by Anne Frasier
Something slipped out and hit her foot. A photo. Old, on heavy cardboard. She picked it up.
A young girl with blond hair wearing a low-waisted dress with a dark bow on the hip that matched her Mary Jane shoes. The child’s eyes held a look of death and defeat.
Rachel turned the photo over.
Our sweet, darling Sarah.
Chapter Thirty-four
Ever since the night he thought the Pale Immortal had been trying to get out of the display case, Matthew Tor-rance had been a little spooked. Sometimes when he had his iPod going and his headphones on, he heard strange sounds. Like whispering. Like a lot of people whispering. Like some kind of gathering was going on in the museum basement. He couldn’t make out what anybody was saying; he just picked up the roar.
Now, as he ran the buffer across the entry hall of the museum, the whispers started again.
Sh, sh, sh.
He who dies will live again. He who lives will die again.
He tugged the headphones from his ears, letting them loop around his neck. He shut off the buffer and surveyed the room.
Nothing.
Nobody.
Fuck. He was so paranoid. And he hadn’t even smoked anything yet. Maybe his friends were right; maybe he needed to cut back. But every time he thought about it, he panicked. What the hell would he live for if he didn’t have his weed?
Sh, sh, sh.
In case he was picking up sounds from a distance, he reached down and paused his iPod.
He who dies will live again. He who lives will die again.
The voice was in his head. Coming from inside him. He smacked a palm against the side of his face. Shut up in there.
More chanting.
He was losing his goddamn mind.
He pulled out his cell phone. Should he call his brother? Just for the human contact? What would he say? He and his brother didn’t chat. They didn’t have that kind of relationship.
He scrolled down the list of names, then punched the dial button.
Voice mail. Then came his brother’s recorded message, followed by the beep.
Matthew opened his mouth to leave a general reply like, This is Matt. Not calling for any reason. Instead, he said, “He who dies will live again.”
He shut the flip phone and looked around, mouth hanging open.
He wanted to toss the phone to the floor, but restrained himself, gripping it tightly instead.
O-kay.
Take a deep breath.
There you go.
He ran to the stairs and took them two and three at a time. Up to the roof, the metal door clanging, then slamming shut behind him. Outside he gulped in frigid air. In the glow of security lights, he could see his breath.
He wanted to smoke a joint.
But the thought of going back into the museum when he was stoned . . . bad idea. He paced the roof, hands in the pockets of his work pants. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and pretty soon he started to shiver.
He caught a glimpse of something beyond the edge of the roof, low, on the ground in the grassy area between the sidewalk and street. A dark form moving out of the corner of his eye. He stepped closer to the ledge. The brick street was deserted. Something fluttered—a small shape—maybe a night bird. It moved skyward and vanished.
He went back inside. Back to work.
He grabbed the buffer handle and prepared to start the machine up again. Dirt and debris were scattered across the floor. He’d vacuumed already. He didn’t buff unless the floor was clean; otherwise the grit would scratch the surface. Some people thought he was a slacker, but he was conscientious.
He followed the trail, losing it a few times.
Downstairs. In the basement, the room with the Pale Immortal.
He reached into his pocket for the comfort of his cell phone. A half hour ago he’d wanted to toss it away; now it was his friend.
He rounded the corner, following the sepia glow of lights meant to add mystery and creepiness to the display.
The Pale Immortal was there, staring at him with black pits, smiling at him with a black mouth.
Alastair’s phone rang, waking him from a deep sleep. The first deep sleep he’d had in days.
Another problem at the museum. The night janitor saw something or heard something. Again.
“I think you can handle it,” Alastair told the officer.
“Uh, you might want to get down here for this.”
“Just write it up like the last time.”
“This isn’t exactly the same as last time.”
Alastair struggled to focus and wake up. “What do you mean?”
“They claim to have something strange on videotape.”
Alastair was dressed and at the museum in under fifteen minutes. He went directly to the case. The Pale Immortal was there, looking as normal as a mummy behind Plexiglas could look.
“Who called it in?”
“Same guy as before. Said he’d taken a break and had stepped outside on the roof for some fresh air and a smoke. Came back in to finish buffing the floor and said the Pale Immortal made a face at him.”
They went to the security room to view the video footage.
The museum director sat in the control chair going through the different cameras. He clicked some keys and pointed to one of the screens. “Front doors.” He hit the fast-forward button. “Back and side doors. Pale Immortal chamber.” He clicked more keys. “Now watch this.” He pointed to a screen.
“Did that thing smile?” Alastair asked.
A titter of nervous laughter erupted from the officers near the door.
“Can you go back?”
The director stopped the tape, reversed, then played it again. It definitely looked like the Pale Immortal smiled.
“How long does a single tape run?” Alastair asked.
“Twenty-four hours.”
“And you use the same tape over and over?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is this tape?”
“I don’t know. Close to a year, maybe. The system is antiquated, and we didn’t invest in new tapes when we opened the new exhibit because we’re hoping to eventually go digital.”
“It’s a ghost image,” Alastair said. “I’ve seen it before with recyled tape.”
One of the officers nodded. “Remember the tape from that car lot? Where there was supposed to be a ghost running around the cars? But it ended up being a partial image of a customer who’d been in the lot that day. The tape hadn’t completely erased.”
Everybody relaxed. “Ghost hunters got a lot of mileage out of that before it was debunked.”
Alastair stared at the frozen image on the screen. “For some reason people want to believe that kind of nonsense.” And he needed to believe the opposite.
Chapter Thirty-five
Something cold and wet woke him. Evan blinked.
It took him a few moments to figure out where he was. In Old Tuonela, lying on his back on the ground. He’d been digging. . . .
He must have blacked out.
Where does the wind begin?
His eyes were open and he could see stars. He stared at them, feeling strangely removed from his own body. He lifted a stiff hand to touch his jaw, fingers coming in contact with abrasive stubble. His skin was damp and cold.
He rolled forward until he sat up. His lantern was dead, and he could make out vague, huddled shapes of low shrubs and the towering blackness of tree trunks.
He felt so strange.
Light and heavy and filled with observation rather than participation.
Get up.
He shoved himself to his feet and stood there, sensing his weakness. His knees wanted to give out, but he forced himself to place one foot in front of the other and move forward, toward home.
Whispering.
Were they talking to him? Or did they even know he was there? Were they talking to themselves?
Soft voices coming from everywhere, as if a million fireflies carried the sound o
n their wings. He could see them, moving through the vegetation and thick air. Yellow dancing lights.
When their lights turn green, it means they’re dying. It means they don’t have much time left.
What did you do when you knew your days were numbered? When you saw your light had turned from yellow to green? Go to Disney World? Go on a cruise? Take a hot-air-balloon ride?
Rachel.
He would go see Rachel if he were dying. That’s what he’d do. Even if she was mad at him. Even if she hated him, he would go to her.
What about Graham? What about your father?
He felt bad about them, but if he had to choose one person . . . if he had one last visit to make, one last person to touch and gaze upon, it would be Rachel.
Sorry, Graham. Sorry, Dad. He loved them both, but he would have to see Rachel.
The gate was in front of him, blocking his way.
Somehow he’d reached it even though he hadn’t been aware of the journey. It wasn’t latched, and he scraped through the opening.
Up through the madly dancing fireflies, around the back of the house, over the broken flagstones to the kitchen. Never pausing, he continued down the hall that led to the stairway that would take him to his room.
A man with a purpose.
The cellar. We’re in the cellar.
Evan paused with his hand on the banister. Who was that? Who was talking to him?
Then another voice, masculine, insistent: No. Stay away.
That voice held persuasive power. Richard Manchester’s voice.
Up the stairs, turn on the landing. To his bedroom. To the dresser.
Open the drawer and feel inside, all the way to the back.
He found the silk scarf and wrapped it around his neck. A scarf that had belonged to the Pale Immortal.
He reached deep into the drawer and pulled out a silver tin. He removed the lid and lifted the container to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
It smelled like black earth and musty leaves. Of wet, moss-covered rocks, mushrooms, and the bark of a hemlock tree. And, of course, something else. Something darker and more forbidding and compelling than all of those things.
The heart of the Pale Immortal.
The heart of a vampire.
He’d already drunk a broth made from a portion of the tin’s contents. What would happen if he finished it? Would he be stronger? Would he become immortal? These were questions that had no answers.
The only way to know is to do it.
True.
Consume the entire contents. What more could it hurt? You’re halfway there already.
Halfway to what?
He was neither one thing nor the other. He had a foot in both worlds: the world of the living, which he could never be a part of, and the world of the dead.
Land of the dead.
He wanted to embrace it. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Deep down in his soul, he knew it was true. He could tell Graham and Alastair and Rachel he was here to preserve history. That was part of it, but as time passed he realized this was really a selfish endeavor.
Old Tuonela spoke to him. Old Tuonela defined him.
And if he finished the contents of the tin maybe he would be whole.
He couldn’t go back. There was no way to go back to who he’d been before. The old Evan was still inside him, but he would never be as solid as he once was. Now he was half human and half something else.
He wanted to be a whole something else.
Do it.
What about Rachel?
What about Graham?
They don’t matter. Neither of them matter. This is about you, not them. And are either of them here? Are they with you now? No. You’ve been deserted and abandoned by the people you love. Take the step. Consume the broth. Finish the tea.
Sometimes he thought the loneliness of his existence was driving him mad. Would he feel less lonely if he drank the tea?
Yes. You’ll have me. You’ll have us. All of us.
Who were they? Who was talking to him? Who was in his head?
The dead. The dead of Old Tuonela. They wanted him. They needed him.
He took a pinch from the dark contents of the tin and placed it on his tongue. Bitter longing filled his mouth, warm and seductive.
Sweet, sweet ache of death.
Evan.
They were calling to him. He had to stop them. Had to make them shut up.
He closed the tin and shoved it away, then dove for the window that towered from ceiling to floor. He ripped away the cloth. With his fingernails, he scratched at the black paint until morning sunlight streamed through the glass, piercing his retinas. He stumbled back, crashing to the floor.
The cellar. We’re in the cellar.
Chapter Thirty-six
Shotguns were the weapon of choice.
“No rifles,” Alastair Stroud had told them when he was presented with the idea of a killing spree. People were afraid, and fear made people do crazy, nutty things. No one knew that better than he did. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of angry men running around with rifles that could shoot a distance of two miles.
One of the twenty hunters tucked his box of shells into his orange vest pocket. “I never miss.”
Just the stupid kind of mentality Alastair was trying to avoid. “Wisconsin DNR hunting regulations apply.” And it was always open season on coyotes. “Didn’t you read the rules I posted?”
One hundred men and a handful of women had signed up to thin the coyote population. Out of those one hundred, Alastair had chosen twenty men, hoping to keep the chaos level down. They hadn’t wanted the press getting hold of the story. They didn’t want PETA on their asses, at least not until this was over.
Mayor McBride loaded his shotgun and snapped it closed.
Did he know anything about firearms? Alastair wondered.
McBride would have been one of his top eliminations, but the hunt had been his idea, and he was the mayor, after all. Alastair just hoped to hell he didn’t kill somebody.
Twenty antsy, serious, important men, dressed in canvas jackets and orange vests, waiting for the sun to appear over the horizon. The air was crisp, the ground covered with a layer of frost. Shoulders were hunched, shotguns braced under arms, and hands tucked into pockets.
Men with a purpose. Men defending their children and wives against an enemy they could now understand. Know your enemy; find your enemy; kill your enemy. Hopelessness and lack of control were gone. They were in charge.
When bad things happen the fear comes, followed by a need for action. And it didn’t matter if the action was right or wrong, just so it happened. Because there was nothing humans hated more than being helpless. Even if Alastair disapproved of what was about to take place, he understood it.
He’d tried to talk the mayor out of a massacre, but once he saw that the roundup would take place regardless of his involvement, he agreed to put together a plan. Nothing worse than a bunch of pissed-off men with shotguns running rampant through the countryside.
The sun came up.
The men of Tuonela moved in for the kill. Alastair slipped on a pair of leather gloves and went with them.
The most active areas of coyote movement had been staked out earlier. The grove where the body of Brenda Flemming had been found was a myriad of dirt paths, footprints, and droppings. Coyotes weren’t scared of humans the way deer were. Coyotes liked to lurk at the edges and watch you. And even when you spotted one, it might not run off.
Alastair deliberately broke away from the rest of the hunters. He followed a narrow path that led to a den dug into the hillside and under tree roots. The dirt showed signs of having been recently disturbed, and it was just a matter of waiting for a coyote to step into the sunlight.
Alastair lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and waited, keeping the barrel and sight trained on the hole. When the animal appeared, he squeezed the trigger. It dropped without a sound.
He lowered the barrel and approached.
Dead. A clean shot.
He hadn’t wanted it to suffer.
In the distance he heard the report of guns. A couple of blasts were followed by yelps of pain. He glanced around. Seeing no one, he knelt by the dead coyote, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out several strands of long blond hair. He pried open the coyote’s mouth and wound the hair around two back teeth.
Alastair experienced a wave of self-loathing. He’d been feeling that a lot lately. He hated what he’d become, and yet he couldn’t see a way out, so he just kept digging himself deeper.
Rachel flushed the toilet, leaned over the sink, and cupped cold water to her face. Why was it called morning sickness when it hit at any hour of the day or night? And why was it getting bad now, when she was in the third trimester?
The first three months had been easy. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant, blaming the skipped periods on stress, but now the baby seemed to be draining the life out of her.
Her cell phone rang.
Alastair Stroud, calling to tell her the coyote slaughter was over. “We’re in the square.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.” She flipped the phone shut. Sometimes she hated men. A lot of times she hated men.
In the kitchen she took a few sips of a protein drink, hoping it would settle her stomach; then she headed to the square.
It looked like half the town had turned out.
Dead coyotes had been removed from truck beds and were on display, lined up ten wide and three deep.
Cameras were clicking.
News teams had set up in a grassy area on the opposite side of the street. The mayor, dressed in his Day-Glo hunting vest and cap, was being interviewed by television stations. He hadn’t wanted news of the hunt to leak out before the event, but he sure as hell wanted the press here now, once it was over. He was bent on bringing tourists back, even if it meant the slaughter of innocent animals.
When the mayor’s interview was over, he spotted her and made his way over. “Quite a success, I’d say.”
Rachel stared at him. “If you’re talking about creating your own reality, I agree.”
She’d shocked him, but he quickly recovered. “I’m surprised by you. Somebody who sees so much death.”