Pale Immortal (26 page)

Oh, this had to be a dream.

Then he was giving him a drink of water. Dream or not, Graham grabbed the bottle.

"Wait." Alba held out his hand. "Take this."

A pill in his palm.

"It's an antibiotic. For your leg."

Graham popped the pill in his mouth, then swallowed the rest of the water.

"I have something else." Like some magician, Alba pulled out a granola bar. Graham shook his head. Now that he'd finished off the water, his stomach felt weird. Like he might throw up.

"Yogurt?" Alba held up a container of yogurt. Where was he getting this stuff? Pulling it out of his ass?

"No." Graham dropped back on the mattress, an arm thrown over his eyes.

Alba continued to hover. He lifted Graham's bad leg and began doing something to it.

"What's going on down there?"

"I'm cleaning your ankle." Another bottle of water materialized. Alba opened it, then poured it over Graham's wound. Graham let his eyes close again. He heard someone rummaging around in a plastic bag. He heard a cap being unscrewed. More liquid hit his leg.

Graham shot upright.

"Peroxide," Alba said.

The searing pain gave way to a steady throb, and Graham fell back against the mattress again. Alba kept fiddling around. He wrapped Graham's leg in gauze, then rested the leg on a pillow. He tucked another pillow behind Graham's head, and covered him with a warm, soft blanket.

"I'll be back to check on you later."

"Thanks," Graham said without opening his eyes.

His leg felt better already. The blanket felt amazing. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he opened his eyes and grabbed Alba's hand. "Thanks, Mr. Alba."

In that moment he loved the man. Loved his generosity and the care and attention he'd just shown. If he wanted to ignore the rotting corpse hanging from the ceiling, he could do that. "You're a humanitarian."

In the back of his mind Graham remembered how he came to have the injury in the first place, and he knew Alba had been behind his mother's murder, but the kindness he now showed erased all the bad stuff. This was a new world. A new, skewed, and messed-up world, and the rules were different. It all boiled down to viewpoint. You could look at anything and make it right or wrong. Because there wasn't any right or wrong. Just the rules set down by society.

And anyway, this wasn't the real world. It was some kind of alternate universe existing in Graham's head. If he wanted to like Alba, he could. If he wanted to ignore the rotting corpse hanging from the rafters, he could do that too.

He had a warm blanket. And a pillow.

Everything he needed.

Coroner's Assistant Dan Salsberry pulled up outside the morgue. He grabbed a manila envelope off the passenger seat and climbed out of his gray Honda Accord.

He entered through the delivery door, pausing just inside. The building was silent. The cleaning woman wouldn't be there, and he knew Rachel wouldn't be home for at least another hour. Dan had made sure of that.

He took the narrow stairs, staying to one side so they didn't creak, walking on the balls of his feet, the soles of his sneakers barely making a sound. But then, somebody like Stroud could probably hear through walls.

Dan's heart was pounding hard by the time he reached the third floor. He paused and listened once more, then moved down the hallway on the strip of Oriental carpet.

At the apartment door he bent and slipped the envelope under the crack. He knocked loudly, turned,

and ran like hell.

Inside the apartment, Evan stared at the envelope on the floor. His name was written across it in large letters.

Who hadn't viewed this scene a million times in movies and on TV? Feeling sick with dread, he picked up the envelope and ripped it open.

It contained several eight-by-ten color photos of Graham.

For a fraction of a second Evan allowed himself to dissolve, to let fear take over. Then he flew down the stairs, one hand on the railing, skipping several steps as he sailed through the air, reaching the basement level, down the hall with its low ceiling, and out the door.

Nothing. No one.

The waning light sent Evan stumbling back inside.

With the envelope still in his hand, he collapsed to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he examined the photos.

Graham was lying on a stained mattress, his clothes filthy, his hair falling in greasy clumps. There were a couple of close-ups of his face. Graham's eyes were glassy and fevered.

He looked as if he'd lost his mind.

Evan forced himself to move on to the next photo.

It partially explained why Graham had such a disturbing expression in his eyes. This photo was of a body—hung upside down. A bloated, fly-encrusted body with hair that looked familiar.

Lydia?

The face was twice its normal size, the lips curled and tongue protruding. It was hard to tell, but Evan was pretty sure it was Lydia.

A note from an ink-jet printer accompanied the package. A quick glance told Evan it was written from Graham's viewpoint, but hadn't really been written by him.

That was it. No request for ransom money. Nothing.

What was this about? Who was behind it? What did they want? And how had they known he was at Rachel's?

The photos and note could be sent to a lab for analysis. The paper and envelope could probably be traced. But that would take days. Graham didn't have days.

Evan's immediate reaction was to call Rachel. In case someone was keeping tabs on his cell phone, he went into her office and used her landline to dial her mobile number.

Voice mail.

"Call me when you get this," he said, then hung up.

He could call Seymour. But Seymour would feel duty-bound to arrest him.

State patrol. Bad idea. They would arrest him without question, while screwing up the search for Graham in the process.

Evan went back through the photos, this time concentrating not on Graham but on anything that might provide a clue. He found it in the photo of the dead woman.

Blurred in the background was something that looked like an altar. He'd seen enough old prints to recognize the church in Old Tuonela.

"A death?" the nursing home director asked, her expression puzzled. "No, we haven't had a death. Not today."

Rachel backtracked to the conversation she'd had with Dan. He'd taken the nursing home call and relayed the message to her. "We had a report..." Rachel said.

The director shook her head. "Not us. Not today. Maybe one of the other nursing homes in town."

Confused, Rachel thanked her and left the building. In the parking lot she discovered that her van had a flat.

She stared at the tire, hoping it wasn't as bad as it had first appeared. Worse. Too flat to drive on. She pulled out her cell phone and called AAA. After ten minutes the agent came back on the line to inform her that someone would be there in two to three hours.

It was getting dark. Dark meant Evan would be able to leave the morgue, and she wanted to make sure that didn't happen.

She'd changed flats. Years ago.

"I'll do it myself."

She disconnected, located the tire iron, and loosened the lug nuts. She dragged out the spare, dropped it on the ground, and began jacking up the van chassis.

What had happened last night between her and Evan seemed far away, like a dream she couldn't quite remember. A few hours after the event her memory had been foggy. She wasn't ashamed, but just the same she'd managed to avoid him, not quite sure how to handle a face-to-face and feeling the need to further process their encounter before they spoke.

She got the spare in place and lowered the jack.

The spare was flat.

She let the iron slip from her fingers and fall to the ground.

Tired.
She was suddenly so tired. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass of the driver's door.

She would just rest a minute, then figure out what to do.

A sound penetrated her exhaustion.

Scratching.

One long, squeaking scrape.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes.

Sitting in the driver's seat was Victoria.

As Rachel watched, frozen in horror, Victoria dragged a nail down the glass between them.

Rachel staggered backward. She braced herself to bolt, then paused for one last look.

She could no longer see Victoria's face. Just the hand, just the fingernail scraping down the glass. #

Rachel hadn't returned his call, and Evan couldn't wait any longer.

He hovered in the doorway of the morgue. When the last glimmer of light left the sky, he slipped out the delivery door and moved quickly down the alley, sticking to the shadows and avoiding streetlights. Whenever a car drew near, he stepped behind a tree or wall until he gained cover of a wooded area that wound through town. He followed streams and steep embankments, which eventually led to his property.

Once there, he remained hidden in the woods, watching his own house to make sure no one was around. He spotted a suspicious car down the block. Someone sat in the driver's seat.

A stakeout.

They'd probably had undercover agents watching his place since he'd taken off. Waiting for him to come back.

It felt a little strange and even satisfying to be doing something so predictable. The human animal. It was instinct to return to your comfort zone.

Everybody eventually wanted to go home.

It was relatively easy for Evan to get past the undercover cop.

The poor guy had probably been there all day. After a couple of hours, Evan imagined the mind would begin to drift and the eyes glaze over. You would start thinking about being uncomfortable, and how you had to take a piss. You'd start wondering why radio stations played the same twenty songs over and over.

Evan slipped in the basement door, closing it behind him. He paused and listened for the sound of possible alarms that may have been put in place after he'd left.

Nothing audible. No telltale clicking. Not that a lack of sound meant very much.

He moved through the dark house, bent at the waist, keeping his head low. He found a flashlight in his desk. His Smith & Wesson was gone. No surprise.

He made his way to the windowless library, closing the door behind him. He clicked on the flashlight, then quickly scanned a shelf of books until he came to the leather-bound volume of Shakespeare's plays. He opened it and fished out his Glock from its hiding place.

It was no way to treat a book; that was for damn sure. But Evan hadn't been the one who'd actually done the damage, and when he'd come across the oddity in an antiquarian bookstore, he'd noticed it would be the perfect fit for a handgun.

Also included was a tray of shells.

Load it.

Pocket the extra shells.

For a moment, standing there surrounded by the smell of books, he longed for his old life, his life of a few weeks ago. Now those days seemed comforting and safe. But back then there had been no Graham. No Rachel.

He dug out a huge, dusty antique plat book. With the handle of the flashlight in his mouth, he thumbed through the crisp, yellowed pages until he came to a map of Old Tuonela. He tore it out, folded it, and shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans.

In the bedroom he found a shoulder holster hanging from a hook in the closet.

Evan had grown up around guns. His dad had made sure Evan knew how to shoot and take care of a gun before he was old enough to ride a bicycle.

He removed his coat and slipped on the holster, sliding the Glock into place. The extra clip went into the front pocket of his jeans, extra shells in the deep pocket of his coat, which he shrugged back into.

Ready for part two.

This wouldn't be as easy.

With keys in his hand, he moved through the house and down the stairs to the basement. Out the door, then pause and listen.

Silence, except for cicadas and croaking frogs.

He moved through the darkness to the garage. He unlocked the walk-in door and slipped inside, smoothly closing it behind him. His car was still there. He'd been afraid the police had confiscated it, but that would have been extreme.

He settled behind the driver's seat.

Key in ignition.

Two deep breaths.

Turn the key.

The engine rumbled to life.

He gave it one second, then pushed the remote-control box clipped to the visor. The garage door creaked open.

Slow. So fucking slow.

Evan pressed down on the clutch and put the car in gear, his right foot on the gas.

Come on, door. Come on.

When the space looked big enough, he tromped down on the gas and shot through the opening.

The car roared up the sharp incline and bottomed out on the sidewalk in front of the undercover cop. Sparks flew and tires squealed as Evan made a sharp right turn onto Benefit Street.

The cop's headlights came on. A second later a red light was flashing and a siren blared.

Leaving his headlights off, Evan shifted into second and increased his speed. He'd mapped out the route in his head before he'd even stepped from the house.

He cut up one alley, then another, with the guy in the stakeout car staying with him. Evan was impressed and getting a little worried.

He didn't want to go too fast through town, so he had to rely on sharp turns. He also knew the longer the chase went on, the more likelihood there was of backup being called in and his ass being caught and tossed in jail. He couldn't let that happen.

Down into the valley and the heart of Tuonela. Over railroad tracks, behind warehouses, back up the hill, and a quick right to hit City Park.

He checked the rearview mirror.

Headlights appeared, along with the strobe and siren.

Focusing on the street in front of him, Evan accelerated and took a quick right that plunged him down a steep cobblestone lane.