(2006) Pale Immortal

by Anne Frasier

  Seymour had always liked Evan. Now, seeing him with a new kind of desperation in his eyes, Seymour felt sorry for him.

  He turned to the other person in the room. "You must be Lydia Yates." Seymour held out his hand, and the woman reluctantly took it.

  He remembered her. In trouble a lot. One of those girls who was always in heat, his mother would have said. Seymour had been a patrol officer then, and he'd caught her having sex on more than one occasion. At that time she'd seemed to have cast a spell over most of the boys her age. Looking at her now, he doubted she'd cast any spells in a long time.

  "I don't know what this is about." Lydia dropped his hand and got back to her problem. "I came here to get my son. And now this asshole refuses to let me leave with him."

  "I'd like to talk to Graham in private," Seymour told the two adults.

  Evan motioned toward the hallway. "He's in the bedroom on the left."

  Seymour walked down the hall. The door was ajar. He pushed it open, then closed it tightly behind him.

  Graham sat on the edge of the bed, both feet on the floor, his fists between his knees. He gave Seymour a slight nod, then looked back down.

  He wasn't crying right now, but he had been.

  Seymour pulled a straight chair from a nearby desk, turning it around so he faced Graham. "I hear your mom is here to take you back with her."

  Graham nodded.

  "Do you want to go?"

  Graham shook his head.

  "That's what I thought."

  Graham looked up. A minute ago his eyes had been flat and dead. Now they held a spark of hope that didn't make Seymour's job any easier.

  "Can I stay?" His voice was thick.

  "I have a way for us to delay things. Long enough to get a judge in here to look at your case. Find a way for you to stay here at least part of the time."

  "He's my dad. The DNA tests came back, and he's really my dad. That should help, shouldn't it?"

  "I would think so."

  But kids usually went to the mothers. That's just the way it was. And it wasn't as if Evan had had anything to do with Graham up to this point. Plus, with Evan's illness ... the situation didn't look good.

  Seymour opened the folder. "We just raided a house on Fifth Avenue, where I found this." He pulled out an eight-by-ten color photo.

  Blood drained from Graham's face and he turned a pasty white. He broke out in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes began to roll.

  Seymour jumped to his feet. "Put your head down."

  The kid wasn't hearing anything; Seymour pressed Graham's head down until his body quit shaking and his breathing became a little more normal. Then Graham slowly sat up and wiped his face with the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt.

  "Do you want to tell me how this happened?" Seymour asked quietly, returning to his seat.

  "I was broke. I was hungry. I ran into some kids who said a guy would pay me a hundred bucks for some photos."

  "Who were the kids who told you this?" Seymour pulled a small notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt and flipped through the pages until he came to a blank one.

  "I don't know who they were. Just some kids."

  "What did they look like?"

  "I dunno. Guys. About my age. It was dark. I only saw them a little while. I don't remember."

  Seymour didn't believe him, but he would let it go for now.

  He'd spent a lot of time—years, actually—wondering why so many of today's kids were so messed up. Being a cop, he'd run into a lot of them who had no moral compass. Young sociopaths. But the percentage of young sociopaths had taken a huge leap over the past twenty years.

  It was bad, really bad. And he was afraid there was no fixing it, because you couldn't go back. Right now it was cool to be shallow and ironic and heartless. But Graham wasn't like that. Somehow he'd managed to cling to some good part of himself.

  "So you went to this guy's house, and he took pictures of you," Seymour said. "Did anything else happen?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Young girls never liked to admit to being raped, but boys were worse. They rarely offered the information without being coaxed. "Were you sexually molested?" Seymour asked.

  "No!"

  "Graham?" Seymour prodded, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact.

  Graham looked up. "I wasn't. I swear. Oh, he wanted to. He told me he wouldn't pay unless I had sex with him. So I left. Without any money."

  Seymour believed him.

  "So now what?" Graham asked.

  "We need to go down to the police station and file a report. Then we'll have to take your deposition."

  That was the part of the process Seymour hoped to drag out so Graham would be forced to stay in town. "Sometimes it can take a little while to get that all set up. Have to find a stenographer and such."

  Mary Pelton lived in town, and she was always eager for more work, but Seymour would just forget to call her for a day or two.

  "Do you need to put me in jail? 'Cause if you do, I'm cool with that. I don't mind."

  The kid would rather go to jail than be sent home with his mother. Seymour closed his small notebook and slid it back into his pocket. "You won't need to go to jail, but we'll have to get the judge's permission for you to remain here until the deposition."

  Graham nodded.

  "Right now we have to tell the two people out there what's going on, and why you can't leave town."

  Graham went pale again. He swallowed. "Do they have to see the picture? I don't want them to see it."

  Seymour got to his feet and slipped the photo back in the folder. "We should be able to avoid that."

  The news wasn't taken well. Lydia screamed and said that kind of sick activity was exactly why she needed to get her son out of town immediately. Evan went whiter than his normal shade of pale. And even though Evan had hardly known Graham at the time of the photo shoot, Seymour could see he was feeling in some way responsible.

  "Kids make choices," Seymour said. "Not always good ones. This was bad, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. And now, with Graham's help, we'll hopefully be able to lock this guy up for a long time."

  "What are we supposed to do while we're waiting?" Lydia demanded. "I can't afford a motel."

  "They can put you up downtown in the YWCA," Seymour said. "Tell 'em I sent you. Graham will have to stay here. Women only at the W."

  She could see she wasn't going to win.

  Seymour didn't like the thought of her hanging around town causing trouble, but there wasn't much they could do about that.

  Chapter 19

  For two days, Chief Seymour Burton used delay tactics until he couldn't use them anymore. Even though they'd been able to track down several other kids who'd been photographed by Wilson, they needed to get Graham's deposition.

  Wilson himself was in jail after an anonymous tip led police to the river shanty where he was hiding.

  Once the deposition was taken, the only thing left was for Graham's case to be reviewed. A Wisconsin judge couldn't officiate, since Graham and his mother were residents of Arizona, but Seymour was using the excuse that someone local had to decide whether or not the mother was responsible enough to take her son back with her to Arizona.

  In the meantime, Lydia was staying at the YWCA and Graham was continuing to go to school, once again with an escort to and from, since it was highly likely his mother would simply pick him up and drive off.

  Which was going to happen anyway, Seymour was afraid. They had no reason to keep him out of her custody. Once he was back in Arizona, Graham could seek out a lawyer and try for emancipation.

  And Lydia wasn't lounging around, taking a vacation. She'd contacted the local paper, and they'd already run a story on her, making Evan Stroud and the Tuonela Police Department look evil. She was in communication with the state attorney and Arizona and Wisconsin child welfare offices, as well as the judge who would be reviewing her case. Seymour was afraid his delaying tactics had been exercises in futil
ity, and given poor Graham hope where there wasn't any.

  And Kristin March? No new evidence. No return of the girl's memory.

  Seymour's phone rang.

  It was the DNA lab from Madison.

  "Got some interesting information for you," Kent, the lab technician on the other end, said. Kent was a friend of Seymour's, and worked at both the state forensic lab and private DNA lab.

  Seymour sat up straighter, tucked his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, and pulled a pad and pen close.

  "You know how you asked me to keep an eye on those DNA samples?" Kent asked. "The ones sent to the lab for the paternity test? Listen to this. They matched the forensic samples collected at the Chelsea Gerber crime scene."

  Seymour's heart did a little gallop. "Are you sure?"

  "Yep. I'll send you a fax in just a minute."

  Seymour thanked him and hung up. Jesus. He'd only asked Kent to keep an eye on them so that they could unequivocally rule out Evan Stroud as a suspect.

  Rachel's cell phone rang.

  "We got a DNA match on the Gerber girl," her dad said when she answered.

  His voice sounded odd. Strained. "Are you okay?"

  He let out a deep sigh. "One of the specimens you sent in matched a DNA sample belonging to Evan Stroud."

  She shut off the kitchen faucet and dropped into a nearby chair. She suddenly felt weak, and thought she might pass out. "There has to be some kind of mistake."

  "I gave Evan two test kits. They both matched. I'm trying to track down the judge right now so I can get an arrest warrant. Heard he was out fishing, so it could take a while...."

  Arrest? Of course they would arrest Evan.

  Where would they keep him? How would they get him to the jail? In the daylight? And beyond that. . . ?

  A trial. Prison. He couldn't live through it.

  "I'm sorry," Seymour said. "I know he's your friend. I know how hard this must be for you to hear."

  Rachel didn't even know what she said, or if her reply made sense. As soon as they disconnected, she grabbed her keys and hurried downstairs to her van.

  Ten minutes later she was pounding on the front door of Evan's house. When he answered, she stepped inside, slammed the door, and locked it. "We have to get you out of here."

  "Hmm?" He was sleep-rumpled and groggy.

  "The DNA samples you sent in for the paternity test? Matched samples collected from the Chelsea Gerber crime scene."

  That woke him up. "Impossible."

  "That's what I said, but that won't stop them from coming to arrest you."

  "I have no reason to run." He looked baffled. "I haven't done anything."

  "Think about it, Evan."

  If he'd been anyone else—if he'd been someone in normal health—it would have been different. "They'll cart you away—in broad daylight. They'll put you in a cell with bright fluorescent light. Maybe even natural light. You won't live long enough to prove you're innocent. And it's not as if you're the most popular guy in town."

  He stared at her for a long moment while her words sank in.

  "You know how the legal system works," she went on. "You know how suspects are treated. Especially suspects who look damn guilty of murdering a young girl."

  "Why do you think I'm innocent?" he asked. "I mean, if they have a DNA match.... That's considered irrefutable by some."

  "DNA isn't the answer to every case. It's not the Holy Grail, even though it's been treated as such for the past several years." She was a coroner, an ME. She worked with facts, so she could hardly add that her gut was telling her he was no murderer. Or was it her heart?

  They had to hurry. They could chitchat later. "I'll pull the van around to the side door and pick you up," she said.

  "Where will we go?" She could see that the idea of leaving his comfort zone was sending him into a panic. "This won't work. I have no place to hide. And what about Graham?"

  "We'll deal with Graham later. Right now we have to get you out of here. I'll take you someplace they hopefully won't think of looking."

  "Where?"

  "The morgue."

  Her van wasn't exactly a vehicle of stealth, but at least it had been parked on the street in front of Evan's house quite a bit lately There should be nothing unusual about today's visit.

  The driveway sloped into a hollow, then leveled out to meet a low sidewalk that ran around to the back of the house. Evan owned the adjoining lots, which were woodland, and the layout created a secluded buffer zone; no one could see them from the road or from any nearby homes.

  She drove up on the sidewalk, pulled the emergency brake, jumped out, and opened the van's heavy back doors. It was an industrial vehicle; the only windows were in front. The two seats were separated by a mandatory metal cage meant to keep cargo from flying into the passenger area.

  She climbed in the back, snapped open a plastic body bag, and spread it out on the gurney, unfastening the zipper from top to bottom. Once everything was prepared, she returned to the house to get Evan. At the last minute he grabbed the antique tea tin and shoved it in his coat pocket.

  He was bringing tea?

  With a dark blanket draped over his head, he shot from the house and leaped into the back of the van. Rachel followed, shutting the door behind them.

  "Lie down on the gurney."

  Crouching, he pivoted in the small space, the blanket brushing the knees of his jeans.

  "Here." She grabbed his arm and urged him down. Light poured in from the front; they had to hurry.

  Grasping her plan, he quickly settled himself on the gurney. She zipped the heavy bag, leaving a gap of an inch near the top for air. "All tucked in."

  "Snug as a bug." His words were light, but she could hear the underlying panic.

  She slipped out the back, secured the van door, and locked the house. Once in the driver's seat she disengaged the emergency brake, threw the van in gear, and made a three-point turn. Then it was up the hill to the street, take a right, and haul ass to her place.

  On the way there, she had a few minutes to think about what she was doing.

  Aiding and abetting a murder suspect.

  She hit three red lights and saw three people she knew. They all waved; she waved back. In order to avoid more people, stop signs, and traffic, she cut down the alley and followed it for five blocks, then pulled into the driveway and parking area of the morgue.

  The sun was shining brightly, and there wasn't an inch of shade. She turned off the ignition and hurried to the back of the van.

  Inside the darkness of the body bag Evan heard the van's doors open. He felt the gurney being dragged forward. Wheels snapped and locked into place. Sunlight pounded down from above, heating the plastic. He blinked; a beam found its way through the small airhole and pierced his retina.

  He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. The world swirled and slanted, the wheels beneath him turning.

  In the blackness, sound and movement were his only grounding.

  They paused. A door opened; then they were moving forward again, away from the heat of the sun into the shelter of a building.

  The wheels rolled smoothly and silently over carpet; speed was impossible to gauge.

  He chanced a look. Twin fluorescent bulbs burned into his brain. He quickly closed his eyes.

  The gurney stopped. "Evan?"

  He ran a tongue over his lips, and was preparing to answer when he heard a ding, followed by what sounded like an elevator door opening.

  Someone screamed. "You scared the hell out of me!" came a woman's voice that didn't belong to Rachel.

  "Sorry," Rachel said. "I forgot you were cleaning today."

  "I didn't know you were in the building."

  "Gotta get this one to the cooler. He's rotting as we speak."

  "Autopsy?"

  Rachel didn't answer; Evan presumed she nodded.

  "Let me know if you want me to clean up the suite when you're done."

  He was rolled forward; then a door rattled
shut and the elevator began to move.

  "That was Patricia," Rachel whispered, her voice close. "She cleans once a week. Guess we could have really scared the crap out of her if you'd moved."

  He wanted to smile, but pain ripped through his spinning head.

  "I'm taking you to the basement."

  The elevator shuddered to a stop. They moved forward. Wheels clacked over cement, then tile, through swinging doors to come to what he hoped was the final destination.

  Rachel unzipped the bag two feet, pulling back the sides to expose his face. Evan didn't like people seeing him when he was in the middle of an attack, and here she was, staring.

  "Evan?"

  She sounded scared. She probably thought he was dead. He could look like a corpse at times like these. That was the trick: to remain as still as possible.

  Don't move. Don't breathe.

  Then maybe the nausea wouldn't be as bad, and maybe the weakness wouldn't last as long.

  "Evan?"

  He struggled to open his eyes. Just to let her know he was still kicking. His eyelids fluttered, but he couldn't focus.

  He heard her exhale in relief.

  Parallel fluorescent tubes flickered. He groaned, squeezed his eyes closed, and felt himself go a shade paler.

  She unzipped the body bag the rest of the way.

  Evan didn't move.

  She leaned over him. So quiet. Then he suddenly felt something brush against his jaw.

  "Evan?"

  "Why are you doing this?" His voice was a croak. "You could be arrested. You could go to prison."

  She touched him again. "I'm helping a friend."

  "As soon as it's dark, I'm out of here." He could do it. He could recharge as long as he didn't move.

  "I'm sorry. I tried to keep the sun from hitting you."

  Don't cry. I'm not dying. I'm not dead.

  "You look dead." He felt her touch the back of his hand. He felt her fingers slide under his. "Your skin is like ice."

  "I'll... be o-kay."

  "What can I do?"

  Just leave. Just leave me alone.

  "Go a-way."