by Anne Frasier
His near-death experience had created a somber, silent bond between them. She'd saved his life. More than once.
"This is nice." He ran his fingertips across the red Formica surface of the table. It was cool and smooth to the touch. The table was from the fifties, with a wide strip of shiny metal trim. A tremor ran through him; he made a fist and hid his hand on his lap.
"It came with the morgue." She pulled up her feet and wrapped one arm around her knees. Green socks poked out from the hem of her jeans. Her V-neck shirt was some kind of loose black tunic. Her short hair was tousled, her face pale and free of makeup.
Wouldn't she be surprised to know that he'd had sex only a few times in his life? Sex was a casualty of his exile. Just another something he lived without. And he wasn't exactly the kind of guy who attracted women you took home to mama. Most of the women who came on to him usually ended up having a penchant for black eyeliner, role-playing, and bloodletting parties.
He tried the tea again. This time he was able to take a small sip. The exotic flavor flowed over his tongue as he swallowed. A warm, almost electric sensation ran through him, all the way to his fingers and toes.
"You should try this." He offered his mug. "It's extremely rejuvenating. I'll have to find out where it came from so I can get more."
She took the mug, lifted it to her mouth, then handed it back. "No, thanks. I can't get past the smell. Would you like to look outside?" She unfolded herself—all long, graceful legs—and stood up. "The view from the living room is amazing."
Without waiting for an answer, and before he could take another swallow, she removed the cup from his hand and set it aside. She unlocked the wheelchair, turned him around, and pushed him from the small kitchen to the adjoining living room.
The colors. They were so vivid.
The room was done in deep hues. Greens. Reds. Blues. An orange scarf had been draped over a small table lamp to mute the light. The wooden floor creaked as she pushed him across the open space where moonlight fell through a curtainless window in the turret.
She was right: The view was amazing.
The old bridge with its rows of lights reflected off the Wisconsin River, which was smooth as glass. There was the courthouse, and the clock tower. Main Street with small white lights decorating trees that lined the streets. The art deco theater with its missing marquee letters.
Rachel sat down nearby. He couldn't see her, but he felt her presence as they both took in the beauty of the town.
He felt drowsy and sweet and melancholy.
This was an interlude. A tease. A sample of real life. This wouldn't happen again. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Very soon things would never be the same.
A change was coming.
As he stared below, his thoughts turned in another direction.
He'd always believed the old cliche that where there's smoke, there's fire. And there was a hell of a lot of smoke around him.
"I lose time," he confessed. "I'll look at my watch and it will be a little past midnight. When I look again, it's hours later. And now my DNA has been found at the scene of a brutal murder."
She didn't answer. At least she didn't give him some false spiel about believing in him and trusting him. She was suspicious, as well she should be. He was suspicious.
When she finally spoke, her words were measured and cautious. "You have no memory of what happens during that time?"
"No. Maybe I do bad things. Maybe I blocked out murdering that young girl."
"Kind of a Jekyll and Hyde?"
"Yeah."
"If that's true, evidence will be found at your house."
"But in the meantime you could be in danger. Everybody in this town could be in danger."
He'd had a taste of prison. His life was a prison. But he couldn't imagine being unable to walk the streets at night. Couldn't imagine being unable to watch the light reflecting off the river from the bluff.
He reached up and behind and found her hand without looking. He brought it to his face, touching it to the stubble on his jaw. "I should turn myself in so they can lock me up."
He felt her stiffen, and sensed her shock and confusion. He was tempted to press her palm to his mouth, but he restrained himself.
His mind settled where it had been settling every time he let it go.
He stared blindly out the window, not seeing the buildings this time. He'd been a father for only a short while, but it felt much longer. Months, maybe years. It seemed Graham had always been there, that Evan had always known of his existence even though he hadn't. It was so obvious now. He'd felt him lurking in the depths of his soul; he just hadn't understood where the longing had come from. Now he knew. The fact that Graham had always been out there brought Evan comfort. His son had existed in the past and he would exist in the future.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" No names. He couldn't bring himself to speak his name out loud. "With her?"
Graham would go on without him.
Chapter 25
Isobel dug a half-eaten veggie sandwich from her backpack, unwrapped it, stared at it a minute, then tossed it in the trash. It hadn't been good earlier, and it looked even more disgusting four hours later. Why had she bothered to save it? Now everything in her backpack smelled like onions and green peppers. Even her locker smelled like some old deli.
She'd found a secluded corner in the carpeted lobby of the old downtown movie theater and was trying to study her lines, but she couldn't concentrate. She sat on the floor, back to the wall, legs out in front of her, black boots below yellow tights crossed at the ankles, trying not to think about Graham.
Just quit thinking about him.
But she couldn't. She kept replaying yesterday in her head, seeing Graham loping off down the hallway. When she'd called his name, he'd turned, looked right through her, and kept going.
Lalalala.
Now he was gone. Checked out. Locker empty. Moved away. Back with mommy, and he hadn't even said good-bye.
He'd been using her to hang out with until his real life started up again. She'd just been somebody to mooch from and bum rides from and talk to so he wouldn't have to be alone. But she obviously hadn't meant anything to him, even after she'd stood by him when other kids shunned him.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Everything sucked.
"Bad day?"
She looked up, and her heart took a little nosedive, the way it always did when Mr. Alba spoke directly to her. He was one of the coolest teachers, and he had a sad, tragic past that made him even more appealing.
She held up her playbook of Macbeth, open to a highlighted page. "Just having a hard time concentrating."
"Dress rehearsal is in two days," he reminded her gently.
"I know."
She heard he'd been going to graduate school and had been on a field trip to Mexico when the bus they were on plunged over a cliff. Everybody had died, even his girlfriend, but he'd walked away without a scratch.
He crouched down in front of her. "Want to talk about it?"
Other girls in school were always trying to guess Alba's age. He couldn't be that much older than they were. Isobel knew a man and wife who were twenty years apart, and she knew another married couple who were ten. Mr. A was probably in his twenties. He was still young enough to know how to dress cool, with his sweaters and dark ties, wavy hair that almost touched his shoulders.
"I'll be in my office until late tonight if you do. Stop by anytime."
She swallowed and tried to give him a natural smile. Until late tonight. What did that mean? Just what it sounded like? Nothing more?
She'd been to his office a few times, but always with other students. The way she understood it, Mr. Alba wasn't a regular teacher. He'd been hired on a part-time basis and was paid by a group of parents who had screamed when art, music, and drama were cut from the school budget. So poor Mr. A didn't even have a room. His classroom was the old theater, and his office was some hole in the corner of t
he basement that was no bigger than a closet, and had probably been an actual closet at one time.
Her heart was beating fast. Did he like her? Did he like her, like her?
Stop!
This was wrong. Nothing about his body language said she was any more to him than any other student with a problem. He wanted to help her so she could focus on the play. That's all.
But she was seventeen. Eighteen in eight more months ...
He straightened. "Stop by after rehearsal if you feel like it."
"Okay." Would she? "I might be busy. I might have to get home."
That was lame. She would know right now if she had to get home, and Holly sure didn't give a damn when she came or went. Her cousin was in her own little world, always on the phone to someone or crying about the guy who'd dumped her.
Isobel had always sworn she would never grieve over a guy. A girl had to have more pride than that. But just five minutes ago she'd been doing exactly what Holly had done for the past six months. Losing herself. Letting go of what had been important to her before Graham walked into her life. Getting dumped, by a friend or boyfriend, was no reason to self-destruct.
Maybe she would ask the Ouija board what it thought about her talking to Mr. Alba.
Phillip Alba checked the clock on the wall. A little after nine. Rehearsal had ended an hour ago. He'd waited in his office for Isobel to stop by, but apparently she wasn't coming. Although he'd always been good at reading people, sometimes he got it wrong.
He packed up his briefcase, tossing in notes and play posters, then snapped the case shut. His fingers were wrapped around the black leather handle when a timid knock sounded on his door and Isobel peeked shyly through the opening.
He leaned back in his chair, hands splayed at his waist. "Isobel." He gave her a warm smile.
Phillip was careful to keep his body language casual and friendly so he didn't scare her off. He could tell she was attracted to him, but she was also leery and suspicious.
Women had always been drawn to him, even when he was a small child. They would come up to him in grocery stores and stroke his hair while they made crooning noises. What was it about him that drew them? He'd been cute, with curly hair and dark eyes. As he got older he learned it wasn't just about looks. There were lots of good-looking kids out there. He had something those other kids didn't have. The corny word for it was charisma.
Isobel lingered in the doorway, one hand gripping the molding. "Come on in," he told her.
A wooden straight-backed chair was propped against one wall. He jumped up, pulled the chair near his desk, and motioned for her to have a seat. Such a gentleman.
What was she wearing today? That was always what he looked for when it came to Isobel. Her sense of style. She would have denied being that shallow, but she gave her wardrobe a lot of thought. The outfits she put together didn't just fall out of the closet. And they couldn't be bought at the local mall. She probably didn't think of it in those terms, but not only was she constantly making a statement; she was a walking piece of art.
"Nice sweater," he said.
As if having forgotten what she'd put on that day, she looked down and touched the pink cardigan edged in bright red flowers. "I got this at the thrift shop on Jefferson. They have a lot of cool stuff."
He sat back down in his swivel chair. "I get some of my costumes there."
He didn't think of himself as a predator. He would have been pissed if anybody had accused him of such a thing. No, he became what people needed in their lives. He filled a void. He listened. He was a good listener.
Was that predatorial? No, unless shrinks were predatorial. He helped people. He was a replacement for absent fathers and mothers who were off working. That's what was wrong with the United States. Everybody worked. Nobody stayed home with the kids. And vacations? Fuck it. Why, the Swedes took off months in a single year, no question. Americans worked. And worked. So much that they didn't know how to relax. Didn't know how to spend time with their children.
Phillip was here for those kids. The kids who would be lost otherwise. They needed him. Isobel needed him. Maybe he was an opportunist, but what difference did it make? What successful man wasn't?
He made his voice soft, serious, and warm. "What's bothering you, kitten?"
He could see that she liked being called kitten. Giving off a faint scent of stale onions that he tried to ignore, she sat down on the hard chair, legs together, and let her backpack slide to the floor.
"It has to be tough with your parents on tour."
"Yeah." She slumped closer, tucking her hands between her knees.
"And I know you were hanging around with Graham Yates. I heard he moved back home. That's the best place for him. With his mother."
"I'm sorry I got him involved in the set design at the last minute. I mean, it was great of you to give him a break, but..." She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Not your fault. You were just trying to help a friend. Never be ashamed of that."
"Even if that friend stabs you in the back?"
"Want to talk about it?"
Nobody listened anymore. So many people, adults and kids alike, just wanted somebody to listen. "Don't tell me if you don't want to. Don't let me talk you into revealing something that makes you uncomfortable."
"He didn't really stab me in the back, I guess. That's stretching it."
Phillip got up from his chair and came around to sit on the corner of the desk so that he was closer to Isobel, so that he could reach out to her if the moment presented itself.
"He left without saying good-bye." She raised and dropped her hand. "There. That's all. It sounds so stupid now that I'm saying it out loud. It was no big deal. Not anything to get upset about."
Phillip leaned forward, hands on his knees. Shaking his head, he said, "That's not stupid at all."
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "I stood by him when other kids called him the freak's son."
"Sometimes we make people into who we want them to be rather than who they really are. Let me ask you this: When you were with Graham, did you get the feeling that you two were alike? That you had a lot in common?"
She nodded.
God, she was beautiful. Those green eyes. That flawless skin. Was she a virgin? He knew she didn't have any close friends, and she'd never had a serious boyfriend as far as anybody knew. Loners tended to remain virgins longer than party girls. Iso-bel was a person other students liked, but often couldn't relate to. She kept people at a distance, because she tended to think for herself a little too much.
And if she vanished, her disappearance probably wouldn't be reported for a long time ....
"Did you ever wonder if maybe you were making him like you? I mean, making him seem similar to you, at least in your mind?"
She frowned in puzzlement, and he continued. "When we don't know something about someone, we fill in the blanks. And what we use to fill in those blanks is usually something we can relate to in ourselves. When we don't know all the facts, we tend to make people like us."
Her face cleared as she got what he was saying. She was a smart girl.
"That's kinda embarrassing," she said with a self-conscious smile.
"It's human nature. So the person you miss never really existed. That's what I'm telling you. And how can you miss somebody who never really existed?"
He wanted to touch her, even just the skin of her arm, but he restrained himself.
She picked up her backpack and got to her feet. "Thank you, Mr. A. You've been great. You are great."
He smiled at her, and she mirrored his expression. "Stop by and talk anytime," he told her. "My door is always open."
Chapter 26
Phillip Alba drove through the darkness to his home five miles from Tuonela. Clouds blacked out the stars. The only light came from the orange glow of the dashboard.
At the house he stripped to his underwear, then carefully hung up his slacks, shirt, and tie in the bedroom closet b
efore slipping into a pair of old jeans and a cotton work shirt. Downstairs in the kitchen he put on a canvas Carhartt jacket that wouldn't snag on the underbrush, and laced up his hiking boots. At the last minute he decided to grab a cheap wool blanket. Then he wrapped a slice of bread and slipped it into his pocket, picked up the lantern along with a small flashlight, and headed out the door.
The gate was closed, but the heavy chain had been linked incorrectly—evidence that the Pale Immortals had been there. Oh, the drama. But kids were like that. So over-the-top. They loved that shit. At least they hadn't named themselves Dracula's Death Squad or something equally stupid.
Their group had already been established when Phillip returned to Tuonela after the accident. But they'd lacked direction and purpose. He'd been able to give them that.
Everybody was looking for something to believe in, especially kids their age. And once they connected with you, once bonding had been achieved, everything else was easy. If the Pale Immortals were the Manson family, then Phillip was a kinder, gentler, and much better-looking Charles Manson. Plus, he was sane.
Once Phillip was deep into the woods and away from the house, he lit the lantern and tucked the flashlight in his jacket pocket. Holding the lantern high, he continued through the woods.
Until the bus crash, Phillip had glided through life with no real plan or purpose. The accident turned him around. It got him thinking about immortality and cheating death, wondering if it was possible.
He'd always been special. Anybody who had contact with him would say so. And he'd lived through a horrendous massacre in which everyone else had died while he'd walked away unharmed.
A sign?
For a while he'd felt as if nothing could touch him, not even death. But that feeling faded, replaced by a nagging worry. If he as much as caught a cold, he thought it must be something more serious. Maybe tuberculosis. Maybe cancer. A trip to the grocery store brought visions of tangled metal and wreckage, his body impaled.
And so he had to have a way out. He had to find a way to stop death, to become immortal. He didn't want to die. He couldn't allow himself to die.
