Pale Immortal (30 page)

Something cold and metallic pressed against her neck, followed by Alba's voice: "Hello, Rachel."

Evan pulled off the blacktop road into a short lane lined with trees and brush that led to a nearby field. According to the page he'd ripped from the plat book, this ground bordered Alba's property.

His plan was to get close, but not so close that his arrival would be noticed. He had approximately eight hours of darkness left, but he hoped to find Graham long before morning.

He'd briefly thought of going directly to Alba's house, but Alba would probably contact the police, and a massive parade of sirens and cops was something Evan wanted to avoid.

Best to sneak in and scope things out. He had his cell phone. He could call if he needed help.

He leaned across the seat, opened the glove compartment, and dug out a flashlight. He tested it. The battery was low.

He shut it off, stuck it in his pocket, and got out of the car.

The terrain was dense woodland cut with steep, narrow valleys. The sky was partly cloudy, offering an occasional view of a yellow slice of moon, the Big Dipper, and a hint of the Milky Way. Even though Evan could see fairly well in the dark, his vision wasn't anywhere close to daylight vision. The ground kept dropping out from under him, and he was forced to slow his pace.

He came to a sagging wire fence that most likely marked the edge of Alba's property. Placing a hand on top of a gnarled cedar post, he leaped over, landing solidly on the ground on the opposite side.

He stood there a moment, trying to get his bearings. Not easy. He looked up. The moon and stars were gone again. He had a good sense of direction, but this was like cave diving, where it was sometimes impossible to tell which way was up, let alone north or south.

In his mind, he mentally pulled up the image of the map. If he was going in the right direction, he should hit a valley created by a small vein of the Wisconsin River.

The vegetation had become thick and tangled. Vines wrapped around his ankles, tripping him, and multiflower rose thorns ripped at his skin.

As far as Evan knew, none of the ground was farmed or grazed, and Alba hadn't struck him as the type to get out and work on trying to keep down the unsavory, normative plants.

The topography was rougher here too.

He saw something—a dark shadow of movement, human size—out of the corner of his eye. He swung to face it.

Nothing. He blinked.

Still nothing.

He continued until he came to a sheer drop, stopping just before stepping into thin air. He got the sensation that a few inches of dirt and sod were all that kept him from plunging into the ravine.

Carefully, he moved back from the edge—and realized he was lost. As he stood there, hoping the clouds would pass and the moon would give him some indication of direction, he heard gunshots— rapid-fire, several in a row.

He turned and ran toward the sound, climbing down into a fissure and jumping across a stream. His feet landed in boggy soil, and he struggled up the opposite bank, grabbing small tree trunks to pull himself skyward, finally reaching level ground and a grassy lane.

He paused and a stench wafted toward him.

Death.

No mistaking that putrid odor.

Graham?

Suddenly he felt incredibly heavy and weak.

It could be a dead animal.

It could be a dead raccoon, or something bigger, like a deer.

He forced himself to walk toward the smell, his feet reluctantly moving over soft, bumpy ground and brushing up against dry, dead grass.

It didn't take him long. The sliver of a moon was out again, illuminating two white arms stretched above dark hair. Long hair.

Not Graham.

He clicked on the flashlight, put a hand over his nose, and stepped closer, immediately recognizing the fabric from the photo. Lydia. Most likely hung upside down, where she'd died and stiffened with her arms stretched to the ground.

Something strange and almost unrecognizable rose up in him.

Rage.

He'd never liked Lydia, but Jesus. And whoever had done this had Graham.

He felt something on the back of his neck—like a finger drawn up his spine, into his hairline, and up his scalp.

For most of his life he'd been warned to stay away from Old Tuonela. Unlike his classmates, Evan hadn't gone there for a thrill.

His had been a deeper fear. An unknown fear, embedded in his soul by myth and stories that grew with each telling. It was why he'd written about Old Tuonela and the Pale Immortal. To face those fears, to draw them out and examine them.

But fear couldn't be examined. When you shined a light on it, it ran and hid before you got a good look at it. All that was left was the sick dread, the feeling deep in your belly that there was more wrong here than humans could ever grasp. There was more to Old Tuonela than rotting buildings and tall tales.

There was evil here.

That's what he'd always known.

An evil that had been growing. Waiting for the right time, the right circumstances, the right person to come along.

Don't go there,
his dad had always said.
You can't ever go there.

Evan shut off the flashlight, straightened away from the bloated, stinking mass of putrid flesh, turned, and began walking in the direction that would take him into the heart of Old Tuonela.

Evan got his bearings fairly quickly.

There was the old graveyard. There was the church.

Hiding behind the trunk of a tree, he stared intently at the church and its broken windows. He could see no light, hear no sound that alerted him to a human presence.

But the smell of death was here too.

In his mind he visualized the photo, the layout of the church. He stepped free of the tree trunk. Keeping low, he moved forward, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

Broken flagstones led the way to a door swollen from rain that could no longer be opened or closed. The structure had become organic, shooting up from the earth to shrivel and die like some winter-killed plant. Now it was returning to the soil.

Evan stood in the narrow opening, straining for any sound that wasn't of nature. He could smell the rot of wood and the breakdown of plants. He could smell the trail Lydia had left behind.

And blood. Fairly fresh blood.

He heard something.

Like a quickly indrawn breath.

He sensed fear.

Evan waited.

There it was again.

Someone inside the church. Someone else listening. Someone who was afraid.

He pulled out the flashlight, then reached inside his coat, quietly and slowly snapping open his shoulder holster. He slipped out the Glock and lined it up with the light. In one swift motion, he clicked the switch and swung into the room.

Two pairs of terrified eyes stared at him.

It took him a moment to make sense of the scene.

It almost seemed as if he'd interrupted some kind of weird tryst. But as his brain rearranged the pieces, he saw that the people were chained together. It took him even longer to realize that the scraggly, skinny kid with blood on his face was Graham.

Now it was Evan's turn to pull in a shocked breath.

The other person was Isobel Fry.

Graham raised his arm to shield his eyes against the beam of light. Evan dropped his hands and slipped the handgun back inside his coat. Caution forgotten, he ran across broken boards and swept down on them.

Isobel screamed.

Graham clamped a hand over her mouth. "Get back," he told Evan.

"It's me." Evan didn't quite know how to introduce himself.

"Evan?" The flashlight beam was fading fast, turning a faint orange. "She said you'd come. She told me you were coming."

"Who?"

"Lydia."

Evan frowned. "Lydia is dead."

"No. No, she isn't. She looks dead, but she's alive. She was here. Talking to me."

Graham's mind had slipped. It had taken what it couldn't tolerate and twisted it into something else. He'd probably watched them murder Lydia, and then she'd hung there and rotted right in front of him. Who wouldn't have gone crazy under those circumstances?

"I think you can take your hand from Isobel's mouth."

"Are you gonna be quiet?" Graham asked her.

She nodded.

Slowly Graham removed his hand.

"He's one of them!" she shouted. "He drank my—"

Graham clamped his hand back over her mouth.

"I am not one of them. She just thinks I am."

Isobel made a noise of protest in her throat and violently shook her head.

The flashlight died.

"Candles," Graham said in the darkness. "On the first pew."

Evan lit two of them using a book of matches he found nearby.

Back at Graham and Isobel's side, he ran his hands over the chain.

"Alba has the key," Graham said.

"Alba?"

"Yeah."

No time to think about that.

The chain was held together by a lock. Not a par- ticularly strong lock. Evan could try to muffle his gun and shoot it off, or he could break it.

He hurried outside, dug his fingers into the ground, and pulled up two half-buried flagstones, then carried them back inside. He placed one stone under the lock. "Turn your faces away." He lifted the other stone high and brought it down hard and fast. Sparks flew, but the lock remained intact. "Again." He repeated the action. The third time the lock broke apart.

He unwrapped and unrolled the chain from around their bodies to drop it in a pile near the stained mattress.

Isobel shoved herself weakly to her feet, rubbing her arms and moving stiffly. "I'm telling you, he's one of them."

Graham managed to get himself upright, keeping his weight on one foot.

"Are you hurt?" Evan brought the candle closer.

"Animal trap."

Evan stared, the feeling of sick horror growing.

"He's one of them," Isobel repeated.

They both looked at her. Evan was ready to tell her Graham couldn't be involved when a sound caused them all to turn toward the door.

Phillip Alba stood in the opening, a gun in his hand.

Graham swayed and blinked fevered eyes as events unfolded before him.

Alba stood in the doorway of the church, facing Evan. As Graham watched, Evan reached inside his coat.

Suddenly the shadowy darkness of the room exploded in a light so bright Graham could see nothing. He brought up a hand to block the intensity.

"Graham! Run'"

Like somebody who'd been shot, Evan dropped to his knees. Alba held a superpowered flashlight that was as bright as the sun.

Graham had seen this scene before. It was like the time Evan chased Graham from the house to collapse when sunlight hit him.

Just in case Graham hadn't heard him the first time, Evan turned and shouted again.

Now Graham could see his mouth moving, saw the anguish combined with urgency.

Go!

The command shook Graham from his trance.

He swung around on his good foot, grabbed Iso- bel's hand, and ran toward the window. At first she fought him, but then she must have realized he was the lesser of two evils.

Graham pushed her through the opening, then dove after her while rapid-fire gunshots filled the air and bullets shattered the window frame. He slammed into the ground below. Searing pain shot through his ankle. His breath caught, and he was momentarily stupefied by the agony.

"Come on." Isobel tugged at his sweatshirt, urging him upright. She wedged herself against him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

They ran.

Side by side, they crashed through the overgrown tangle of bushes and vines. Graham couldn't think beyond the pain. He was hazily aware of Isobel leading the way, urging him to keep moving. He had no idea how far they'd gone when they both collapsed. Graham rolled to his back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, hugging his knee, his lips compressed, his lungs burning as he struggled to catch his breath.

His leg was rotten. That's what he was thinking. It was rotten, and if he lived through this it would have to be amputated.

In the dark, hands grabbed him by both arms and gave him a shake. "You creep," Isobel whispered harshly, inches from his face.

His damn leg was falling off, and she was yelling at him. Couldn't she smell the rotten flesh?

She slapped him.

He let out a breathless laugh. What was funny about getting slapped? He was delirious.

"You drank my blood."

"Sorry . .. 'bout that."

She shoved at him. But not hard. Then she collapsed against his chest and began to shake. Was she crying? He thought she was crying.

He put his arm around her. He wished he could do more. He wished he could hold her with both arms. He wished he could kiss her. But he smelled, and he was so weak he couldn't lift his head. And there was something he should do that was beyond their immediate situation. Something very important ...

He thought maybe they both fell asleep, because there seemed to be an empty space between the time he put his arm around Isobel and the moment she shoved herself away.

"Sick," she mumbled. "Gonna be sick ...."

Once she was gone, he could still feel the outline of her body against him.

He heard her throwing up.
Poor kid.

He opened his eyes.

Stars.

And a moon. The moon was like a cartoon moon, really big. Really close.

This was nice. Lying under the sky with Isobel.

He'd actually meant to say the words aloud, but he didn't think they came out that way. How long had it been since he'd talked? Really talked?

Isobel was moving around.

She screamed.

Then came a lot of weird, panicky noises.

She needed help.

Gotta help Isobel.

He rolled to his side, then to his hands and knees. He heard rustling; then her body slammed into his, knocking him down.

"Oh, my God!" She clung to him. "A dead person. I tripped over a dead person."