Pale Immortal (8 page)

She shoved her shoulder against the church door, managing to get it partly open.

The interior was black, with vague outlines that looked like pews. A rectangular room with plaster walls and a woodstove.

What was that across the room?

A form.

A woman.

Victoria.

She was lying in something made of metal. A zinc tub.

Victoria had long, beautiful hair. Victoria was of another age.

Slowly the woman stood.

Rachel heard water splashing. But it wasn't water Somehow she knew it wasn't water. Victoria reached for Rachel with one hand—just as Victoria had reached for her in the morgue, in a sorrowful, imploring, helpless gesture.

She wanted Rachel to come inside the church.

This was why she should have stayed in California. The dead didn't appear to her in California.

Victoria was still calling.

Don't do it.

Don't go in there

Turn and leave. Act like you don't see her.

Rachel fled.

Now that she was in motion, now that her body had finally responded, she ran like hell. Her feet flew over the ground, and somehow she didn't trip. Branches slashed her arms and face, but she didn't care.

She wasn't in great condition, and her lungs quickly became raw, her breathing loud. Still she hurtled herself forward into the darkness.

A shape appeared directly in front of her.

She veered to the right. Hands grabbed her.

"Hey!"

A male voice.

Hands holding her arms.

"Hey, hey, hey! What's going on? Why are you running? I'm sorry I scared you. You just came plowing into me."

It took her a moment to realize this was a real person.

"Are you Rachel?" he asked. "I'm Phillip. Sorry I'm late. I got hung up at school."

The presence of another person had an immediate calming effect on her.

He put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her, and they began to walk from the woods toward the gate, which she could see was ajar. "Old Tuonela was built on a fault line," Phillip said, in what seemed a poor attempt to distract her. "Did you know that? Did you know that we could have a bigger earthquake here than anything San Francisco has ever seen?"

"I try not to think about it."

They had reached her van.

"You scratched your face." He wiped a thumb across her cheek, then showed her the blood. His car was next to hers, running, parking lights on.

He was one of those intense artist types. Probably raised by a nanny in a suburb of Chicago. Not that Rachel held it against him, but she suspected that kind of upbringing created another form of alienation.

She could easily imagine him as a college student, writing obscure poetry and attending open-mike night. He would have worn a black turtleneck and horn-rimmed glasses. Very serious. Very mysterious.

His hair was shaggy and longish, which added to the Dylan Thomas quality. People in Tuonela spoke highly of Phillip Alba. They thought he was doing a great job with the children and the plays.

"Did you see something in there?" he asked.

"Like what?"

He watched her closely. "I don't know. Why were you running?"

"I just got spooked, that's all."

"What were you looking for?"

"A grave." Bit by bit she pulled herself together.

"What kind of grave?"

"The grave of the Pale Immortal. Have you heard any rumors? About it being somewhere in OT?"

He shook his head. "Nothing other than the possibility. But I was also told he was buried somewhere else."

"I've heard that too. Probably right. If you see any signs of anybody snooping around, call Chief Burton."

"Will do. But I get the idea you were looking for something specific. Were you?"

Normally she wouldn't have been so free with information. But she was still shaken, and she felt that they now had a bond. He'd rescued her. "Some people think he was buried under an oak tree in the church graveyard."

"Under
a tree?"

"The tree was planted over his grave. To hold him down. To keep him from rising."

"Oh." Phillip nodded and smiled. The kind of smile outsiders smiled, because she was talking silly stuff. Outsiders didn't believe the Tuonela myths. Hell,
she
didn't believe the myths.

"Did you find it?" he asked. "The grave?" He was joking with her.

"No. I think I found an oak tree, but no grave."

"Would you like to come inside a minute?" He jabbed a thumb toward the house.

She was about to say yes when a pair of headlights appeared in the lane. Rachel recognized Dan's car. He pulled to a stop, cut the engine, and jumped out.

"Hey." He looked from Rachel to Alba, then back to Rachel. "Sorry. I just got your message."

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked. "You could have saved yourself a trip."

Dan ran a hand through his hair, elbow high, one hand at his waist. "I don't know."

"I'm just getting ready to leave. I'm sorry you drove up here for nothing."

At that moment another set of headlights appeared, the twin beams vanishing and reappearing, bobbing with the rough terrain.

"Jeez," Alba said under his breath. Apparently he wasn't used to so much company.

As Rachel watched, the vehicle topped the last rise and pulled up behind her van. The door opened and Evan Stroud stepped out. He wore a dark, unbuttoned coat. "I saw you tried to call me. I had the feeling you might be out here." He hovered near the car, then slowly moved in her direction, as if he were unwilling to step far from his vehicle. "Is everything okay?" He glanced toward the woods and the heart of Old Tuonela, then quickly back. "Is that blood?" He pointed to Rachel's face.

She put a hand to her cheek. "I ran into a branch."

Now that Evan was there, Alba didn't seem nearly as interesting. She felt bad about that. Even the woman in the zinc tub had taken a backseat. Her visions were like that. Once they were gone, they never seemed real, like something she'd watched on TV when she was almost asleep. She didn't know what caused them, but they came from her. They couldn't be real. How could she—a coroner, a medical examiner—believe otherwise?

Evan's cell phone rang, but he ignored it. Her cell phone rang and she noted she had a strong signal this time. It was her dad. "If you see Evan," Seymour said, "tell him we have the kid."

"Kid?"

"The kid claiming to be his son."

That was the last thing she'd expected to hear. "I'll let him know." She disconnected. "I really have to get going," she told Alba.

His son. Evan's son. What was that all about?

Rachel remembered the boy she'd seen that morning outside the library. He'd been crying, and he'd looked different. You could usually tell when somebody wasn't from Tuonela. There was nothing to put your finger on; it was primal, the way animals from the same litter knew one another and could sniff out strangers.

"Are you Evan Stroud?" Alba asked.

Rachel had assumed they knew each other. She found it strange that they'd never met, considering Evan had written a book about Old Tuonela. Alba extended his hand and introduced himself.

"That was my dad on the phone," Rachel said. "He wanted me to tell you they have your son at the police station."

That produced a long silence.

"You mean the kid
claiming
to be my son," Evan finally said. "Big difference." But he moved toward his car as if the kid meant more to him than he was willing to admit.

They all slid into their vehicles. In a caravan, they headed in the direction of Tuonela, away from the land of the dead.

The jail cell was tiny, with a toilet and sink right there in the open so anybody could watch. That was probably so you didn't try to hang yourself in secret.

The cell actually had a window—probably because the entire building was old. The barred window was so high that Graham couldn't see out, even though he'd jumped several times. The cement-block walls were full of writing. How did people write stuff? You had to have a pen to write. Nobody let Graham have anything. No wonder that guy—de Sade—wrote stuff with his own poop. It was all he had.

Graham had been there only three hours, but he was about to lose it.

He hadn't done anything. He'd been hanging out in the square, but it was more of a park. What was illegal about that? A public park.

The cop who'd pulled up said it wasn't allowed, then asked for ID. Loitering and unattended juvenile was what they got him on. How lame was that?

One of the cops who'd been in on the arrest appeared outside the barred cell. He was young and kind of shy. "Need anything?" he asked. "Water? Something to eat?"

Graham shook his head. They weren't supposed to be nice to him. He didn't want them to be nice. Were they up to something? "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"No, I mean the date. What's the date?"

"April eighth."

Graham's birthday was tomorrow.

The young cop left, then reappeared a half hour later. He unlocked the cell door and held it open. "Chief Burton wants to see you in his office."

Was this a good sign or a bad sign?

Chief Burton was old and thin, and reminded Graham of somebody's grandfather. He wore a gray suit that matched his gray hair. The thin fabric hung from his sharp shoulders. He reeked of cigarette smoke and fried food. In an office with wood-paneled walls and no windows, he motioned for Graham to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. He smiled, and Graham relaxed. A little.

"So ..." Grandpa pulled out a metal lighter, lit a cigarette, shut the lighter with a loud snap, then leaned back in his chair. "I hear you've been in a little trouble."

"I didn't know there was anything wrong with hanging out in a park."

"There are several things wrong with that. You were sleeping. We don't allow sleeping and loitering in the park."

"How do you not loiter in a park?" Should he have been selling hot dogs or something? "Can't somebody take a snooze in the park?"

"Let me put it this way. You can take a nap—but you can't settle in for the night. Doesn't matter." He waved his words away. "You're underage. Fifteen-year-olds can't live alone."

"I'm sixteen." Almost.

"Sixteen-year-olds can't live alone either. That . makes you an unattended juvenile. Another concern: Someone was murdered in that park, not far from where you were sleeping, just two days ago. And since perpetrators often return to the scene of the crime, you chose a particularly bad place to set up camp."

He paused to take several deep puffs from his cigarette, then tucked it into a large glass ashtray. "If I had a grandson your age, I wouldn't want him in the park. We're lookin' out for you, Graham."

"Ummm. Okay." The room was small, and Graham's eyes were burning from the cigarette smoke.

The chief stubbed out his butt, then started hacking away.

Why don't you just quit smoking?
Graham wanted to say.
You're telling me I'm stupid for sleeping in the park when you're killing yourself?

When the guy finally stopped coughing, he acted as if nothing had happened. "Unless you
are
the perpetrator." He leaned back in his chair. "You hit town the same night the murder took place."

"What?" Graham's heart began to pound. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing." Burton shrugged.

"You think I
killed somebody?"
That was insane! He'd thought his life couldn't get any more screwed up, but apparently he was wrong.

"Personally, I don't think you killed anybody, but that's not to say you aren't a suspect. Your badly timed arrival makes you suspicious."

"But I was at Evan Stroud's. Ask him."

"We did. He told us the approximate time you showed up on his porch. Hours after the murder took place. Where were you before you went to Stroud's? Do you have an alibi?"

"I was in a car. We were driving to Tuonela. Me and my mom."

"Unfortunately we can't find her. We have no proof of what you're telling me."

Did that mean he was going back to jail? He couldn't do that. Maybe this guy was just messing with him. Trying to scare him into confessing, if he had anything to confess.

"Here's what I'd like you to do," Burton said. "Since we can't find your mother, we've made temporary living arrangements for you until we can locate her."

Social Services. But not jail.

"During that time, which hopefully won't be long, you have to go to school. We can't have you piddling around all day, doing nothing."

He shrugged.

"Good." Burton smiled.

They both got to their feet.

The old guy put an arm around his shoulders, giving him an encouraging pat. "No matter how bad things seem, they always work out."

Someone had left Graham's pack in the hallway. He picked it up, and the chief walked him to the door. Outside, a car was parked at the bottom of the wide marble steps. Next to the vehicle, dressed in a long coat topped off with dark glasses, even though it was night, stood Evan Stroud.

Graham's stomach did a flip-flop.

"Go on." The old guy gave him a gentle shove.

There was nowhere to run. He was at the police station, for dog shit's sake. If he took off, they'd have him in a second. They'd put him back in jail, where he'd soon be writing his name in stinky letters.

Like a robot, he moved jerkily down the steps toward Stroud.

"Here's the deal," Stroud said once they were in the car driving away. "You can stay at my place while we get things figured out. I'll take DNA samples and send them to a lab so you can see that I'm not your father. So you can have some closure."

"You don't have to do this." Graham didn't want to stay where he wasn't wanted. He had pride.

"It's all right. I want to help, but I can't monitor you. I can't follow you around and make sure you're going where you should be going. Tuonela is small, and everybody knows everybody's business. If you ditch school, I'll find out."