Pale Immortal (10 page)

Evan crossed the room to the kitchen table and picked up the DNA paternity test kits Rachel's father had dropped off earlier. "I've got plans for him once he gets back."

He heard a lot of background noise. Music. People talking. The sound of dishes. He imagined them sitting at a table in some sunny window.

"Fifteen minutes," she repeated before hanging up.

They made it with time to spare. Evan was impressed.

Graham came bursting in, smelling like coffee and chocolate and onions. When you lived in isolation, your nose became sensitive to such things in much the same way cigarette smoke became obvious once bans were put in place. Olfactories sorted out the unfamiliar and ignored the rest.

Graham closed the door and tossed a stack of books on an overstuffed chair. That was followed by the sound of Rachel's van pulling away. Evan experienced a brief moment of disappointment. He'd hoped she'd come in. But he and Graham had things to do.

"Chief Burton dropped off the DNA test kits," Evan said.

"How long does it take to get the results?"

"Five to ten days."

Okay. Evan knew this was going to be weird. He'd been mentally preparing for it all day. But now that the time had come, it was even weirder than he'd expected. And awkward as hell.

But this was the best way. He couldn't come right out and tell Graham that yes, he'd had sex with his mother. Once. And they'd used a rubber. At least twenty other guys in town had also had sex with her. He seriously doubted they'd all used condoms.

She'd been a nymphomaniac.

You didn't tell a kid that either.

The results were going to be tough. Apparently Graham had thought of Evan as his father his entire life. Now what little order that false knowledge had brought him was going to be destroyed. But at least he would know the truth.

"Start by rinsing your mouth," Evan said. "You don't want any food particles in the sample. Then you have to rub the swab between the gum and cheek, fairly roughly, but it shouldn't hurt Back and forth. I'll set the timer for twenty seconds."

Graham rinsed and spit in the sink. Evan handed the packet to Graham, and picked up the other one for himself. Simultaneously they tore open the packets and pulled out the swabs.

With his free hand Evan set the stove timer.

Standing facing each other, the two men stuck the swabs in their mouths and began rubbing vigorously back and forth.

Twenty seconds was a long time when you were doing something like taking a DNA sample Evan had the urge to turn away, give himself some privacy, but he needed to watch and make sure Graham took the sample correctly.

The bell finally rang.

They both removed the swab.

"Wave it in the air." Evan demonstrated. "Let it dry a little."

They stuck the swabs in the individually supplied packets, sealing the ends.

They did a second test. Evan had come up with the idea of a backup test in case Graham didn't believe the results Two negatives couldn't be disputed. He would send the kid off with no doubts.

After finishing the second packet, they attached the labels. Everything was boxed and ready to mail. "FedEx will pick it up in the morning," Evan said.

"I'd like to go somewhere tonight," Graham announced. "Do something."

"You mean, like, to a movie?" Evan asked, surprised but intrigued by the idea. "We could do that." He could slip past what ultraviolet lighting they might have in the lobby. God, he hadn't been to a movie in years.

"No, I mean by myself. Well, not exactly. I want to meet with a study group. Downtown at Peaches."

Evan thought about the gun incident. He couldn't quit thinking about the gun incident. The image of Graham pressing the weapon to his temple, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, would probably remain eternally etched in Evan's brain.

"We haven't been monitoring you closely all day just to turn you loose tonight. I'm responsible for you right now. How do I know you won't run away again?"

"I took off before because you called Social Services. And today . .. well, who wants to go to school? This is different. And why would I leave now? Don't you think I want to stick around to see your face when you get those back?" He motioned to the packages on the table.

Good point. "If you wait until after dark, I can give you a ride."

Travis jabbed the shovel in the soft mound of dirt and looked at the sky. "It's getting dark. It gets dark here so fast. How does that happen? It's like it sneaks up on you."

Craig Johnson stood there watching like he was the goddamn king or something. "I don't care how it happens; I just want to finish and get the hell out of this place."

They were in the Old Tuonela graveyard, digging under a rotten oak tree.

"Maybe if you'd help dig it wouldn't take so long."

"Hey, I only had one shovel. How can we both dig with one shovel? And I did most of the digging when we dug him up. The ground was a lot harder then. My hands bled. You're just repotting him."

Travis wanted to point out that they'd dug him up in broad daylight too. None of this spooky nighttime shit. "Why don't we dump him somewhere?" He took a shovelful of dirt and tossed it angrily aside. "Why do we need to do this?"

"He wants him put back where we got him. Come on. Hurry up. Have you hit the coffin yet?"

"It's too dark to see. Get a flashlight."

"I don't have one."

Travis tossed down the shovel. "Fuck this shit."

"He wants him buried tonight."

"You do it then I'm not your bitch. Or his. Why can't he do it?"

"You think he's going to get his hands dirty? Come on. Why don't you just admit you're freaked about being out here after dark?"

"And you aren't?"

"You're supposed to be a Pale Immortal. How can you be scared? Of this place? You should feel at home here. I don't think you're serious about this. I think it's just a game to you."

Travis had liked it better when it was just them. Just their gang. "If I wasn't serious, I wouldn't be standing here in the middle of fucking Old Tuonela digging around in a damn graveyard."

Brandon, who'd been leaning against the open trunk of the car drinking vodka from a bottle and keeping tabs on the body, suddenly became alert. "What's that? You see that? Those lights?"

"Lights?" Travis straightened. "You're drunk. You better hope to hell you saved some of that for me. I bought it."

"In the air. Over that ravine. See them? Two of them Green. Don't you see 'em?"

"Yeah." Johnson took a few steps toward the car. "Floating around."

"Coming this way?" Brandon's voice sounded like a girl's. Travis would laugh his ass off about that later.

"Are they coming this way? Shit! Ghost lights. That's what they are. My uncle told me about 'em. He saw some around here once. Ghost lights."

They scrambled.

Travis tossed the shovel in the trunk with the corpse. Brandon slammed down the lid. They piled into the car. Johnson fired up the engine and threw the vehicle in reverse. They shot backward, bouncing over rough ground to finally fly through the open gate.

"Stop!" Travis shouted. "We have to lock up."

The car pitched to a sharp halt. Travis jumped out, closed and locked the gate, dove back into the car.

Were the lights coming? He pounded the dash. "Go! Go!"

They hauled ass, tires spinning.

"We still have the body," Brandon said, out of breath. "He wanted him reburied tonight."

"We'll do it tomorrow." Travis looked over his shoulder. "We'll come back tomorrow and do it in the daylight. Nobody'll ever know."

Graham took a shower and put on clean clothes. He brushed his teeth. In his makeshift room he lay down on the bed thinking to just close his eyes for a few minutes ...

When he woke up it was dark.

He fumbled around, turned on a light, and was relieved when the clock read a little after seven p.m. Stroud was sitting on the couch in the living room with his laptop.

Graham knew he was a writer. He'd even looked up some of his books at the library. Graham wasn't much of a reader. The required reading of
Lord of the Flies
and
Beowulf had
pretty much done him in. Then again, maybe Stroud wasn't writing. Maybe he was a message board junkie. Or an eBay junkie. Placing bids on a Jesus pierogi. Or a nun bun.

Stroud gave him a ride downtown. "Do you have any money?" he asked, parking at the curb near Peaches.

Graham shook his head.

Stroud produced a ten-dollar bill and handed it to him.

"Thanks." What was he thanking him for? The guy had gotten off easy. He'd never paid a cent during sixteen years. "I can get a ride back."

Stroud reached into the pocket of his long wool coat and pulled out a cell phone. "Take this and call me if you need a ride. And remember, curfew on weeknights is ten thirty. And it's enforced."

Graham grabbed the phone and almost thanked him again before he caught himself. "I'll watch the clock."

Inside Peaches, the music was loud and pulsing. Portishead. He hadn't heard Portishead in a long time.

He quickly scanned the room, looking for a girl with blond hair. No sign of Isobel. He ordered hot tea. "And one of those things." He pointed through the glass case at some kind of cake. It could be his birthday cake.

"Apple Betty?" the girl behind the counter asked.

Betty?
He looked a little harder. "Do you have anything with frosting?"

She craned her neck, then popped back up. "A cookie."

"Give me that Betty thing, I guess."

After paying, he took his order upstairs. That's where he found the hard kids, hanging out in the same place as before.

"Hey, how'd things go with the perv?" Travis asked, coming over to see what Graham had on his plate. His fingernails were painted black, and he was wearing eyeliner. His black hair fell in chunks around a face that was not really fat, but kinda puffy. More like a kid's face than a teenager's.

Travis had been filthy before, but now he had actual soil on his shirt and pants.

Travis broke off a piece of the cake and shoved it in his mouth. The two other guys behind him weren't paying any attention. One of them was asleep; the tall, skinny guy with short bleached hair had his back to them and was talking on a cell phone. His jeans were heavy with dirt.

"Not very well," Graham said. "He wanted to screw me."

A spray of cake shot out of Travis's mouth, followed by coughing and choking.

"Did you know about that?" Graham asked with accusation. "Did you know that was part of the deal?"

"Hey, man." Travis held up his hands. "I didn't know he was into that stuff. Swear to God. Well, I figured he was, but never heard about it being part of his little hobby. I've known a few guys who've gone there. None of them ever said anything about it." He put a fist to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He was laughing now. He smelled like alcohol.

"Thanks." Graham walked over to a chair and plopped down.

Travis followed. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Graham picked up the heavy fork.

"Did you do it?" Travis asked His eyes were bloodshot, and Graham realized he was drunk. "Did you let him fuck you?"

"Hell, no. I left without getting paid."

"Bummer. That's a real bummer. You should do something about that."

"Like what? Go to the cops?"

Travis laughed again, elbows bent, wrists slack. "Can you imagine? Going to the cops and saying, 'Hey, some old fart stiffed me out of my pay for nude shots.'"

Like he wasn't in enough trouble already.

"We should go over to his place and threaten him," Travis said. "Maybe rough him up a little."

"I don't do that kind of thing."

"He owes you money. When you go underground like that, you have to live by a different set of rules. The things out here don't apply."

"My own rules still apply. I don't beat up old farts, even if they're pervs."

"That's the best place to start," Travis insisted. "Who better to beat the shit out of?"

Why had he come here? To Peaches?

It hadn't been to see Travis and his buddies. Graham had been fooling himself with that excuse. He'd really come hoping to run into Isobel Hoping to make up for the disaster in the hallway. Maybe even tell her it was his birthday ...

"Here." He shoved the plate of apple crapple into Travis's hand, put his tea on a nearby table, and left.

His boots pounded on the wooden stairs; then he burst out the front door Nobody around. A couple of cars rolled down the street.

With his hands jammed into the pockets of his black sweatshirt, he walked, head down.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

He wasn't proud of his self-pity, but sometimes it felt good to feel sorry for yourself He walked with long strides, not looking up, finally finding himself in the square where he'd been arrested the other night.

He ran for the cover of a huge evergreen tree with branches that swept to the ground Once inside their shadows, he paused in the darkness and caught his breath As he stood there, something beyond the tree caught his eye. A flicker of light.

He parted the branches.

Far away was a cluster of small, shifting lights. Curious, he slipped from his cover and slowly approached the lights until he was near enough to recognize them as candles. Maybe fifty of them, some in glass, some just wedged in the dirt, the flames flickering wildly.

Behind the candles were stuffed animals and bouquets of dead flowers. A necklace. A letter jacket. In the center of it all was a photo of a pretty blond girl.

His heart did a swan dive.

It was the girl who'd been murdered. Then he realized this was probably the spot where her body had been found, and his heart took another dive. He'd heard kids talking about it at school, about how her body had been completely drained of blood.

Some even said Stroud had done it.

He stared at the picture. It was an eight-by-ten glossy. The kind kids had taken for graduation. She stared back at him, all perfect, with white teeth. She was the kind of girl who was prom queen, who dated the star football player. Lame shit, as far as he was concerned. But she didn't deserve to die.