They'd chosen Evan because his father was a cop and he seemed the most likely to feel he should do the right thing by her, but the plan had backfired on them, because Evan got sick and nobody paid attention to her after that.
The kid had ruined her life; that's what he'd done. He was a constant reminder of what things could have been like if only he'd never taken a breath.
She had to rest.
She leaned her cheek against the wall of the well. Her sexy summer dress was torn. She felt something trickle down her leg. Blood? Probably. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her shoes. Didn't matter.
Her fingers came in contact with the surface of the ground.
Just a few more feet.
She looked up and caught a swirling glimpse of tree branches. Past them, stars were shining. She grasped a tuft of grass and pulled. The grass ripped from the soil and she slid back down the well, her leg snapping with a crunch.
Graham woke up with a jerk.
He was lying on the bare, filthy mattress, his knees pulled up to his chest, struggling to keep warm. He shook violently, so much it would have seemed like a joke if he could see himself.
Who knew you could freeze to death when it was fifty degrees? People used to live outside. He thought about movies he'd seen where Indians trudged through the snow just wearing some deerskin. Here he was, wearing a shirt and sweatshirt, his teeth chattering and his fingers numb.
Sunlight cut through the broken walls, revealing the church for the dump it was. Like something the woods not only covered up, but also devoured. Something that was returning to nature. Something that didn't belong there.
A male voice shouted Rachel's name.
Evan came awake with a start, bumping his head on the bottom of the desk.
"Rachel?" the man shouted again. "You there?"
The voice was far away and hollow, sounding as if the owner were yelling down a stairwell. Evan scrambled to his feet, started to bolt, paused and snatched up the blanket, shoved it in a nearby cabinet, and ran.
In the adjoining room he opened an unoccupied cooler drawer and swung himself in feetfirst, leaving the heavy door open a crack.
Somewhere beyond the refrigerated box, the soles of street shoes echoed across linoleum and cement. The owner moved closer, then stopped. The handle behind Evan's head jiggled. Evan held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Rather than opening the door, the person slammed it firmly shut.
Evan lay in the dark, listening intently, trying to control his breathing. Footsteps moved back and forth, then finally faded. Evan waited a couple of minutes, then reached above and behind. He pushed.
The door didn't budge.
He shoved again.
Nothing.
There was no internal release.
How much time did he have? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
Rachel turned at a red light, then headed up the hill toward the morgue. She'd run some quick errands, picking up a few groceries, filling up the gas tank, all the while trying to avoid people for fear that Evan would be the topic of conversation.
As she made a left to take the final climb home, she spotted her father's faded Cadillac crawling up the hill and disappearing around the corner.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Had he been at the morgue? Had he gone inside?
She pulled into the level area near the back door. As the van rolled to a stop she shut off the engine, jumped out, and dashed for the building. Her dad had a key. He didn't stop by often, and he almost always called first.
Inside, she ran down the hall leading to the autopsy suites, coattails flying. She pushed through the double doors, the metal bar clanging, and headed for her office. Evan wasn't under the desk, where he'd been sound asleep two hours ago. The blanket was gone.
She swung around and checked the autopsy suites and storage areas. Had he left the building? But it was daylight. He couldn't go anywhere. Upstairs. Had he gone upstairs? Or had her dad found him? Another thought: Had Evan called her father and turned himself in?
She was moving toward the stairs and elevator when, for some inexplicable reason, she hesitated, then returned to the autopsy suite and cold storage. She pulled open the drawer containing the mummified remains of Richard Manchester. She closed it, then grabbed the handle of the next drawer. Rather than sliding open easily, the way it would if it were empty, the drawer took strength to pull out.
Evan was lying on the slab, skin ashen, lips blue.
She pressed her fingers to the carotid artery in his neck.
No pulse.
Oh, my God.
No, no, no.
Her father had just left. Maybe Evan hadn't been hiding long.
CPR.
For a fraction of a second she forgot how to perform it; then her memory kicked in. She made sure his airway was clear. She listened. God, her heart was hammering so loudly, how could she possibly hear anything?
Look, listen, feel.
He still had no pulse, and when she placed her face near his, she felt no air move past his lips.
She tipped back his head, grasped his nose, and blew five quick breaths in his mouth.
He responded immediately. His heart kicked in and he drew a gasping breath.
Back from the dead.
"Oh, Jesus."
Bending over him she placed a shaking hand to his jaw. Cold as marble. As she watched, blood pumped through his veins and the blue faded from his lips. His eyes, when he opened them, were unfocused. They slowly cleared until he was looking at her with recognition and lucidity while the chill of the refrigerator curled around them.
He'd been dead—
dead
—moments ago. A man with no pulse. No heartbeat.
Maybe he was another apparition, like Chelsea becoming Victoria.
Maybe he's still dead.
She pressed her fingers to his neck. He had a pulse, a strong one this time. She rounded up a gur-ney and parked it next to the drawer. She locked the wheels. "I'm going to slide you over, but you have to help." Normally a sheet would have been placed under the body, and she would have tugged the cadaver from one bed to the other.
She grabbed his arm and leg and counted to three. Once he was on the gurney she pushed him from the room, through the double doors, to the elevator, hoping like hell she didn't run into anybody.
Upstairs in her third-floor apartment, she pulled the bedroom shades and curtains tight, then helped Evan into her bed, covering him with a heavy down comforter. She filled a hot-water bottle and slid it near his icy feet.
Evan lifted the mug of tea to his mouth while willing his hand to stop shaking. The red stoneware with evergreen trees and reindeer knocked against his teeth. He gave up, put down the mug, and slumped weakly in the curved vinyl back of the chair.
It was early evening. He and Rachel were sitting in semidarkness at the small kitchen table in her upstairs apartment. She'd coaxed him out of bed with a wheelchair and the promise of a look around.
His near-death experience had created a somber, silent bond between them. She'd saved his life. More than once.
"This is nice." He ran his fingertips across the red Formica surface of the table. It was cool and smooth to the touch. The table was from the fifties, with a wide strip of shiny metal trim. A tremor ran through him; he made a fist and hid his hand on his lap.
"It came with the morgue." She pulled up her feet and wrapped one arm around her knees. Green socks poked out from the hem of her jeans. Her V-neck shirt was some kind of loose black tunic. Her short hair was tousled, her face pale and free of makeup.
Wouldn't she be surprised to know that he'd had sex only a few times in his life? Sex was a casualty of his exile. Just another something he lived without. And he wasn't exactly the kind of guy who attracted women you took home to mama. Most of the women who came on to him usually ended up having a penchant for black eyeliner, role-playing, and bloodletting parties.
He tried the tea again. This time he was able to take a small sip. The exotic flavor flowed over his tongue as he swallowed. A warm, almost electric sensation ran through him, all the way to his fingers and toes.
"You should try this." He offered his mug. "It's extremely rejuvenating. I'll have to find out where it came from so I can get more."
She took the mug, lifted it to her mouth, then handed it back. "No, thanks. I can't get past the smell. Would you like to look outside?" She unfolded herself—all long, graceful legs—and stood up. "The view from the living room is amazing."
Without waiting for an answer, and before he could take another swallow, she removed the cup from his hand and set it aside. She unlocked the wheelchair, turned him around, and pushed him from the small kitchen to the adjoining living room.
The colors. They were so vivid.
The room was done in deep hues. Greens. Reds. Blues. An orange scarf had been draped over a small table lamp to mute the light. The wooden floor creaked as she pushed him across the open space where moonlight fell through a curtainless window in the turret.
She was right: The view was amazing.
The old bridge with its rows of lights reflected off the Wisconsin River, which was smooth as glass. There was the courthouse, and the clock tower. Main Street with small white lights decorating trees that lined the streets. The art deco theater with its missing marquee letters.
Rachel sat down nearby. He couldn't see her, but he felt her presence as they both took in the beauty of the town.
He felt drowsy and sweet and melancholy.
This was an interlude. A tease. A sample of real life. This wouldn't happen again. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Very soon things would never be the same.
A change was coming.
As he stared below, his thoughts turned in another direction.
He'd always believed the old cliche that where there's smoke, there's fire. And there was a hell of a lot of smoke around him.
"I lose time," he confessed. "I'll look at my watch and it will be a little past midnight. When I look again, it's hours later. And now my DNA has been found at the scene of a brutal murder."
She didn't answer. At least she didn't give him some false spiel about believing in him and trusting him. She was suspicious, as well she should be.
He
was suspicious.
When she finally spoke, her words were measured and cautious. "You have no memory of what happens during that time?"
"No. Maybe I do bad things. Maybe I blocked out murdering that young girl."
"Kind of a Jekyll and Hyde?"
"Yeah."
"If that's true, evidence will be found at your house."
"But in the meantime you could be in danger. Everybody in this town could be in danger."
He'd had a taste of prison. His life was a prison. But he couldn't imagine being unable to walk the streets at night. Couldn't imagine being unable to watch the light reflecting off the river from the bluff.
He reached up and behind and found her hand without looking. He brought it to his face, touching it to the stubble on his jaw. "I should turn myself in so they can lock me up."
He felt her stiffen, and sensed her shock and confusion. He was tempted to press her palm to his mouth, but he restrained himself.
His mind settled where it had been settling every time he let it go.
He stared blindly out the window, not seeing the buildings this time. He'd been a father for only a short while, but it felt much longer. Months, maybe years. It seemed Graham had always been there, that Evan had always known of his existence even though he hadn't. It was so obvious now. He'd felt him lurking in the depths of his soul; he just hadn't understood where the longing had come from. Now he knew. The fact that Graham had always been out there brought Evan comfort. His son had existed in the past and he would exist in the future.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" No names. He couldn't bring himself to speak his name out loud. "With her?"
Graham would go on without him.
Isobel dug a half-eaten veggie sandwich from her backpack, unwrapped it, stared at it a minute, then tossed it in the trash. It hadn't been good earlier, and it looked even more disgusting four hours later. Why had she bothered to save it? Now everything in her backpack smelled like onions and green peppers. Even her locker smelled like some old deli.
She'd found a secluded corner in the carpeted lobby of the old downtown movie theater and was trying to study her lines, but she couldn't concentrate. She sat on the floor, back to the wall, legs out in front of her, black boots below yellow tights crossed at the ankles, trying not to think about Graham.
Just quit thinking about him.
But she couldn't. She kept replaying yesterday in her head, seeing Graham loping off down the hallway. When she'd called his name, he'd turned, looked right through her, and kept going.
Lalalala.
Now he was gone. Checked out. Locker empty. Moved away. Back with mommy, and he hadn't even said good-bye.
He'd been using her to hang out with until his real life started up again. She'd just been somebody to mooch from and bum rides from and talk to so he wouldn't have to be alone. But she obviously hadn't meant anything to him, even after she'd stood by him when other kids shunned him.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Everything sucked.
"Bad day?"
She looked up, and her heart took a little nosedive, the way it always did when Mr. Alba spoke directly to her. He was one of the coolest teachers, and he had a sad, tragic past that made him even more appealing.
She held up her playbook of
Macbeth,
open to a highlighted page. "Just having a hard time concentrating."
"Dress rehearsal is in two days," he reminded her gently.
"I know."
She heard he'd been going to graduate school and had been on a field trip to Mexico when the bus they were on plunged over a cliff. Everybody had died, even his girlfriend, but he'd walked away without a scratch.