Near the white bandages were a couple of bruises. Small. Round. About the size of someone's fingertips.
"Did you have these before?" Seymour asked.
She shook her head.
"What about your feet?"
Gingerly she slipped her feet from under the sheets. They were swathed in bandages. But it wasn't her feet that drew Seymour's attention. It was the rope burns on her ankles. He'd seen those rope burns before. On the body of Chelsea Gerber.
Chapter 17
Graham stared at his knitting needles with the intensity of a mind reader. Isobel had taught him to cast on, and now he was doing the real thing. He'd produced an inch of knit red yarn so far—soon to be a scarf. The small scrap had some holes in it, but Isobel had assured him that was normal for a first-timer.
"Do you think Ouija boards are real?" Isobel asked, not looking up from her knitting.
Graham couldn't knit and talk at the same time. He paused, needles in his hands. "I think it's a subconscious thing."
"But one time I used a Ouija board and asked it a bunch of things the person with me didn't know."
"But you knew."
"I wasn't doing it!"
"You didn't think you were. That's how the subconscious works."
They were sitting in the school's enclosed outdoor area, which had turned into their noon spot. Isobel sat on the cement bench; Graham was on the ground, legs crossed, shoulders hunched over his knitting. Even though it was almost seventy degrees, he was wearing a blue-and-gray-striped stocking cap Isobel had made and given to him.
He planned to have nothing more to do with the Pale Immortals. What they'd done was wrong, but they hadn't killed anybody, and he wasn't going to turn them in. He just wasn't going to hang out with them.
Life was good. It had been only four days since Stroud had gotten word of the DNA match, but already Graham wasn't looking over his shoulder as often. He wasn't constantly thinking some trickster was going to pull the rug out from under him.
He walked to school by himself, just like anybody else. He walked home, sometimes hanging around and talking to Isobel for ten or fifteen minutes after the last bell.
Except for his two visits with the counselor and one with Social Services, his week had been perfect. The counselor had to dredge up old shit Graham didn't want to talk about, like his life before coming here, and his relationship w
ith his mother. The social worker had been more interested in the Evan part of his life. She'd wondered if Evan's disease and inability to leave the house would eventually make Graham feel resentful. She asked about his unusual lifestyle. She wanted to know if Evan slept during the day and was awake at night.
"It's the only way he can go outside," Graham had said with a shrug.
"Won't that become a problem for you? How can he take care of you if he's always asleep when you're awake?"
"I can take care of myself." Didn't she get it? Didn't she know his life was more normal now than it had ever been? Even if his biological father was considered a freak by half the town?
"Isobel."
They both looked up to see Phillip Alba looming over them, hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy pants. He was dressed in a black sweater, his hair wavy and dark.
"Don't forget play practice tonight," he said.
Two days ago Isobel had talked Graham into coming to play practice with her. Just to hang out, she'd said. But it ended up that they'd needed help with the set construction, so he found himself agreeing to lend a hand. Now he was part of the play crew.
"I won't." Isobel had stopped knitting to stare up at Alba with open admiration. It was obvious she had a crush on the guy, and Graham wondered if the sick feeling in his belly was jealousy.
"Just making sure." Alba flashed her a smile. He pulled his hand from his pocket, pointed, and addressed Graham. "Nice to have you with us." Then he left.
"Some people think the Ouija board is the tool of the devil," Isobel said, back to her knitting. The scarf she was making was purple.
Distracted, Graham watched Alba as he made his way through the enclosed courtyard. "I'm not sure I believe in the devil."
"You don't think people are evil?"
Oh, he knew people were evil. No question about that. "I just don't think there's some red guy with a tail and horns running around."
Her needles stopped clicking. She looked up at him and laughed.
"So what do you think Tuonela's new name should be?" Isobel asked.
"You know it will be something nonthreatening."
"I like Shadow Falls."
"They'll never name it Shadow Falls. Too dark. Too spooky. The whole thing is stupid. You can't change something by changing the name."
The bell rang and they gathered everything up. "Stitch and bitch is over," Isobel announced with a laugh. She always said that, and she always laughed. He hadn't understood why it was so funny until she explained that knitting was something old ladies usually did.
"See you in American history." Graham jumped to his feet.
The rest of the day went quickly. When school let out Graham walked home, planning to head to the theater that evening for play practice.
The sun was low in the sky, and the day had cooled off so that the air was actually cold, and Graham was glad for the stocking cap. His mind drifted, and he had a slight smile on his face as he thought about Isobel.
Behind him a vehicle took the corner and headed in his direction. When it was almost even with him, it slowed, keeping pace. He looked, half expecting to see Rachel Burton, or maybe even Travis and his buddies.
It was a car he recognized, with his mother behind the wheel.
He froze; then his brain kicked in.
Run!
His leg muscles tensed. He pivoted and ran.
Sprinting through a yard. Slipping between houses, skidding down a hill.
She's coming!
He knew she was coming. No matter how fast he ran.
As he moved he dug into the front pocket of his jeans, his fingers coming in contact with the house key. His lungs were raw as he vaulted over the iron fence around his dad's yard. He sprinted up the sidewalk, taking the porch steps three at a time.
At the door his hand shook as he struggled to get the key in the hole. He finally made it, turned the key, and fell inside the living room, slamming and locking the door behind him.
A minute later the front door shuddered with ferocious, angry pounding. "Open up!" came his mother's voice. "I know you're in there!"
Evan, who had been sleeping, flew out of his bedroom. "What the... ?"
"It's my mother!"
Terror. She would make him leave. She would make him go back with her.
Evan moved toward the door.
"No! Don't open it! You can't open it!"
Evan opened the door and stepped back to avoid the sunlight.
Graham ran to the bedroom.
While Evan was trying to figure out what the hell was going on, Lydia charged into the living room, blinking at the darkness.
"Shut the door," Evan said.
She backtracked and slammed it. "Where's Graham?"
"I think you and I need to talk."
"I came to get Graham. I have no interest in talking to you."
She'd aged at least twenty-five years since he'd last seen her. She smelled like stale cigarette smoke. Her hair was shoulder-length, a curly medium brown with quite a bit of gray.
He had to keep reminding himself that this was the girl he'd known in high school, even though she looked nothing like the slim, beautiful, sexy Lydia.
"Let's talk about this."
"Talk about it?" She let out a harsh laugh. "Like you wanted to talk about it years ago? You have no right to discuss anything about Graham. Have you supported him in any way these past sixteen years? Have you even acknowledged his existence? No. He is my son, and only my son."
Something crashed in the other room.
Lydia turned to the sound, then marched to Graham's bedroom and forced open the door. "Get your things. We're leaving. Now!"
"No!"
Graham was lying on the bed, clutching a pillow, one knee drawn up to his chest, his eyes huge and glassy.
One thing was apparent: He was terrified of his own mother.
And with a realization that practically brought Evan to his knees, he knew Lydia was right: He had no legal hold over his son.
"We are going."
Graham could no longer defy a direct command. He scrambled from the bed and began to blindly gather his belongings, stuffing them into his large backpack.
"That's enough," Lydia said. "Let's get out of here. Right now."
Lydia led the way, both of them walking down the hallway. Graham didn't look at Evan.
She opened the door.
Evan moved fast. In a few strides he caught up with her and slammed the door closed before she could exit.
She did a double take, then struggled unsuccessfully to make her face expressionless. "What are you doing?" Unable to hide her fear, she lifted a hand to her throat.
"Graham isn't leaving here," Evan said, his voice quiet and low and threatening.
Chapter 18
Police chief Seymour Burton pulled the search warrant from his jacket and knocked on the front door of the one-story ranch-style home with yellow aluminum siding and white trim. When no one answered after a repeated series of knocks, Seymour stepped back and let his boys smash the lock on the hollow wooden door.
"Somebody go around the back. Make sure he doesn't try to get out that way."
Even though there was surely a special place in hell for child molesters and child pornographers, Seymour wanted to make sure Ed Wilson II would be able to visit a special place in prison first. They'd been watching him for months and had finally gathered enough evidence for a search warrant.
Seymour pulled out his Smith & Wesson, pushed open the door, and slipped inside. It smelled like cat shit, grease, and body odor. Like some old guy who hadn't bathed in a year and never did his laundry. Guess he had more important things to do.
The plastic shades were pulled down tight, and even though it was still light outside, the house was dark. Seymour shouted into the darkness, announcing their purpose.
Nobody answered. The house was silent.
Seymour nodded for the young cop named Aber-nathy to go past him. It didn't take long to de
termine that no one was upstairs. A quick scan of the basement revealed the same thing.
Abernathy opened a door that led outside.
"Nobody here," the other cop said, joining them in the basement.
Seymour silently cursed his decision to make a daylight raid. But they'd been tracking Wilson's habits, and it had seemed the best time to catch him at home.
In one corner of the basement was a bondage setup, with chains and black leather cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Nearby was a desk with a computer.
"Pack up the computer," Seymour said.
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened a drawer. It was stuffed with photos: some five-by-sevens, but mainly eight-by-tens. All in color. Hundreds. Seymour went through them. All young nude boys.
He shuffled through the photos, looking for any faces that might be familiar. He found one.
Damn.
His cell phone rang.
It was Evan Stroud. He sounded a little wound up.
"Graham's mother is here," Evan said. "At my house. She wants to take Graham back to Arizona. Is there any way I can keep him in Tuonela? Somebody I can contact? Somebody who can help?"
Seymour stared at the photo in his hand, a full-frontal nude of Graham Yates. "Don't let him leave your house. I'll be there in less than an hour. I think there's a way we can keep him around for at least a few more days."
Seymour remained at the yellow house long enough to make sure evidence was being gathered correctly. Then he headed for Evan's, lighting a cigarette as soon as he got in the car. Once he was parked outside Evan's house, he finished his smoke, crushed out the butt in the ashtray, and grabbed the manila folder off the seat.
He was never sure why he'd become a cop. He hadn't been into authority. And he wasn't an excitement junkie. And he certainly didn't like giving people bad news or making them uncomfortable.
He took a deep breath and walked up the wooden steps to the front door. Evan must have heard him arrive. Before he could knock, the door opened.
The sun was down past the horizon, but the sky was still light. Seymour stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The air was electric, saturated with tension and anger and fear. His own home life with his wife and daughter had been calm. There had never been much drama.