Pale Immortal (6 page)

The van's headlights barely penetrated the heavy woodland as Rachel Burton drove up the twisted road that led to the south side of town. The labored climb always reminded her of a recurring dream, one in which she drove straight up a sharp hill, only to plummet down the other side once she reached the precipice. Even though the dream was cartoony and unrealistic, it never failed to scare the hell out of her. She'd always considered it a metaphor for life's struggles, but she was sure Freud would have had a different interpretation.

The town of Tuonela was divided by deep ravines, shallow creeks, and steep hills. There was often no easy way to get from point A to point B. When glaciers had crept across North America, dipping down into Wisconsin to smooth away the jagged peaks and sharp edges, they'd only skimmed areas of Juneau County.

Rachel hadn't experienced any more visitations, although last night she'd jumped at her own reflection in the window glass, but every time she turned around she braced herself for the unwanted. It never came. Now, almost twenty-four hours later, she was beginning to wonder if she'd imagined it. Deep down, she knew better.

It was just past seven o'clock and already dark. She would be glad when the time changed. She'd never cared for standard time.

The van struggled skyward, the headlight beams shooting at the stars before the vehicle crested the hill to level ground. Here the roads were flat and fanned out to follow deep hollows that led to rows of bungalows built in the twenties.

Rachel hadn't been to this area of town for a while, and she found herself confused by changes like new fences and landscaping, by trees that had grown and trees that were gone. Other things were the same, yet not the same. Kind of like a puzzle put together in a slightly different configuration.

She turned down Benefit Street.

Unlike the other well-lit areas of South Hill, Benefit Street was illuminated with softer bulbs that gave off a bluish hue. She pulled to a stop in front of a dark house, cut the engine, and got out. The ornate metal gate still creaked when she opened it. For a brief moment she half expected to hear a dog bark. But no, Finn was dead and gone.

She was on a quest—a quest for the grave of the Pale Immortal.

Up the walk, up the wooden steps.

Had the doorbell ever been fixed?

In the dark she ran her hand across the molding that surrounded the door, feeling for a button. Just as she found it, words came out of the darkness from the corner of the porch, causing her to jump.

"Enfant terrible."

Recognizing the voice even after so many years, she swung around, heart pounding, barely able to make out the undefined shape of Evan Stroud. She heard a creak and realized he was sitting in the porch swing that hung from the ceiling by chains. How many times had she sat there herself?

Enfant terrible.

A
name he'd given her, a name that had come from one of her more volatile childhood phases of unattractive stomping and sullenness.

Their fathers had been cops together, and their mothers had shared after-school child care. There had been a period when they seemed to be together more often than apart. Evan was two years older, and had spent most of the time teasing Rachel, treating her like an annoying kid sister. She'd spent most of it trying to hide a schoolgirl crush. Young love. Crushes were foolish, and yet so devastatingly powerful. There had been a time when she would have died for him.

Then Lydia Yates came along.

Rachel would never know if Lydia's appearance changed the course of both their lives. What would have happened if she hadn't shown up in Tuonela? Would Rachel and Evan have parted anyway? Or would their relationship have blossomed into more? To her young mind, Evan had betrayed her with Lydia. Broken her heart.

The air was damp and cold. A shiver went through her.

"Want to come inside? Have something warm to drink? Some tea?" he asked.

Had he lived in darkness for so long that he could see in it? Had his eyesight compensated?

They went inside.

She shut the door behind her and followed him across the living room to the kitchen, sitting down at the round table as if she'd done it every day for the past seventeen years. In the center of the table was a copy of the
Tuonela Press
and the front-page color photo of her standing near the coroner's van. The depth of field was amazing. Behind her, just as clear as anything in the foreground, she could see a body wrapped in heavy black plastic being slid into the back of the van.

Evan filled a teapot with water and placed it on the gas stove. He was dressed in jeans and a wrinkled, untucked shirt, the sleeves rolled a couple of turns. The shirt was white with fine gray lines running through it.

It looked as if he cut his own hair, maybe holding up clumps and slashing away with a razor until there was nothing left but a point.

He probably can't go to a barber,
she realized with shock. Such a simple thing, but he couldn't do it. So he chopped at his own hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

The kitchen was cast in low light. She couldn't see him clearly, but she detected a weakness in the way he held his body, the way he leaned against the stove with his shoulders slightly hunched. Were those dark circles under his eyes? Or shadows caused by poor lighting?

"I'm sorry about your mom."

She nodded. "I got your card."

"I would have come to the funeral... ." His words trailed off.

She'd seen his name in the visitation book and knew he'd come to the funeral home in the evening. Her mother had never cared much for Evan after the Yates fiasco. Maybe she'd felt betrayed too.

"How's your dad?" she asked.

Evan's dad had had a breakdown and retired early, while Rachel's father went on to become chief of police.

"Loves it in Florida," Evan said. "Golfs every day. Keeps trying to get me to move down there, but I tell him it's too sunny."

"I can see where that would be a problem."

"I like your short hair," he told her.

She touched some strands that barely covered her ears. It was shorter than his hair, but close to the same shade.

"Darker than I remembered," he added.

"That's deliberate."

He placed a mug in front of her and a canister of tea bags. His hand trembled. He saw that she saw, and curled his hand into a fist, then eased himself into the seat opposite her.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Elbows on the table, he rubbed his forehead, then let out a harsh laugh. "Just a little under the weather. It's my own damn fault. My own stupidity. It'll pass."

Since he was obviously uncomfortable, she steered the conversation away from his health. "I'm surprised your dad left." He was one of the rare few to leave Tuonela.

"He's not sentimental. And I think he needed to get away."

"It's not sentimentality that keeps people here."

"No?"

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"It's easier to be here. Why did you come back?"

She thought about the life she'd had beyond Wisconsin. She thought about returning home, thought about how her heart had begun to pound when she got within sight of Tuonela. The way it smelled, the haze that enveloped the landscape—it crept into your bones.

"This feels real," she said softly, surprised that she would reveal so much. "I like the sense of belonging. Of familiarity." Or at least, she had until last night.

He must have seen the hesitation in her face. "But you don't want to be here ..." he suggested with a question in his voice. "You wish things were different."

She broke eye contact to draw her finger around a pattern on the tablecloth. "Yes," she whispered. She'd always been able to talk to him. How had she forgotten? Not forgotten, but deliberately locked away. It seemed so foolish now. Childish.

But she'd
been
a child. They'd both been children.

She'd never told him about the dead she saw. Nobody but her parents had known about them.

The teapot whistled.

"I'll get it." She rose to her feet. "Stay where you are." She almost touched his shoulder in a reassuring gesture, then stopped herself just before making contact. She crossed to the stove, shut off the flame, and filled their mugs. "Milk? Cream?"

He shook his head, and she sat back down.

He removed a tea bag from the container and unwrapped it. "I have tea sent from England. The new shipment hasn't arrived, and I'm running low, so not much of a selection."

Ordering tea from another country was his way of bringing a little bit of the world to him. She understood that. "What about this?" She picked up an ornate silver tin from the center of the table.

"That's loose tea I found in the back of the cupboard. Something my dad left. I tried it a few times, but it's pretty bad."

She pulled off the lid. It was one of those weird, exotic teas with flowers and herbs and maybe even pieces of dried mushrooms. She took a sniff and recoiled. It didn't smell horrid, just surprising. Earthy and musty. She replaced the lid and handed the container to him. "That isn't something I'd want to drink, but then, I don't know anything about tea."

He stared at the canister. "I was going to throw it away, but I might have to resort to drinking it if I run out."

"Don't get rid of the tin," she said. "The tin is beautiful."

He put it down, then leaned back in his chair. "What are you doing here, Rachel?" His shift made the angle of the light change, accentuating the indentations in his cheeks.

He was sick. He was living some Russian tragedy.

She felt an ache deep inside, and she thought of the seventeen years that had passed since she'd last seen him. Such a long time ...

She was glad she'd come. She would come back again, even though he couldn't possibly help them with the murder case.

"Stop it," he said.

"What?"

"Stop feeling sorry for me."

Sympathy was replaced by irritation. "This is who I am. When I see someone who is pathetic, I feel sorry for him." Heat raced up her face. She couldn't believe she'd just said that. It was so easy to revert back to bratty, nasty childhood habits.

He laughed.
Laughed.

"I'd better go." She got to her feet, the chair scraping the floor.

"Oh, come on. Don't leave." He grabbed her arm. She could feel every one of his fingertips. "You just got here." He looked up at her, the pale column of his throat exposed. "Stay and entertain me. Drink your tea. Your English tea." He smiled in the most beguiling way.

He let go of her arm.

Should she mention the reason for her visit? But her silence would be sheltering him, treating him as if he were different.

"I see you've been reading about the murder." She sat back down.

His house was so quiet. You could hear the clock ticking. She remembered coming here when she was young, running in, dropping books on the couch, and racing to the refrigerator. Evan's mother would sometimes be baking cookies. His dad would come up out of the basement smelling like hot metal and gun cleaner.

"I've been kinda busy today, but I read a little about it," Evan said.

"We've contacted the Wisconsin Division of Criminal Investigation. They requested a copy of the case file. Also the state police will probably send someone down to ask questions and basically get in the way of any investigating we're able to pull together on our own."

He let out a snort that said he understood her problem.

It was an old story: People who didn't live in Tuonela weren't interested. If anyone did come, they would be nothing more than a pain in the ass.

Rachel's dad was interviewing Tuonela residents, focusing closely on the group calling themselves the Pale Immortals.

Vampire clubs were common in L.A. Most of the people involved were a bit on the geeky side and into harmless role-playing, although some actually drank blood. Tuonela's Pale Immortals were just a bunch of kids, but Seymour was keeping them on his list.

"I thought you might be interested in helping," Rachel said.

Evan frowned, puzzled. "I'm no detective. I can't even leave the house during the day. What's this about?"

"There's more to it than your average homicide. Something that wasn't in the papers." She paused for effect. "The body was drained of blood."

That got his attention. "The Pale Immortal?"

"Same MO. With your background in folklore and knowledge of the Pale Immortal, I thought you might be able to help us."

"You think he's returned?" He smiled. "Risen from the grave?"

"Of course not." She made a face that said his words were ridiculous. At the same time she tried to push aside the fears she'd had last night in the morgue. "Someone might be imitating him So we need all the information we can get."

He held out both hands so she could see how badly he trembled. "I'm weak as a kitten That happens when I'm exposed to sunlight."

"We just need information With the research you've done ... Maybe with enough information we can predict the killer's next move, if he has a next move."

"I'll do what I can." He picked up a pen and began to doodle on the edge of the newspaper.

"In your research, did you come upon any clues to the whereabouts of the Pale Immortal's grave?" She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Some peo- ple say the body was burned. Others believe it's buried in Old Tuonela."

"Why are you looking for the grave?"

"We figure anybody so obsessed with the Pale Immortal would also be obsessed with finding his grave." Not many clues had been left at the crime scene. Her hope was that they might find clues at the grave of the Pale Immortal. Offerings. Trinkets. Flowers. What did vampire worshipers leave for vampires?

Evan clicked the pen. "Some people think a dummy grave was created in Old Tuonela, and that the real grave is in the corner of a farm field."

That made sense. Years ago dummy graves were commonly used for criminals. Otherwise, families of the victims would dig up the corpse, tear it to shreds, and burn it in order to keep the soul from finding peace.