Pale Immortal (20 page)

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 the 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."

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 before 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.

He
was
special. He'd always known that. And he'd always been able to get whatever he wanted, if he wanted it badly enough. If anyone could achieve immortality, it would be him. And how very fortuitous that he lived in a town where a vampire had once roamed. A flashing neon sign couldn't have been any more obvious.

This is for you.

Suddenly he found himself at the old church. He'd been so lost in thought he'd hardly noticed the walk. It almost seemed as if he'd transported himself.

Maybe I did.

He squeezed through the church door and heard a gasp, followed by scrambling. The kid, Graham Yates, was huddled in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes wide.

"Hi, Graham," Phillip said softly.

"Mr. Alba?" Graham slowly uncurled himself and shot to his feet. "Am I glad to see you!"

For a horrifying moment Phillip thought the kid was going to hug him. He took a step back. Graham didn't seem to notice.

"W-what are you doing here?" Graham asked.

He was a mess. At school Graham had come off as fairly in control, cool, and aloof. Now he looked like a junkie in need of a fix, wide-eyed, paranoid, breathing funny.

"I live nearby," Phillip said. "My family owns this ground. Here ..." He pulled out the slice of white bread.

Graham snatched it, unwrapped it, and stuffed the bread in his mouth.

His fingers were filthy. He had tear tracks down his face. He was shaking.

Even though the temperature reached the sixties during the day, it still dropped at night.

"I haven't had anything to eat or drink since yesterday," he said once he'd gulped down the slice of bread. Phillip hadn't wanted to give him protein or anything that could give him a burst of strength or fire up any brain cells.

Starvation, sleep deprivation, and isolation. Those were the three most important factors in breaking somebody, and this kid was on his way. Add plain old physical discomfort, such as being dirty and cold, then remove external stimulation like music, books, and television.. ..

A kid could lose his mind.

Persona breakdown it was called. For some people it could happen fairly quickly. Others took longer.

And when you added fear to the equation ... Most people would agree that it was scary as hell being alone in the woods, any woods, especially without a light source. But to be alone in
these
woods...

Phillip pulled the blanket out from under his arm and offered it to Graham.

With trembling hands, Graham took it and draped it around his shoulders.

Phillip had to be careful not to make the kid
too
miserable. So miserable that going to the police would have more appeal than staying where he was.