Pale Immortal (12 page)

"Stay here and finish collecting the evidence," she told Dan.

"How're you gonna get him out?"

"I'll manage by myself or find somebody to help."

At the coroner's office, Rachel dragged the gurney from the back of the van, locking the legs in place. If the body hadn't been so dehydrated, she wouldn't have been able to manage by herself, but it didn't weigh much more than a small child.

She wheeled the gurney through the street-level doors, down a dark hallway to the elevator. In the basement she went directly to the autopsy suite, where she suited up and began the exam.

After unzipping the body bag, she parked the gurney beside the exam table, locked the wheels, then used the edges of the sheet to drag the body onto the stainless-steel table.

She opened the sheet with care, then got out her digital camera and began taking full shots and close-ups, focusing on the details of the clothing. Vintage, maybe early twentieth century.

The body had been dressed in a topcoat. Under that were a waistcoat and a white cotton shirt tucked into black wool trousers. Over the shirt, a pair of suspenders and a white silk scarf with a small design or insignia on it.

She took a Q-tip and wiped the surface of the shoe Dan had dropped. Patent leather. Didn't see that much anymore.

The pockets were empty.

She cut the pants away and unbuttoned the wool waistcoat.

White cotton tank top and briefs that stopped at the knee.

She cut through the underwear; the fabric crumbled under the scissors.

The body belonged to a male.

The clothing would have to be sent to a specialist to prove authenticity, but Rachel was ninety percent sure she was looking at the real thing.

She cut the cotton undershirt, then carefully pulled aside the two sections of cloth.

The chest cavity had been opened at one time, either from an injury or an autopsy.

She brought the swing-arm light closer and picked up a magnifying glass. Leaning over the leathery corpse, she examined what had once been an outer layer of skin.

The edges were ragged, like torn paper. Some of the damage appeared to be fairly recent, the inner layer of skin lighter than the outer. But there was also evidence of old damage—areas of torn flesh and a broken rib cage from some long-ago trauma.

And the cavity where the heart should have been? Hollow.

Rachel rang the doorbell, waited a few beats, then knocked. She heard something fall, then footsteps. The door flew open and Evan's voice came out of the darkness.

"Come on in."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. It was like entering a movie theater. She couldn't see a thing, and had to wait for her eyes to adjust.

A lamp clicked on, then another. Evan straightened, rubbing his head. He wore a white T-shirt and a pair of striped cotton pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. On his feet were black socks.

"I woke you."

He probably slept during the day. Her father had taken Graham to school, and she'd thought it would be a good time to talk to Evan.

"That's okay." His voice was sleep-slurred, and he seemed disoriented as he stood eyeing the rumpled couch where he must have been lying before she rang the bell. He bent and picked up a book from the floor, placing it on the end table. "I need caffeine."

Evan was already on his way to the adjoining kitchen. Without looking back, he pointed toward an overstuffed chair.
Have a seat.

She ignored his direction and followed him to the kitchen, putting her leather briefcase on a chair.

He filled a teakettle with water, and she went to the shelf where she'd seen Evan retrieve the coffee cups last time she'd been there. She grabbed two mugs and placed them on the table, then searched for tea in the cupboard next to the refrigerator. She found the ornate silver tin, opened it, and gave it a shake. "I see you haven't dumped this out yet."

Evan took the tin from her and replaced the lid. "Emergency rations." He put the container back in the cupboard and produced two tea bags from a small red box. "Haven't gotten my shipment from England yet."

"You know, I'll bet they have tea at the grocery store in Tuonela."

He smiled, unruffled by her teasing. "I'm not a tea snob." He paused to reconsider his words. "Well, maybe I am."

"There are worse things."

The kettle whistled. He turned off the flame, poured the steaming water, and sat down across from her.

"I came here to let you know another body was found, this time at City Park."

He looked up sharply. "Jesus."

While waiting for the tea to steep, she unzipped her leather briefcase and pulled out a digital print she'd made before leaving the office. "This body."

She passed the eight-by-ten to him. The photo was one she'd taken before the autopsy, when the corpse was still dressed.

Evan studied the image. "At least we know he wasn't knocked off last night while out for his evening stroll."

"The heart was missing," she told him. "Normally I wouldn't think a missing heart so strange. Organs aren't always buried with the body, especially in cases of homicide or suspicious death."

"But. . ." He urged her to continue.

"The body is old. How old, I don't know. And while most of the damage to the chest cavity occurred years ago, some appeared fairly new."

Lost in thought, Evan got up from the table. He started to walk away, then seemed to remember his manners. "Back in a second." She heard him banging around in a room on the other side of the wall. Returning, he opened a manila folder, took out three yellowed newspaper clippings, and spread them on the table in front of her.

The articles described separate cases dealing with people who had dug up corpses they claimed were vampires in order to make and drink a protective broth made from the heart.

"Kinda like an inoculation, I guess." Rachel passed the newspaper back.

"It makes no difference if you believe the Bram Stoker version of Dracula," Evan said. "Vlad the Im-paler existed. Countess Elizabeth Bathory existed. They drank blood. They bathed in it. Some people believe in vampires. And one way to keep yourself safe from a vampire is to drink a broth made from his heart."

"But where is the vampire?
Who
is the vampire? Who are they protecting themselves against? You? The Pale Immortals? Whoever killed Chelsea Gerber?"

"Hey, I'm just tossing out ideas here. I guess I'd rather be considered a vampire than your run-of-the-mill crazy." He slipped the clippings back into the folder. "Here's another thought. The heart of a vampire is sometimes removed and eaten in order to gain power."

"You mean by another vampire?"

"Or someone who fancies himself a vampire. I read about it in a book published in Romania in the eighteen hundreds. Some people also believe it will bring about immortality, or at least superhuman strength." He picked up the eight-by-ten Rachel had handed him earlier. "Do you have any more photos? Any close-ups?"

"I always take too many shots, but too many is better than too few." She dug into her case again, pulled out her folder, and passed it to him.

He let the folder fall open on the table and quickly glanced through the photos.

"What are you looking for?"

"This." He lifted out a five-by-seven and turned it around. A close-up of the white silk scarf. "See the insignia?"

He was talking about an embroidered design sewn with black and red thread on the edge of the fabric. "I thought that might be important. It almost looks like some kind of crest."

"Exactly." He seemed excited.

"Do you know what it is or who it might belong to?"

"No, but I'm fairly certain I've seen it before."

He shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "C'mon." He stuck the photos back in the folder, closed it, and tucked it under his arm. She double-checked to make sure she had her cell phone and pager, then followed him down the hallway to a large door stained a shade of deep brown. The varnish was thick and cracked, the doorknob glass.

An antique photo on the wall stopped her dead.

A woman lying in a zinc tub, one arm draped over the edge, her fingers trailing to the floor. She had long dark hair, some clipped on top of her head, some flowing and rippling around her shoulders. Behind her were two large narrow windows. Except for the tub and woman, the room was empty.

Victoria.

Rachel put a hand to her throat. "Where did you get this?"

"From an estate sale."

"An estate sale around here?"

"Lyndale's. Judge Lyndale was quite a collector. I'm not sure where the photo came from originally, or who the woman is. Nobody seemed to know its history, but I would guess it was taken somewhere in Juneau County in the early eighteen hundreds. Most of the judge's stuff was from the immediate area. Have you seen it before?"

"I don't think so," she answered vaguely, strug- gling to pull herself together. She was used to telling white lies.

"Maybe she's a relative of yours," Evan suggested.

A relative?

He shoved the door open with his shoulder. "It's just a woman taking a bath. Probably considered pretty racy for its time." He moved aside, and Rachel slipped past him, glad to leave the photo behind.

The space was one huge library in need of a librarian. It was part of the original house, with the same heavy woodwork and built-ins. The walls were painted a dark green that contrasted with orange sconces. An ornate cut-glass light hung from the center of the room. There were no windows.

"I didn't even know this room existed," she said. "I remember the door, but I always thought it was a closet." It was weird how you got certain things in your head when you were a kid, and it was hard to make your brain accept reality when you'd lived with a false notion for so long.

"My dad always hung out in here," Evan said. "He was interested in Old Tuonela before I was. He used to lock himself up for hours, going through articles and photos. It didn't look like this back then. I've accumulated so much ...
stuff."
He cast a glance around the room, then shook his head as if overwhelmed.

That must have been the time when people said his dad had gone a little bonkers from dealing with Evan's illness. Rachel was glad he was okay now. "Have you ever thought about having someone come in to organize everything for you?"

"All the time, but I don't want to have to deal with somebody being in my house, and I'm also afraid I would never find anything again."

She could understand both of those concerns. She liked privacy, and didn't want somebody constantly around.

He plunged into the clutter. "I'm looking for a box of old newspaper articles, photos, and silver emulsion glass-plate negatives that were published by the
County Quill
in the eighteen hundreds. I bought the stuff when the
Quill
closed down and they auctioned everything. Someday I hope to get them cataloged with matching prints and negatives."

She cast a dismayed glance around the room at the stacks of books and magazines and newspapers. Most of the floor was covered, with only twisting paths leading through the dusty, leaning towers of chaos.

"Do you have any idea what the box looks like?"

He tossed the folder on top of a stack and surveyed the place. "I think it was gray. Or brown. About this size." He made a shape with his hands.

Fifteen by twelve?

"This deep."

Eight inches? "Okay." She moved forward, taking a long step to maneuver around several piles of newspapers. "One time in L.A. I was sent to a house where an elderly woman had died." She stopped and considered her path options in much the way of a mountain climber. "She was a hoarder, and had ac- cumulated so much trash over the course of her life that we had to crawl over it with only about three feet between the top of the garbage and the ceiling."

"I'm not a hoarder. I'm a
collector.
This isn't trash; it's history."

"I'm just sayin'."

"That I'd better watch out?"

"Something like that."

"Hey, this could be it." Using both hands he pulled out a box. He would have made a lousy Jenga player. The stack collapsed, but he didn't seem to notice. He blew off the dust, wiped the box top with his arm, and set the lid aside. "Here we go." He glanced up, smiling. "Walked right to it. If somebody came here and organized this place, I would never have found it."

Sadly, he was probably right.

He found what he was looking for: a photograph of a man from the turn of the century, black-and-white, the edges curled. He handed it to her. "Look at the scarf."

The image was small, but it was the same embroidery as on the dried-up corpse's scarf.

"On the sale brochure, this was listed as a photo of the Pale Immortal," he said.

"How can you be sure it's him?"

"I can't. Not completely." He began searching the room again, this time heading straight for shelves that went from floor to ceiling, quickly pulling out a thick book. Bracing it against a stack on the floor, he lifted the leather-bound tome, finally settling on a page. "Manchester."

Rachel made her way to his side.

"It's the Manchester family crest," he said when she was near enough to see the black and red image.

It was identical to the design on the shriveled corpse's scarf.

They'd found the Pale Immortal. Only someone else had found him first.

Graham stepped out of the school counselor's office.

What a waste of an hour. She'd spent a lot of time asking him if there was anything he wanted to talk about. When he kept saying no, she started on more direct questions, like how he felt about death and dying. And finally, "Do you still have thoughts about killing yourself?"

Who didn't? Who the hell didn't? Of course he said no.

"Are you a danger to yourself?" she probed.

He'd answered no to that question too, and he supposed it was the truth. Because right now he was in a holding pattern, waiting to see what would happen. You didn't think about killing yourself when you were waiting for your life to start. When you were thinking it might actually happen.